Bad Seed (51 page)

Cato wasn't having it. Des O'Neill was his man, and he increasingly believed that O'Neill was in some way tied into the Tan murders. How and why, he didn't yet know but the evidence wasn't there and without any they'd be unlikely to get warrants to dig further. He could just sit it out until the labs came back hopefully next week. Patience. It never had been his strong point.

Thornton popped his head around Cato's door. ‘That analysis of the rest of the Tan family phone records you asked for? It's in your inbox now.'

‘Ta. Anything else pending?'

‘Nah. The Feng post-mortem won't happen until next week now. And the lab stuff on O'Neill likewise.'

It was nearly 6. ‘Go and get yourself a weekend,' said Cato. ‘See you Monday unless anything comes up.'

‘Cool. Don't forget to vote.'

‘Which way do you swing, or is that too personal?'

‘The man in the budgie-smugglers, absolutely. Fit, good-looking, not a wimp or a talky smart-arse. If I was gay I'd have his picture on my wall. The ultimate Aussie. You?'

‘Tree-hugger from way back.'

‘Democracy's a wonderful thing. Have a good one.'

China was beginning to look more and more attractive. And it wasn't just because Sharon Wang was there.

He opened up the email and dug out the phone records. Thornton had helpfully transferred everything onto an excel spreadsheet and colour coded the fonts: Francis was blue, Genevieve red, Emily pink, little brother Joshua green, and big brother Matthew was orange. Other persons of interest had been added since: Yu Guangming, Des O'Neill, Guido Caletti, Thomas Li, Phoebe Li, Peter Tien. They retained standard black font but had been bolded and highlighted in yellow.

Charity begins at home. Get that wrong and you're up shit creek.

At first sight it was just a chaotic kaleidoscope of colours and Cato was beginning to think Thornton's font code had made things murkier rather than clearer. But then patterns did begin to emerge. Francis and Genevieve communicated with each other on average two or three times a day, as did the kids with their mum. There were no or very few calls between kids and father, little too between the siblings. Matthew was on to his mum even more than the younger kids, anything up to half-a-dozen times a day in the week preceding the murders. And both mother and daughter were in touch with Yu Guangming. That backed up Zac Harvey's tale of love and loss.

Francis Tan and Des O'Neill were in contact in the week preceding the murders. Cato already knew that – Des's text to Francis in the days immediately preceding Thomas Li's visit to Perth.

Good luck, mate, you'll need it

What they didn't yet have access to was O'Neill's independent phone traffic between say him and Yu Guangming, or Phoebe Li and her associates. Another for the warrants as and when.

But one connection did catch his eye. He made a call.

‘Yes?'

‘Matthew? It's Philip Kwong.'

‘Uncle Phil. What can I do for you?'

‘Wondered if we might have a chat?'

‘Go ahead.'

‘Face to face. Where are you?'

‘Round at the Coogee place. Finalising a few details with the agent before the house goes on the market tomorrow.'

‘Maybe we could catch up there. Give me twenty minutes or so?'

‘Sure. No worries. Everything okay?'

‘Absolutely,' said Cato.

A black bank of cloud hung out over the ocean as Cato signalled his turn right off Cockburn Road into the Port Coogee estate. Raindrops spattered the windscreen and wind buffeted the side of the Volvo. The seven o'clock news continued the last minute election reassurances: everything was going to be okay, really. The boats would be stopped and there would be no cuts to anything that middle Australia held dear. Vote 1 above the line for the Big Fluffy Bunny Party. Speaking of promises, promises, it occurred to Cato that he'd missed the deadline for the Major Crime job. So be it.

