Bad Seed (9 page)

‘Joke. Didn't mean anything.'

‘That's your idea of funny?'

A shrug. ‘So you don't like my sense of humour. No law against it.'

Mrs Harvey smiled. Her son was holding his own. The lawyer looked like he'd found a nasty piece of gristle in a favourite pie.

‘Were you aware that she was pregnant?'

‘Nah. Any idea whose it is?'

‘We'll be seeking a DNA sample from you to try and answer that question.'

‘Not without permission, you won't.' Mum sniffed.

Cato turned to the lawyer. ‘Your client has admitted leaving those abusive and threatening comments on the Facebook page. In fact
there
are
laws against that for which I am willing here and now to arrest him. At that point he can be required, by force if necessary, to provide a DNA sample. Alternatively he can continue to cooperate and assist us in our investigation into this dreadful crime. Would you like some time to consult further?'

‘Don't bother,' said Zac. ‘I get it.'

Andy Crouch had put on a suit and tie, shaved, and brought some kind of order to his wispy white hair. He still had the look of a coffin-dodger though, his skull almost visible through his semi-transparent skin. He managed not to meet Hutchens' steady gaze. So what's he got in that fucking diary of his? thought Hutchens.

‘Can you state your name and occupation, please?'

‘Andrew Martin Crouch, police officer, retired.'

They went through his CV, how long he'd served, in what capacities, any awards and commendations: establishing his authority, credentials, and utter trustworthiness. Crouchie had been in Kalgoorlie when Hutchens took the posting in Mundaring. What the hell would he know?

Burke QC was so excited he seemed to be standing on tippy-toes. ‘You were a close friend and colleague of Detective Inspector Michael Hutchens, were you not?'

‘In some ways I considered myself his mentor. I took him under my wing. We worked very well together, particularly in the Armed Robbery Squad.' Burke QC checked the dates and confirmed them with Crouch. ‘And then that squad was disbanded and you transferred to Kalgoorlie while Mr Hutchens went to Mundaring. Correct?'

‘Correct.'

‘Why was the squad disbanded?'

‘Restructuring, happens all the time. Some of the top brass go off to do a management course one weekend at a country retreat and they come back and change the names of everything and move a few people around.'

A chuckle of recognition went around the room like a polite
Mexican wave. Burke QC allowed himself a smile to show he was human after all. ‘But the Armed Robbery Squad had been together a long time, getting results, knocking heads. If it ain't broke, why fix it?'

‘That's a question for higher powers than me, mate.'

Burke's smile faltered. This was harder work than he'd imagined. He didn't know Crouchie. Crouchie was his own man, would say what he wanted when he wanted, and have his bit of fun in the meantime. Hutchens sympathised with the QC on this one, he just wanted the tedious old fucker to get to the point.

‘Do you know of any other reason, apart from internal management processes, why the Armed Robbery Squad was disbanded?'

‘Yes,' said Crouch, enjoying a leisurely sip of water.

Burke took a big impatient breath. ‘Then please do tell us.'

‘Okay.' And he did. He told the inquiry all about the wheeling and dealing and consorting they had to do with scumbags to get intelligence, the pay-offs, the tip-offs, the biffo in the interview rooms, the fuck-ups, the protection of low-life informants to the detriment of public safety.

‘That's appalling,' said Burke QC. ‘How did you become aware of such things?'

‘I had a leadership role in the Squad,' confessed Crouch. ‘I couldn't help but be aware of some of it.' Because you were doing your fair share, you hypocritical old git, thought Hutchens. ‘My only regret is that I didn't do more to prevent it. It brings the whole service into disrepute. But peer pressure is a powerful thing.'

‘So you and Mr Hutchens parted company at that point, having had a successful partnership for nearly six years.'

‘Mick Hutchens was a rising star. I didn't want to hold him back. My way of doing things wasn't his.'

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘What I said. Different temperaments.' For the first time Crouch allowed his eyes to meet Hutchens'. ‘Out with the old, in with the new.'

No matter how much Burke QC pushed him to elaborate, he wouldn't, but the damage was done. Crouch had said nothing and
said everything. DI Mick Hutchens was a corrupt, corner-cutting thug. Hutchens felt his chest tighten again but he wasn't going to let that sly old bastard see him reaching for the angina spray.

Zac Harvey was swabbed and sent on his way with mother clicking along beside him in her heels. DC Thornton admired her departing figure.

‘I would,' he said.

‘She wouldn't,' said Deb Hassan. ‘You're too short for her.'

Cato smothered a smile. ‘Make yourself useful, Chris. Get Harvey's spit sent off to the lab.' He saw DI Pavlou emerge from her office and head for the kettle. He joined her. ‘All well at HQ?'

