Prime Cut (13 page)

The dog started yapping again. It was a still and silent night, dog notwithstanding. The moon was bright, just a few days off full. The stars alone seemed to give off enough light to see by; one of them died in front of Cato’s eyes: millions more where that came from.

They had surrounded Justin Woodward’s fibro cottage in Barnett Street. The Perth contingent arrived midafternoon. Three of them split from the main group to do the scene-of-crime forensics. After a briefing from Hutchens, the remaining half-dozen spent the evening interviewing the pub staff and patrons to try to get a picture of Jim Buckley’s last hours. A pre-raid squad meeting filled out more of the picture. Apparently there were no fights, no arguments, no spilled drinks. And Buckley hadn’t won at pool. He’d just quietly sat eating his bar meal – steak and chips, the barmaid seemed to recall – and drinking and staring into space. He’d chatted to people here and there but nothing out of the ordinary. He had disappeared for a short while, mid evening, but returned and then he was there until closing time, around midnight. Yes, said the barmaid, Justin Woodward and his girlfriend had been in the pub earlier in the evening before Buckley arrived. They left soon after he came in.

Lara Sumich and Mark McGowan had passed the afternoon and evening sitting in a squad car a stone’s throw from Woodward’s house. McGowan was sullen and uncommunicative about the Tim Tams thing. Sumich did the quick crossword and sent a few dirty text messages to her sometimes boyfriend, setting herself the challenge of photographing her pierced left nipple with her mobile without McGowan noticing. She succeeded. Justin Woodward and his girlfriend had rolled back into their driveway just after 9.50p.m.

Cato glanced at the driveway. The car was still there now, one of those little jeeps that roll over if you take the corner too fast and crumple like wet cardboard when you hit the tree. It was early nineties vintage, black with playful pastel splashes of colour along the flanks. The canvas roof was brittle-dry, discoloured and torn above the passenger side. A fishing rod poked out of the hole in the roof. They now knew that the car was registered in the name of the girlfriend, Angelique. According to the records she was originally from France, arrived about two years ago and now here she was, living in Hopetoun with her boyfriend. Woodward’s records, official and unofficial, were also dusted off. Nothing had been pinned on him so far but he had, in the not so distant past, kept some very bad company in the drug world.

Cato, on hearing that, developed a cold, sick feeling in his stomach. Had his little rumour game unwittingly intersected with the activities of a real-life drug syn-di-cate, as Pam the Gossip would have put it? Had he set up the hapless Jim Buckley as a hotshot drug enforcement specialist to be assassinated? Cato refused to believe it; this was Hopetoun, not Mexico or Colombia. Yap. Yap. Yap. Nobody had done a background check on whether or not the dog was registered.

DI Hutchens nodded, McGowan swung the battering ram and the door flew inwards, rebounding off an inner wall. There was a squeal and the yapping stopped. McGowan, Hutchens and Lara Sumich raced through the house, guns drawn and yelling the usual warnings. Cato, as ordered, stayed with Tess and Greg Fisher in the front yard and listened to it all. There was a lot of banging and crashing, a female scream, raised male voices, some thuds and bumps, a grunt and a groan. Then crying.

Justin Woodward was brought out by McGowan and Sumich. He was handcuffed and it looked like his nose was broken. Mark McGowan had a relaxed, smug look on his face. Clearly he’d been able to take the Tim Tams out on someone. Lara Sumich wasn’t so easy to read. She handed Woodward a tissue to stem the blood flow. The raiding party was now over and the guests began to leave. That was when Angelique found the dog, a small black thing, between
the front door and the wall. Neck snapped.

‘Lily.’ She sank to her knees and sobbed, hands cradling the limp, lifeless black bundle of fur. McGowan sniggered, DI Hutchens tutted. Justin Woodward looked at Cato as he was led away.

Cato Kwong couldn’t sleep. The Perth–Albany contingent had taken over half of the motel. A few disgruntled guests had been relocated to the caravan park cabins or the prefabricated workers village just outside town, to make room for Cato’s new noisy neighbours. Hutchens had waved the words ‘murder inquiry’ around to good effect since he’d arrived. Only one room remained vacant: Jim Buckley’s. That had been taped off and would be examined further in the morning for any clues to his demise. Cato checked the crimson display on the radio alarm clock again. Three-twenty. There was chatter, laughter, music, and glass sounds in the room next door. Detectives on tour, detectives on overtime. Cato knew he couldn’t and wouldn’t get them to turn it down. They were already giving him strange looks during the day. They knew who he was. They knew his history, or the rumour-mill version of it anyway, and they knew his apparent status in this investigation. Nobody. Official.