Leonidas Road was dark. Two of the streetlights were out or had never commenced operation. The pools of light from the remaining two were sickly and stagnant. Sand whipped across the road and tarpaulins flapped on the half-built shells of middle Australian dreams. Cato saw Matthew's BMW parked in the driveway and pulled in across the back, blocking it in. Three doors down there was a car pulled up on the verge, a nondescript white sedan. Otherwise the street was deserted. The tradies had gone home, blinds had been drawn on those few scattered houses that were occupied. The rain was coming down steady and heavy. It must have been a night such as this when the Tans were dispatched from this life, mused Cato. The For Sale sign was already up. The front verge had been swept clean and there was no trace of the flowers and teddy bear shrine. Lights were on in the house. Cato knocked. No answer. He knocked again.

‘Matt?'

Nothing.

He pushed against the door. It was locked. He took out his mobile and rang Matt's number. It went to Messagebank. But not before he heard two trills from inside, and then silence.

‘Matt?'

He knocked again, louder, slamming his hand on the woodwork. Nothing.

Rain ran down his face and the back of his neck. He shivered. There was a tall gate leading down a side path. Cato reached over and unlatched the gate, pushed it open and walked through. The movement triggered a sensor light. Cato decided it was time to bring out his gun. The wind caught the side gate behind him and banged it back onto its latch. The wind swirled, changing direction briefly and bringing with it the tang of cigarette smoke.

‘Matt? It's Philip. I tried the front door and your phone. You there?'

‘Round here, mate. Out the back.'

Cato rounded the corner onto the back patio. There was Matt sitting at a table, sheltered from the wind and rain by roll-down transparent plastic screens. He was sharing a bottle of whisky and a smoke with Des O'Neill.

Des lifted a glass. ‘Join us, we're celebrating.' He noticed Cato's gun. ‘Is that really necessary?'

Cato took in the scene. He relaxed and holstered his Glock.

‘That's better,' said O'Neill. ‘Pull up a chair.'

‘I didn't realise you knew each other so well?'

‘Why wouldn't we?' said Des. ‘I've been a friend of the family for quite a few years now.'

‘That's right,' said Matt. ‘Round about the time you and Dad started going your separate ways, Des filled the gap. Sort of like a godfather to me since then, eh Des?'

‘Cheers to that,' said Des.

Matt offered Cato a whisky. Feeling dangerous, he accepted. ‘So what's the occasion?'

‘Me and Lily got engaged. We put an offer on the apartment at Leighton Beach, view to die for.' They clinked glasses. Matt swept an arm taking in the property. ‘And Uncle Des here reckons he can get me a quick sale on this place.'

Uncle Des, Uncle Phil. One big happy family.

‘Let me guess,' said Cato. ‘A mystery Chinese buyer?'

‘Spot on,' said Des, meeting Cato's eye. ‘Queuing up, they are. Thing is, we look at these places with our snob glasses on and we see an overpriced shoebox in an overheated market. But it's all relative.

In Shanghai you can pay over a million for a twentieth floor one-bedroom garret that I wouldn't put an asylum seeker into. This, my friend, is a steal, the height of luxury. Ocean views, marina, paradise.'

‘Busted,' said Cato, grinning. ‘I'm one of those snobs.'

‘Here's to you then, you old snob.'

They clinked glasses again. The whisky was going down well, an old, smooth expensive one by the look and taste of it.

‘What about you?' said Cato to Des. ‘You celebrating too?'

‘Yep,' interrupted Matt, exuberance and alcohol getting the better of him. ‘Big offer from China this arvo. Everyone's a winner, eh, Uncle Des?'

Des smiled benevolently but Cato noticed a tightening of the knuckles around the whisky glass.

‘Cambridge Gardens?' said Cato.

A nod. The temperature seemed to have dropped, and it was already pretty cold.

Matt noticed it too, he exchanged a glance with Des O'Neill. ‘So what was it you wanted to talk to me about, Philip?'

No more Uncle Phil.

Wind tore at the drop screen and rain hammered on the colorbond pagoda roof.

‘I was wondering about a couple of phone calls between you and Des here in the forty-eight hours preceding the murders of your parents and siblings.'

‘What about them?'

‘Well, according to the records, you don't appear to have much phone contact with Uncle Des usually. There's nothing in the whole month preceding. Then two on the Saturday, the day before the murders.'