She spooned some coffee into a plunger. ‘Yes. Anything I need to know about?' Cato brought her up to date. ‘The Harvey boy is obviously a waste of time,' she said. ‘The priority remains the son and the business associate.'

‘So how is the Li inquiry progressing?'

For a moment he thought she was about to tell him to mind his own business, but she didn't. ‘Lara and James are following up on some matters now with Mike.'

‘Mike?'

‘Our man from the ACC.'

Ah, Mystery Mike. ‘What are they up to then?'

‘Classified.'

‘Even for the 2IC on the investigation?'

A thin smile. ‘I'm afraid so.'

Cato could feel one of his reckless surges coming on. ‘So Sumich and Maloney continue to do their own thing and report to you, even though they're also seconded to my side of the investigation?'

‘Yes.'

‘Makes for a blurred chain of command doesn't it?'

‘Are you questioning my management of this operation?'

‘Just seeking clarity.'

‘Everything clear now?'

‘Not yet but I'll play it by ear.'

‘You do that.' She poured some scalding water into the coffee pot and didn't offer Cato any.

‘So when did you first become aware of Peter Sinclair and the allegations of abuse at the Hillsview Hostel, Mr Crouch?'

‘October twenty-first, nineteen ninety-seven.'

‘That's very precise. How can you be so sure of that?'

‘It's in my diary. Do you mind if I consult it?'

Burke QC addressed the Inquiry chair. ‘Your honour I've taken the liberty of copying the salient entries from Mr Crouch's diary. Are you happy for me to distribute these to the relevant parties? The original diary will of course be entered officially into the record.'

The judge nodded his assent and copies were given out. Hutchens got one too.

‘Now Mr Crouch, can you read the entry you have for that day, Tuesday, October twenty-first, nineteen ninety-seven. The day before Mrs Ransley recalls that the warden, Peter Sinclair, went missing.'

‘Really?' said Crouch. ‘Well there you go.' He slipped on a pair of half-moon glasses. ‘Here it is. “Ten p.m.-ish. Call from MH. Pissed as usual. Reckons he's killed some kiddie-fiddler from the Hills. Bullshit”.'

Eyes turned Hutchens' way.

‘Anything else?'

‘No.'

‘What was the purpose of you recording that particular diary entry, Mr Crouch?'

A rueful shrug. ‘I was thinking of writing me memoirs. I was in the middle of a first draft. I'd taken to keeping a diary of my thoughts at the time. Nothing ever came of it, though.'

‘Never say die, it might have just assumed a new lease of life.' Burke QC chortled, enjoying himself immensely. ‘And who do the initials “MH” refer to?'

‘Mick Hutchens. Him over there.'

A few journos made hasty exits and the crowd did a dramatic hubbub.

The judge adjourned the hearing and summoned Hutchens into his anteroom. ‘At this juncture you might want to consider legal representation, inspector.'

‘Fucking right, your honour,' said Hutchens, shoving the angina spray up his nostril.

Cato took a call from Jane, his ex-wife and mother of their son, Jake, who had survived having a bocce ball bounced off his head at a very young age to develop into a handsome, confident fourteen year old halfway through year nine at John Curtin Senior High in Fremantle.

‘He doesn't want to come over to yours this weekend.'

‘Oh. Something on?'

‘Nothing special. He just, quote, doesn't feel like it, unquote.'

Cato tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. ‘Fair enough. He didn't feel able to call me himself, then?'

‘He's fourteen. He wants us all to stop treating him like a kid except when it suits him. Put it down to hormones, I don't think it's personal or terminal.'

‘Yeah,' said Cato. ‘Probably right.'

‘I've got a bit of news. I thought you should hear it from me, first.'

Uh-oh. Cato steeled himself. ‘Yeah?'

‘Simon and I are getting married.' Simon, the hippy musician boyfriend.

‘Great,' said Cato. ‘When's the happy day?'

‘September fourteenth.'

‘Wow, that's near. Keen, eh?'

‘There's a reason. I'm pregnant.' She laughed softly. ‘I'd like to do it before I start to show too much. Old-fashioned girl that I am.'

‘Congratulations,' said Cato. ‘Really.'

‘Thanks. There'll be an invite in the post. Plus a friend if you want.'

‘Cheers.'

‘I'll keep you updated about Jake, okay?'

‘Yeah. Cheers.'

The call ended. Duration: one minute and fifty seconds. It had taken less than two minutes to turn his world upside down and leave him wondering if there was any point to this existence of his. Any fucking point at all.