Prime Cut (16 page)

Guan Yu was in custody at Ravensthorpe Police Station. He occupied the cell recently vacated by Justin Woodward. Apparently the place hadn’t seen so much business since the Hopey Easter Fish-Off four years ago when celebrations got so out of hand that reinforcements had been summoned from Albany and Esperance. Cato was buzzing like a toaster in a bathtub; this time yesterday, Flipper was still unidentified prime cut, albeit with a likely country of origin – China. Now Flipper had a name, Hai Chen, apparently killed by his compatriot Guan Yu. Dizzying.

The story of how, when, where and why would have to wait until an interpreter arrived from Perth. That would be late afternoon at the earliest. Work was suspended for the day and the Chinese entourage was under instructions to stay on site until somebody worked out what to do next. In the meantime Cato and Greg Fisher were part of a mini convoy, led by Travis Grant, heading out to Paddy’s Field where both Hai Chen and Guan Yu lived in caravans courtesy of their generous employer, SaS Personnel. Keith Stevenson had been summoned to meet them there. Proprietor and Director Grace Stevenson was apparently indisposed.

Cato wanted to see if there were any personal belongings of Hai Chen. He needed DNA, or some other forensic links, to confirm that Flipper and Chen were one and the same. In the ute in front, Travis Grant was accompanied by one of the Chinese who, with better English than the others, acted as a go-between on the job. In writing, the man’s name looked unpronounceable, Xi Xue, but it approximated to ‘She Shway’. Cato’s inability to conjure up any fluent and credible Mandarin continued to be a source of merriment. He wasn’t going to even try to explain. You see it’s like
this – I’m not really as Chinese as I look, it all began with my greatgreat-grandad in Bendigo, et cetera, et cetera. His mobile beeped feebly, low battery; he’d forgotten to plug it in overnight. He checked the signal. Dead. Good excuse for not phoning DI Hutchens and appraising him of developments.

Paddy’s Field was at the corner of a thousand-acre property owned by Keith Stevenson. It sat halfway between Hopetoun and Ravensthorpe and just south of the airstrip. Handy. The land had been cleared of trees and vegetation six decades ago by descendants of one of the region’s founding squatter barons; ‘a million acres a year’ had been the catchcry. The result: vast waves of grain and earth choked with salt. The squatter barons had diversified and, along the way, sold off parcels of useless land like this to the likes of Keith Stevenson. Nobody knew at the time why he wanted it; he clearly wasn’t the farming gentry type. But the proximity to the airstrip servicing a new multi-billion-dollar nickel mine was a bit of a clue.

All this local history was courtesy of Greg Fisher who’d made it his business to get a grasp on the people, the history and the land he now called his patch. He said it was his way of showing respect. It was the same character trait that led him to chat to Jim Buckley in spare moments and find out in two days what Cato had failed to learn in six months of working with the man. Cato was both chastened and impressed and, by the smug look on his face, Fisher knew it. The ute ahead signalled and turned right down a rutted farm track.

‘What do you know about the foreman, Grant?’ asked Cato.

‘Trav? Play footy with him. He likes a drink, likes a bit of biff at a game. Gets the chicks. Needs to mind his manners around blackfellas a bit more but, apart from that, sound.’

‘Trust him?’

Fisher turned to look at Cato. ‘Sure. Think so. Why?’

Cato shrugged, he didn’t know yet. Grant, to all intents and purposes, was nothing more than Stevenson’s right-hand man at SaS. Maybe Cato just didn’t like Travis Grant’s manner or the company he kept.

Ahead he could see a collection of ramshackle sheds and a half-demolished barn with rotting support timbers and a rusted corrugated tin roof. Another fifty metres or so beyond, a copse of tea-trees shimmered in the heat haze. In the centre of them was a clearing and two caravans. Skeletal grey sheep wandered in clusters bleating mournfully in the hot still air. They were gathered hopefully around a rusted water trough but all it offered was a few centimetres of green stagnant sludge. Flies hung in a thick cloud above the deflated carcass of what might have been a lamb. Cato exchanged a look with Greg Fisher who wrinkled his nose in disgust. On any other day this place was a prime candidate for some Stock Squad attention.

Travis Grant’s ute pulled up by the nearest caravan. Cato and Fisher halted alongside. Grant hopped out and slipped his sunnies down to his eyes. He lit up a cigarette then opened his arms wide in mock welcome.

