Bad Seed (46 page)

‘Phoebe is on the move.'

‘Headed this way?'

A nod. ‘So I'm told. With two companions – a bloke who calls himself a lawyer, and another who seems to be her father's driver-cum-bodyguard.'

Skin moisturiser.

Driscoll filled Cato's kettle and dragged some mugs and tea bags out of a cupboard. ‘So what transpired between you and Shazza?'

No way. Sharon Wang was already in enough trouble.

‘She wasn't too enthusiastic. I've already caused her enough grief.'

‘But?'

‘But she copied and pasted those relevant sections of the extradition treaty between China and Australia, as requested, and gave me some contacts in the Feds offices in Perth and Canberra.' He drained his glass of water. ‘Made a point of mentioning Phoebe three or four times.'

‘It seems to have worked.'

‘If Phoebe really does think we're looking at extradition then hopping on a plane to Perth isn't the smartest move. Killing me wouldn't solve her problems.'

‘Hell hath no fury, mate.'

Cato shook his head. ‘I don't buy it.' He accepted the mug of tea Driscoll slid his way. ‘You on your way to the airport, then?'

‘I rescheduled.' He grinned. ‘Phoebe in Perth? I wouldn't miss this for the world.'

It was a godless service at Fremantle Cemetery. The way Jack would have wanted it. A solid turnout as well. Cato hadn't realised how many friends the old man had. There were colleagues from Curtin, and alumni old and young. Was it really less than ten years since Jack Kwong had left the job? He'd always claimed they'd have to carry him off campus in a box, he loved the place so. Instead, two years short of official retirement, the Parkinson's got the better of him and he'd sadly stumbled off to the car park with an armful of cards and gifts and a skinful of sauvignon blanc.

There were the tributes and the handshakes. The memories and the laughs. The tears. Cato choked a little during his eulogy, signing off as ‘Qianping'. Jane and Jake were there. They hugged him, watched over him, shed a tear for Pops. The mourners drifted out of the ceremony to the strains of ‘Volare'.

At the graveside rain spat through the sunshine and occasional gusts tugged at hats and skirt hems.

Jake sidled up to him. ‘You okay, Dad?'

The temptation was to say yep, and give his son a brave and reassuring smile. But his eyes were swimming and bravery was beyond him. ‘I'll miss him.'

‘Yeah,' said Jake. ‘Sorry.' A pause. ‘About everything.'

It wasn't until Cato rolled home from the wake, late afternoon and a little tipsy, that he switched on his phone and was reminded of his three missed calls from last night plus a couple of new ones. Of the three from last night, two had been from Driscoll. The last had been from Sharon Wang.

‘Bummer. You're not there. Hope you got the emails. I'm not sure what you're up to but the office seems extra tense all of a sudden. I had my hearing. Ugly. They pass sentence later in the week. I'll let you know how I go.'

The new ones were from Thornton. He'd dug up a bit more on Des O'Neill if he was interested, then ending up on an apology; he'd forgotten about the funeral. And Bandyup had called. Tricia Mundine wanted to speak to him. That could wait. You could only take so much of dropkick parents and their homicidal offspring. Speaking of which, he wondered if Phoebe had landed yet.

Cato dozed off. It was mid-evening when he woke. The drinks at the wake, on top of his late night with Driscoll, on top of a bottle of Shiraz before that, all in all, not a good look. But at least he hadn't been garrotted yet. He downed a large glass of water and called Driscoll.

‘Any news?'

‘They're staying at the Duxton. Phoebe's got a river-view suite and the henchmen are across the corridor, facing the city. They've had dinner, steak for Phoebe, bloody and rare. The boys had fish.'

‘How do you get to know this shit?'

‘I was with them, I had the pasta. They want to meet.'

‘When?' Cato said, wearily.

‘Now. You up for it?'

The Lobby Bar at the Duxton was furnished in retro green and purple stripes and flock patterned armchairs. For such an apparently classy place it was an assault on the eyes, particularly after Cato's recent indulgences. Phoebe unfolded her long legs and stood to greet him with a warm smile.

‘Philip. So glad you could join us.'

Skin Moisturiser was there too. Cato was pleased to see he still carried faint traces of the bruising he'd given him in Thames Town. The handshake was brief. No warm smile. Finally the lawyer.

‘Peter Tien, very pleased to meet you.'

Cato figured if the garrotte was going to come from anywhere it would be from Skin Moisturiser. He gave himself some space in the seating arrangements.

‘Driscoll?' he enquired.

‘Had to make a few phone calls. He'll be back soon.' Phoebe
summoned a waiter and asked Cato what he wanted to drink.