Justin Woodward was locked up and interviewed without any Cato input whatsoever. Cato’s work was done once he’d informed DI Hutchens of his suspicions. Suspicions? Speculation, guesswork, Cato had wanted to say at the time, but DI Hutchens wasn’t listening. Cato wasn’t really listening himself. He wondered how long it would take for the rumour he’d started to come back round and bite him. Not long he guessed. Door-to-doors were starting in the morning. Once they got to Motel Pam’s door, attention would swing back on to Cato. Had he stupidly gone and provided a spurious motive for a killer? If he hadn’t started the drug operation rumour would Jim Buckley still be alive? It didn’t bear thinking about. Nor did it detract from Justin Woodward’s status as a suspect, or from the notion of drugs being behind it. It just made a mountain out of a stupid molehill. Face facts: Cato Kwong probably had blood on his hands. A quick result with Woodward wouldn’t be a bad thing
for all concerned.

DI Hutchens and Lara Sumich had taken Snak-Attack boy to the Ravensthorpe lockup. Hutchens had fumed at the absurdity of no secure police facilities in Hopetoun: a hundred-kilometre round trip just to lock somebody up, fuck’s sake.

A glass broke next door and there was a surge of laughter and thuds. Cato cursed. He got up, splashed water on his face and put on some shorts and a T-shirt. He switched on the kettle, tore open a sachet of instant coffee, and opened the bar fridge in search of a mini-milk. None, black would have to do. The Flipper file was on his bedside table. Hutchens hadn’t brought the matter up yet: not high on his list obviously. Cato poured scalding water into his cup, flicked the file open and sat down to read.

Names. Chinese names. Anglo names. Some looked Spanish, Filipino, African, Dutch, or were they South African? East European names, a smattering of Arabic and Indian, all in tiny Hopetoun, a regular United Nations. The global movement of labour: in some places, like here, it seemed that a man or woman’s skills were a prime commodity, in short supply and able to command top dollar. In other parts of the world, labour was so cheap and replaceable it was easier to use a hundred people to do the work of one tractor.

Hopetoun. One general store, a pub, a real estate agent offering beach shacks at breathtaking boomtown prices, a bakery, two coffee shops and Justin Woodward’s snack van – temporarily closed due to unforeseen circumstances. All had at least slightly inflated prices but this was still not an easy place to spend wages which apparently averaged two to three thousand a week. Still, there was plenty of evidence of consumption: expensive four-wheel drives that looked like they never went off-road, jet skis, quad bikes, boats – big ones. Indulgence. Stuff. The tiny town was full of it, and a look that seemed to go with it all. Was it only four, now five, days since he’d arrived in town? Yes, but already it had got to him, insinuated itself under his skin. Images, sounds, sensations he’d absorbed unconsciously over the last few days. That self-assuredness. Smugness? A solid belief that this inflated prosperity was right, proper and here to stay. While the stock markets of the world crashed and burned,
this little town on the south coast of WA was a beacon of hope on an island of unwavering confidence. This was a fifty-year mine; it was part of an industry that made, what was it Bruce Yelland had said, fifty billion last year alone? It was run by one of the biggest players in the world, WMG, Western Minerals Group, net worth the equivalent of some smaller nation’s GDP. The Boom, god bless her and all who sail in her. WMG, and what were the other names on the headed lists of employees? Dunstan Construction Industries, SaS Personnel, suppliers of labour and services to the boom. He now knew a little more about WMG, courtesy of Bruce Yelland. The others?

Cato dragged his laptop out of its case, plugged it in, connected to the telephone line and logged on. No wireless connection in the motel yet but he was sure it would only be a matter of time. Next door there was movement, it sounded like the party was breaking up at last. Dunstan’s had their own website:
Dunstan Industries – construction, industrial and domestic – Think Global, Act Local.
Cute. Based in Ravensthorpe, proprietor James Dunstan. In the top right-hand corner a passport-sized photo of a smiling middle-aged man; the type you’d be happy to leave your kids with. Current projects: Barren Pastures housing development, Hopetoun Emergency Services Centre, WMG Desalination Plant, WMG Nickel Workers Village and so on and so forth. What Halliburton is to the Iraq War, Dunstan’s is to the Hopetoun boom, guessed Cato.