‘Home sweet home.’

Xi Xue stepped around from the passenger side smiling nervously.

‘How many live here?’ Cato’s question was addressed to Grant.

‘Eight ... usually.’

Cato took in the scene; the caravans were little, round, 1960s-vintage Sunbeam cruisers. They reminded him of childhood holidays and simpler, happier times. In their heyday they might have been comfortable for a couple, as long as they got on. Now, rusted, battered and propped up on bricks, they were each meant to be home for four men.

In the centre of the clearing were the smoking embers of a campfire surrounded by small boulders and bricks. Propped at an angle against the bricks, a fire-blackened hotplate. A collection of cheap plastic chairs and picnic benches were scattered around the fire’s perimeter and, just beyond them, a pile of mallee roots to fuel the fire. Under one chair, a plastic draining rack with plates, cutlery, mugs, and pans all neatly stacked and covered by a red-and-white chequered tea towel. The place might well have seemed rundown but the residents did have some pride in their Spartan domain.
There was no rubbish anywhere.

‘Water?’ Greg Fisher asked, barely hiding his disgust at what he saw as Third World conditions.

Travis Grant thumbed over his shoulder towards the sheds and barn fifty metres back. ‘Tap over there.’

‘Toilets? Showers?’ Fisher pressed.

‘Dunny and a shower in one of them sheds and there’s showers on most of the worksites. This a union inspection or something?’

Cato leaned in close to Grant’s ear, keeping his voice low and steady. ‘Pull your head in and lose the backchat. Now show me Hai Chen’s van.’

Grant coloured slightly but recovered quickly. He turned to Xi Xue, speaking over-loudly in his cartoon pidgin.

‘Hai Chen, which van? Where he live?’

‘He lives in this one.’ Xi Xue gestured to the other side of the campfire.

They walked over, Cato wondering whether or not Xi’s use of the present tense was a language thing or a gentle rebuke of Grant and his patronising manners.

Mick Hutchens was back to square one. He’d let Justin Woodward walk, as ordered from above. So far he had nothing on him except a gut feeling that he was a slimy little bastard. Unfortunately the jury would need more than that. The fucker certainly had friends in high places. Even though this was a murder inquiry – on a cop for Christ’s sake – they’d been influential enough to get him released, very prematurely in Hutchens’ view. The lawyer, Henry Hurley, had buggered off back to Perth leaving Hutchens his card and a smug smile. Mick Hutchens knew it wouldn’t be the last time they’d meet. He intended to win the next round.

A squad meeting was scheduled for five that evening. By then everyone and everything should be in place. A media conference would be held at six providing a live feed to evening news bulletins. After a weekend of relying on news feeds from the stringers in
regional, the city editors had swung into action. The glamourati had descended and were prowling around Hopetoun desperate for quotes and complaining about what the wind was doing to their hair. The motel was full, the caravan park was full, the demountable workers village was full. It was a media circus and Hutchens was the designated ringmaster.

The police mobile command post had arrived and now sat on the gravel outside the town hall. Until the IT nerds descended on the afternoon flight to plug everything in, it was about as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Some civilians and spare uniformed officers had been freed up from Esperance and would drive over this afternoon to take up the dogsbody stuff. And come to that, where the fuck was Cato Kwong? He’d expected him to be hanging around like a bad smell and nagging to get a piece of the investigative action. Sulking? It wouldn’t be the first time. Cato, Tess Maguire, and that Fisher kid represented spare hands that he could use right now and they’d all just disappeared like cockroaches with the light on. Hutchens made a note to himself to chase them down.

Lara Sumich and Mark McGowan were trawling through witness statements looking for patterns or inconsistencies. Some of the door-to-door interviews had thrown up a cock-and-bull story about an international drug sting, undercover cops, and the body on the beach. Wrong murder. Small towns and their rumours for fuck’s sake, Hutchens shook his head in disgust. That reminded him, he needed to get a grasp on what was happening with the headless torso now that Woodward had dropped off the boil. Another good reason to get Cato Kwong in here. He tried the mobile. A recorded message, switched off or out of range. Hutchens tossed his phone into the in-tray and looked daggers at it.