Matt turned to Des with a quizzical look. ‘Ring a bell with you?'

‘Yeah, sure it does. I had some tickets to the footy, wondered if you could use them.'

‘That's right.' Matt nodded. ‘But footy's not my thing.'

‘And the second call?'

‘That would have been me ringing Des back to say no thanks.'

‘No. The second call was also from Des to you. Late afternoon. After the footy.'

Matt shook his head. ‘Sorry, can't remember. Why the interest?'

In for a penny.

‘After the first call from Des, you then made four calls over the next few hours to your mum. After the second one from Des, you called your mum again, three more times, the last one just before midnight.' Cato chose his words carefully. ‘I always knew you were a bit of a mummy's boy but seven calls, that's a bit keen isn't it?'

A frown. ‘Nasty. That's not like you, Uncle Phil. Mum was a bit crook that weekend. I was checking how she was going. Des's other call? I must have mentioned Mum being crook. He was showing concern. That do you?'

Good answer. Time to crank things up a notch.

‘Are you getting a cut from Uncle Des's Chinese deal?'

Matt couldn't help himself. ‘Sure am. That right, Des?'

Cato smiled. ‘Des O'Neill. The Orphan's Friend.'

‘You stupid little bastard.'

‘What?' said Matt.

Cato had his eyes on Matt when Des grabbed the whisky bottle and swung it into Cato's face. There was an explosion of glass and pain and his eyes filled with blood. He wondered if he'd been blinded. He felt a powerful hand grip the back of his neck and force his head down to the table. Another hand slipped the Glock out of its holster.

Cato felt the muzzle press into the base of his skull. ‘It's all going wrong, isn't it, Des?' said Cato.

‘Does this guy ever shut up?'

‘Des, mate? What are you doing?' Matt was out of his depth.

‘Matt doesn't know, does he, Des?'

The gun barrel nudged in tighter.

‘Know what?' said Matt.

‘Nothing, he's just trying to wind us up. Drive a wedge. Don't fall for it.'

‘So Des didn't mention his business partnership with the bloke who murdered your family?'

The gun barrel whipped across the back of his head. Cato nearly blacked out. He wanted to. Knew he couldn't. Mustn't.

‘It's over, Des. The killing has to stop. You have to give it away. Joyce wouldn't want this, she's going to need you over these coming months. She's not long for this world is she?'

‘What would you know?'

‘You were part of it?' Matt shook his head, stepping closer to Des. ‘You knew that was going to happen?'

‘Kwong's stirring. Don't listen to him, Matt. Please.'

‘What's Des giving you, Matt? Ten per cent, twenty?'

‘Kwong, shut it. I'll kill you if I have to.'

‘You will have to, Des. And that won't save you. It's finished.'

‘At least I won't have to listen to your fucking know-it-all whine.'

‘It's less, isn't it Matt. What? Five per cent? But it doesn't matter anyway because it's five per cent of nothing. The deal is dead.'

‘Bullshit. He got a text. He showed it to me.'

‘Three, four weeks. The Lis will be in front of a firing squad. The Chinese authorities have decided enough is enough: assets confiscated, business empire broken up. They're history.' Cato felt a relaxing of the grip on his neck. Des O'Neill listening. ‘I'm sorry, Matt. No mystery Chinese buyer for this place. No nest egg to help set you and Lily up. Nothing.'

There was a stillness. The wind seemed to drop. The rain eased.

Cato heard his gun go click.

Des O'Neill was content to be represented by the Legal Aid lawyer. She was an old acquaintance of Cato's: Amrita Gupta, seven months pregnant and radiantly happy about it.

‘November,' she beamed.

‘Congratulations,' said Cato.

He meant it. Outside the wind still snapped and the rain spat but spring really had sprung. Birth, rebirth, life, all worth celebrating. The click he'd heard last night was Des O'Neill putting the Glock into safety before laying it on the table.