SaS Personnel. The website was for a company based in Hertfordshire near London, specialising in security guards. No mention of Australia. No, it had to be a different company. He tried again, limiting the search to Australia. Nothing. He tried a company search through government tax and industry regulation websites. Then he had it, Stevenson and Sons Personnel trading as SaS Personnel, labour recruitment services. Director, Secretary, and sole shareholder, was one Grace Stevenson. CEO, Keith Stevenson, registered office, Dempster Street, Esperance. Cato thought of Kane Stevenson lying in Ravensthorpe Hospital: any relation? He’d follow up tomorrow. Cato logged off and put his laptop to sleep. If only he could do the same for himself.

Sunday morning. Hopetoun slept in. It was too blustery even for the keenest of fishermen to venture out. Cato Kwong zipped up his jacket and shivered as he stepped out of his room. Deep in thought, he didn’t notice Lara Sumich exit the room next door. They collided. He winced. Cato lifted his dislocated thumb for inspection: it looked like it might have been knocked back into position. Lara Sumich said sorry, smiled absent-mindedly and started to walk away.

‘Find anything?’

‘What?’

Cato nodded towards the door she’d just come through. ‘Buckley’s room, anything of interest?’

Lara looked behind her as if to make sure they were talking about the same room. ‘No, no we haven’t started on it yet. I was just checking it was still secure. I’m next door, I thought I heard someone in there.’

‘And?’

‘Looked okay to me.’

Cato nodded. ‘So how’d it go with Woodward last night?’

‘Good.’

‘Full confession, signed and everything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Had breakfast?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Want to join me?’

Lara responded with an eye twinkle and a seductive curl of the lip. Cato felt himself flush like a teenager.

‘Can’t. Sorry. Meeting the boss for another round with Woodward...’ she pointed towards the sign on the door across the courtyard. ‘Anyway the restaurant is closed.’

In Hopetoun it seemed the early bird had to wait until the worm had finished his lie-in.

DI Mick Hutchens emerged from his room two doors down, freshly combed and shaved and with a crisp clean white shirt and dark-red power tie: he was expecting to field some media today, albeit second-rankers from regional TV. The glamour squad from the city was due on the Monday morning flight, first thing.

‘Morning, Cato. Lara, ready to rock and roll?’

‘Boss.’

Lara zapped the remote at the Commodore, its locks thudded open and sidelights flashed.

Cato asked Hutchens the same question he’d asked Lara. ‘How’d it go with Woodward?’

‘Good,’ said Hutchens.

‘What’s his story?’ Cato persisted.

‘Says it wasn’t him.’

Cato put up his hands in surrender. The shutters were down and he was locked out. ‘Okay, message received and understood.’

‘Good,’ said Hutchens as he slammed the car door shut.

Lara revved and gave Cato a little wave on the way out.

Cato watched them leave and waited for the heat to go out of his face, and elsewhere. Lara Sumich could switch from Head Girl to Super Vixen in the curl of a lip and the flare of an iris. Awesome. Anyway, another day – another day and he still hadn’t been kicked off the Flipper case. He flicked open his mobile and keyed in a number.

‘Where do you live?’

‘Why?’ Tess sounded half-asleep and grumpy.

Cato checked his watch, it was just past seven, on a Sunday morning. He was losing track of normal time, how other people lived. He’d been awake most of the night and was raring to go. Why wasn’t everybody else?

Tess’s voice hardened, she must have just checked her own clock. ‘Do you realise what time it is?’

‘About five past seven?’

‘Cato?’

‘Yes?’

‘Fuck off.’

The phone went dead. He re-dialled.

‘What?’ There was violence in the voice.

‘SaS Personnel, Stevenson and Sons: Director, Grace Stevenson; CEO, Keith Stevenson. Any relation to Kane?’

Tess was wide awake now. ‘Keith is the dad. Don’t know Grace. I always thought the mother was called Kerry. Grace ... Grace. Aunty? Sister?’

‘So where do you live?’

‘Why?’

‘Have you ever tried to get a good cup of coffee around here on a Sunday morning?’

‘I’ve never worried about where to get a good cup of coffee anywhere, any time of any day. You need to get a life, coffee snob.’

But she told him her address anyway.

‘Currawong Gardens,’ said Cato.