A couple of DCs from Major Crime were keeping Woodward and his girlfriend under none-too-subtle surveillance. They’d received a cheeky little wave from her and the finger from him. The happy couple had moved in with friends across the road until their house was back in order and their seized belongings returned. So far forensics had picked up nothing of immediate consequence from the murder scene, Jim Buckley’s motel room, or the Woodward house and car.
However, clothes, shoes and the washing machine filter were being examined for blood traces, as was the Woodward wheelie bin. The coffee van was under guard in an enclosed courtyard at the rear of the town hall and undergoing the fine-toothcomb treatment. The van had been promised back to Woodward by the end of yesterday but Hutchens had drummed up an excuse to keep it overnight. The two things that had made Woodward twitch were Buckley’s phone call and his search of the coffee van.

The Forensics OIC Duncan Goldflam eased his six-foot bulk gingerly down into the flimsy folding chair in front of Hutchens’ desk. He looked glum.

‘Whatcha got?’ Hutchens muttered, already knowing the answer.

‘Nothing much.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Exactly that, boss, no traces of blood anywhere. Still a few things to check to see if they warrant further analysis. Then we’re done.’

‘What things?’

Goldflam shrugged, ‘Stuff from the coffee van. Kitchen gloves, some empty Tupperware boxes, the filter from the sink, a couple of unopened cartons of coffee.’

‘Who’s on it?’

‘Robertson and Hamlyn.’

They were two Perth scenes-of-crime officers with plenty of runs on the board. At that moment the younger of the two, Mark Hamlyn, sauntered through the door still dressed in his paper suit, overshoes, and facemask. He lowered the mask to reveal a mouth surrounded by nerdy acne but lit up by a big smile.

‘Got something for you, boss.’

The Sunbeam caravan was dingy and carried a sour smell of men’s sweat, unwashed clothes, cigarettes and fish sauce. No wonder they seemed to spend as much time as possible around the campfire. Every spare centimetre of space was used. Clothes,
food, a TV, DVDs, CD player, a pack of cards, a chess set and some knick-knacks all competing for room that just wasn’t there. Xi Xue and Cato stooped in the dark, tiny, acrid space. Travis Grant and Greg Fisher had parked themselves outside. Normally they might have been passing banter about footy or town gossip; now they were uncomfortably silent, Fisher studying his team-mate with suspicion.

Inside the van, Cato gestured around him. ‘Hai Chen lived here?’

A nod from Xi Xue.

‘Anything here belong to him?’

A shake of the head, Xi led Cato back outside. He bent down and pulled a dusty and cram-packed holdall out from under the caravan. Obviously they hadn’t wasted time making use of available space. Cato snapped on some gloves, crouched down and started to go through the bag. Fisher spread out a sheet of plastic and readied variously sized evidence bags for itemising the contents. Grant sat himself on one of the plastic camp chairs, lit another cigarette, and made a big show of being disinterested. Xi hovered around the perimeter of Cato’s vision, a slightly sad look on his face.

Cato began to speak into Buckley’s digital recorder. The last entry was something about the head of a cow long, long ago and far, far away. He announced the time, date, location, and those present.

‘Work overalls – trousers and shirt – dark blue and fluoro yellow. Unwashed.’

He passed them to Fisher who labelled and bagged them. The list continued: footwear, socks, underwear, casual shirts, trousers, a jacket. Cato pulled out the next item.

‘Small black bag containing...’ he undid the zip, ‘toiletries – toothpaste, toothbrush, two razors, soap, nail clippers, shampoo, comb.’

From this Cato was confident they would get the DNA sample they needed to confirm or deny that Hai Chen was Flipper. He dug further into the holdall: a tattered, yellow A4 envelope. Cato removed the contents one by one.

‘A Chinese passport...’ he flicked through the pages, ‘in the name
of Hai Chen. Date of birth, 1 st October, 1976.’

Thirty-two years old. Cato looked at the photo; it bore enough of a resemblance to the head he’d seen in the ranger’s fridge a few days ago. Also in the envelope, some letters and visa forms; he’d study them later. Remaining items, some photographs: one showed Chen with a woman standing beside him smiling, a toddler on his shoulders, a baby in her arms – a picnic somewhere in China. Greg Fisher labelled and bagged it.

DC Mark Hamlyn waved a Tupperware box at DI Hutchens.

‘Ice. Crystal meth,’ he added unnecessarily for Hutchens’ benefit.

Hutchens smiled. ‘Well, well, well.’

‘Minute dust traces only; a bag’s been in here, a leaky one.’

‘Lovely.’ Hutchens beamed.