Mineral water would be fine. Yes, bubbles would be nice too.

‘I feel I owe you an explanation, Philip. And perhaps an apology.'

For having Lara killed? For bugging his laptop and threatening his family? Or for slaughtering the Tans? ‘I'm all ears.'

She explained that her less than hospitable, perhaps even hostile, behaviour during his recent visit to Shanghai was regrettable and she apologised. She could sometimes be overzealous in her protectiveness towards her father. ‘I strive to be a loyal daughter,' she smiled.

Xiaodao: filial daughter, little knife.

‘Did you pay Zhou's son to murder Lara Sumich?'

‘Heavens, no!' Her hand clutched her chest, what a terrible thing to suggest. ‘The boy apparently took offence at something one of your colleagues said when you all met in that expat bar. Chinese male pride can be deadly.'

Skin Moisturiser nodded in agreement. So his English was passable.

‘Your visit to the family to offer them money?'

‘Was purely coincidental. My father wanted to make reparation for the injuries Mr Zhou received during the evictions. Mr and Mrs Zhou will attest that there was no inducement.'

I'm sure they will, thought Cato.

‘And your partnership with Yu Guangming and Des O'Neill on the Cambridge Gardens venture. How does that sit with your father?'

The perfect brows knitted together in a frown. ‘There is no partnership. Any such suggestion is insulting and defamatory.' She took Peter Tien's hand in hers and for the first time Cato noticed the engagement ring. ‘My reputation is paramount.'

At this point Peter the Lawyer handed Cato a sheet of paper.

‘What's this?'

‘We've been consulting with a local law firm. They have agreed to act on our behalf. This is a letter instructing you to cease and desist your allegations and enquiries into Ms Li.' His finger prodded a dotted line at the bottom of the page. ‘You need to sign there.'

Cato studied the letter for a moment. Defamation, slander, libel,
harassment, blah, blah. The threat was to take him to the cleaners if he didn't pull his head in. He crumpled the paper into a ball and bounced it off Peter Tien's nose. Skin Moisturiser stood up and leaned over Cato.

Driscoll returned with a middie. ‘Jeez, the price of a fucking beer in this place, makes you weep.' He gifted them a grin. ‘So how's it going with you mob? All good?'

‘I don't think they like you,' said Driscoll.

Cato had to agree. It was only a matter of time before they came for him. Phoebe's snarl of fury last night said it all.

‘You will regret that.'

Skin Moisturiser looked happy. Game on. Return bout.

So Driscoll had elected to stay at Cato's overnight. He'd bedded down on the couch but the night was uneventful and, for Cato, sleep came surprisingly easy. Now they were sat at the kitchen table over a breakfast of coffee and toast.

‘Like Ma and Pa Kettle,' Driscoll observed.

The radio was on. Two days out from Election Day and nothing had changed. Thought-bubbles, three-word slogans, squabbles over budget black holes, and the consensus: oblivion for the government and a new world order come Sunday. The opposition leader was giving out last-minute reassurances. The sky was not going to fall in if they gave him power. Promise.

‘How can you work for that mob?' said Cato.

Driscoll smeared some marmalade on his toast. ‘Who says I do?'

‘A little bird tells me you're headed for the pointy end.'

Driscoll crunched and wiped some crumbs off his shirt. ‘I have no problem with stopping the boats, mate. Shoulda done it two hundred years ago.'

If Cato had an argument for that he couldn't think of one right now. ‘So you're a secret agent. ASIS? ASIO? Who?'

‘Freelance.'

‘Freelance?'

‘Like Jim's Mowing – no job too big or small.' He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘So what's your plans for today?' he asked, like it was a choice between visiting a winery or doing a swim.

‘Thought I might buy one of those neck braces you were talking about.'

‘Maybe a nice day at the office is the safest place to be?'

‘Probably right. Pity I can't just arrest them.'

‘For what?'

‘Mmm,' said Cato. ‘What about you?'

‘Consider me your guardian angel, watching in the wings so to speak.'

‘Why? Haven't you got a proper job to go to?'

‘I have a strong sense of duty and obligation.' He poured himself more coffee from the plunger. ‘And you're it. Until Sunday anyway.'

Cato received the post-funeral good wishes and condolences of his colleagues. The office was struck numb. Everyone's thoughts would be drifting towards Hutchens and the life support mechanisms anchoring him in this world. DI Spittle invited Cato in for a chat.

‘How are you?'

‘Hanging in there.'

‘Good send-off?'

‘Yeah,' said Cato. ‘It was.'