That was the given address for Grace Stevenson. They were poring over Tess’s home laptop, looking at the company details again. They had to crunch up close at the kitchen table to both be able to read it, a bit too close for comfort for Tess, and yet not. It brought back memories of a kind of intimacy she hadn’t known in years. He still smelt the same; the memory was unsettling and dangerous, another thing in her life putting her on the edge of abandon. Melissa was asleep. Teenager, she wouldn’t surface until at least ten. Two and a half hours. Tess realised she was plotting and scheming lasciviously and mentally slapped herself.

Cato had walked from the motel to Tess’s home on a hill in the half-built new housing development at Mary Ann Waters, allowing her ten minutes to make herself look respectable. Not easy. Her hair stuck out like Cat Lady in
The Simpsons,
a crease ran down the side of her face from a crunched up pillow and her breath didn’t bear thinking about. A five-minute shower, a tooth brush, and a pair of
clean trackie daks later, she felt a whole lot better. She’d rescued her favourite T-shirt from the laundry basket, sniffed it – not too bad.

‘Currawong Gardens, Hopetoun,’ Cato repeated.

‘It’s an independent-living aged-care complex.’

‘A what?’

‘Old folks home, it’s out the back of town, the old part, the road out to Starvation Bay. They reported a break-in there a few weeks ago. It turned out she’d put her wedding ring down to do some washing up and forgot.’

‘Grace?’ asked Cato, perplexed.

‘No, some old love.’

Cato looked at Tess like she was a batty old duffer only a fingerclick away from Currawong Gardens herself. With Cato assuming the driver’s seat, the train of thought left the siding and choochooed back on to the track.

‘Grace is listed as Director, Secretary, and sole shareholder.’

Tess picked up the phone and rang Currawong Gardens. She asked if they had a Grace Stevenson working or living there. The woman at the other end said they did but she was otherwise engaged.

‘In what way?’ said Tess, identifying herself and putting on her senior sergeant’s voice.

‘She’s being cleaned up. Had a bit of an accident last night.’

Too much information this early on a Sunday morning.

‘How old is Mrs Stevenson?’

‘Eighty-six last week; didn’t know much about it though, poor love.’

Tess took a punt. ‘Does the son Keith visit very often?’

There was a tutting sound. ‘He hasn’t been in since he dropped her off here three years ago. The grandson visits now and again though. Lovely boy.’

‘Kane?’

Another tut. ‘No, Jai, the little one, he’s still at school. A real sweetie.’

Tess frowned then thanked her and put the phone down. She filled Cato in on what she’d gleaned but left out some of the
unsavoury detail. He refilled their coffee cups. The brew obviously met his exacting standards if he was going back for more.

‘Doesn’t sound like your typical high-powered company director in charge of what must be a very profitable enterprise.’

Tess shrugged: it turned into a neck stretch then a yawn, arms reaching for the ceiling. Out of the corner of her eye she caught Cato admiring the stretching of fabric across her chest but trying to make it look like he wasn’t looking. Sometimes he was an open book. Tess smiled to herself. Time to get out the scalpel.

‘How’s the wife?’

‘Jane? Fine. Good.’ Cato’s smile was forced, the voice unnaturally light.

‘Been married long?’

‘Seven years.’

Cue itch.

‘Kids?’

‘A boy, six, Jacob.’

‘Missing him I expect.’

‘Yes I am.’

He sounded like he meant it, plain as day, but also looked a bit surprised at the fact.

‘And Jane too, no doubt,’ prompted Tess.

‘Sure. Of course.’

‘So why aren’t you home with them?’

‘What?’

‘DI Hutchens is going to want to run both cases. Your work is pretty well finished here. You can go back to your family. That’s what you want isn’t it?’

Cato nodded unconvincingly.

Tess weighed up all she had gleaned– but then she wondered why the hell she was so interested anyway. A flashback popped into her mind of a steamy Sunday morning between the sheets with Cato Kwong long, long ago and far, far away. She steadied her beating heart and hopped back on to that train of thought.

‘Let’s pay Keith Stevenson a visit.’

Clearly relieved at the change of tack, Cato put his cup down
expectantly.

Tess held up her hand. ‘Wait. I need to change out of my Desperate Housewife outfit first. So relax, finish your coffee.’

‘Sleep well, Justin?’

DI Hutchens slapped his file and notebook down on to the table and scraped back a chair. Lara Sumich had taken up position just behind and at the edge of Woodward’s field of vision. The interview room was standard police issue, four walls, a table and three chairs. The clock behind Woodward told everybody it was 8.20. A small colonial-era window high on another wall offered a glimpse of blue sky, scudding clouds and the branch of a gumtree shaking in the wind. A video camera was perched up in one corner, a modern addition. Hutchens was full of beans this morning and wanted Woodward to know it. The response from the primed suspect was a snort and a curl of the lip.

‘I’ll take that as a no,’ Hutchens beamed.

He had left instructions with the nightshift: plenty of whistling, loud conversations, banging, jarring mobile phone ring tones, that sort of thing. It was only five hours since the last round of questioning had finished. Woodward would have been lucky if he’d managed a full hour’s sleep. Hutchens had also made sure that the breakfast served would be as unappetising as possible. The nightshift had grimly assured him that was the way the local roadhouse served stuff up anyway.

Woodward ran a hand through his dark curls. He had bags under his eyes and needed a shave. His nose was red and swollen but not broken. He rustled in the police-issue blue paper forensic suit; his own clothes now under a microscope somewhere. Hutchens flipped the lid off his takeaway cappuccino, sniffed over-appreciatively and took a sip.

Woodward made the first move. ‘Where’s my lawyer?’

‘This is Sunday, the country. We’re trying our best. Hope you’ll help us out in the meantime, Justin.’

‘Or else what?’

‘Or we’ll just wait for him, or her, to arrive and continue tomorrow.’

No reply. Hutchens took that as consent.

‘Must have ruined your day, Justin.’

Woodward raised a middle finger and used it to scratch sleep out of the corner of his eye.

Hutchens persisted. ‘Detective Sergeant Buckley, turning up like a bad penny.’

A shrug.

‘Here you are nicely set up with your girlfriend...’ Hutchens pretended to check his notes, ‘Angelique. Lovely girl.’

Woodward kept his gaze fixed on the tabletop.

‘French?’

Tabletop.

‘Tourist visa, due to expire in a few weeks, I see.’

Tabletop plus a derisive shake of the head. It seemed to say, ‘Is that the best you can do?’

‘And Big Jim Buckley rolls up to rain on your parade.’

Tabletop and feigning bored.

‘Did Angelique know about your drug-pushing past?’

‘Why would she? I don’t have one. I haven’t been convicted of anything.’

‘It speaks!’

Hutchens sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Change of tack.

‘Where did you and your girlfriend go when you left the pub?’

‘Home.’

‘Why?’

‘To fuck.’

‘Left your drinks half-finished,’ said Hutchens, like it was sacrilege.

‘Some things are more important.’

Lara Sumich nodded in agreement. Hutchens gave her a little glare.

‘Jim Buckley had just come in. Is that why you left?’

‘I already told you why we left. We were horny. She was gagging for it.’

He turned his head to look at Lara like she would understand and Hutchens wouldn’t. Probably not wrong. Another warning glare from Hutchens.

‘How do you know Freddy Sudhyono?’

‘Who?’

‘Freddy Bataam, also known as Riri Yusala, Indonesian bloke.’

A twist of the hands and a stifled yawn.

‘Must be a mint to be made these days in your line.’

‘Coffee? Yeah we’re doing okay,’ Woodward agreed.

Hutchens leaned forward and hardened his look.

‘Ecstasy. Amphetamines. GHB. Miners with money to burn.’

An exasperated look, a hurt look. ‘I don’t do that kind of stuff, Inspector. Caffeine. That’s where the smart drug money is. Hopetoun is crying out for good coffee. The stuff the others make tastes like shit.’

Hutchens took another sip of his own cappuccino. ‘You’re not wrong on that point anyway.’

Lara put hers back down unopened.

Hutchens paused and made a show of flicking through the file, checking notes. ‘What did Jim Buckley miss when he searched your van?’

An eyelid flicker and an over-relaxed shrug this time. ‘Nothing. He had a look. Couldn’t find anything because there was nothing to find.’

‘Why did Jim Buckley have your mobile number in his phone?’

Another eyelid flicker and another shrug, a bit more exaggerated, eyes resting again on the tabletop.

‘He called you Friday afternoon, about four. You spoke for nearly three minutes. What about?’

Tabletop. Tic over right eye.

‘What about, Justin?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘What the fuck do you mean by that?’ Hutchens slapped his hand down on the table at the spot Justin seemed to find so interesting.

Woodward sat back and folded his arms. ‘I think I’ll wait for that lawyer now.’