Prime Cut (17 page)

Goldflam and Hamlyn joined him. They all beamed. It was a beamfest.

‘And there’s more.’ Mark Hamlyn pointed inside a cardboard box emitting a rich aroma of filter coffee. Tucked between two layers of coffee bags was a flat transparent envelope. ‘Ecstasy.’

An estimated two hundred tabs. Was this what Jim Buckley found during his search of Justin Woodward’s van? Was this what he chose to keep to himself? Was this what got him killed?

Hutchens’ eyes twinkled. ‘We’re on to you, you little prick and when we bring you in next time we’re going to have you fucking giftwrapped.’

Guan Yu’s caravan, across the other side of the campfire, was a carbon copy of Chen’s. There was the same dark, pungent claustrophobia, heightened perhaps because four people still occupied this one. If Guan had shared Chen’s home maybe that was motive enough for murder: a bit more elbow room, one too many farts or loud snores. But he didn’t live with Chen so it must have been something else. Still, the man seemed ready to confess all,
so hopefully the full story would be known once the interpreter arrived. In the meantime, Guan Yu’s belongings were to be bagged to help with any forensics to support the confession.

A low rumble in the distance signalled a new arrival. A silver Prado four-wheel drive roared across the paddock, skidding to a halt alongside Greg Fisher’s paddy wagon. Keith Stevenson emerged, not happy.

‘What the fuck is all this about?’

Travis Grant jumped up out of his camp chair, trying hard to look purposeful. Xi Xue tried to be invisible. Greg Fisher was busy bagging some of Guan Yu’s clothes. Cato Kwong stood up slowly from his crouch over a battered suitcase that had served as Guan’s wardrobe.

‘Mr Stevenson, glad you could make it.’

Stevenson ignored Cato; he turned and addressed the uniformed Fisher. The snub was deliberate and provocative.

‘This is private property. I hope you have a warrant?’

Cato struggled to control himself. ‘This is a murder inquiry. We’d appreciate your cooperation, Mr Stevenson.’

Stevenson decided to pay Cato some attention. ‘Or else what?’

‘Or else I’ll have detectives all over this place, all over your office, your home, your accounts. We’ll turn you inside out and take our time about it.’

Stevenson snorted, ‘Good luck, Jackie Chan. You’ll need it.’ He turned his spittle and wrath on to Travis Grant. ‘Soon as he’s gone, close the place down. I want all these Chinks off the payroll and off my property. Send them back...’ He brushed past Cato on the way back to his car. ‘Every last one.’

‘You’ll have to wait until we’re good and ready, Mr Stevenson. I’m declaring this property a crime scene. Nothing comes or goes from here without my say-so.’

‘Well I came and I’m going. Be seeing you.’

Stevenson slammed his door and the engine roared into life. Cato gave him a wave.

‘Count on it,’ he murmured.

‘Thanks for telling me.’

DI Hutchens wasn’t being sarcastic, he seemed strangely calm. Cato had been expecting an explosion. They were seated in the cramped confines of the Sea Rescue hut rather than the luxury of the town hall. Cato Kwong had wanted his bollocking to be as private as possible.

He’d been running the Flipper inquiry on the basis of seeming lack of interest from Hutchens rather than any given authority. He’d pissed off a local businessman and pillar of the community. He’d used personnel to conduct a search of the caravans without official sanction from his boss. He’d told Greg Fisher to take all the evidence bags from Paddy’s Field and unload them on to Hutchens’ forensic team; they were now waiting on word from the boss before touching said evidence with a barge pole. Cato had a man in custody facing a charge of murder. Finally, he’d summoned an interpreter from Perth at God knows what cost and without any authorisation. This was the first Hutchens was hearing any of this. Meanwhile the word was that the Buckley case was in trouble. All in all, Cato expected volcanics.

Tess Maguire had been called over to an incident at the primary school. She seemed subdued but Cato had also caught a half-mad gleam in her eye. He had too much on his own plate to give it any further thought. Coincidentally, behind Hutchens’ strange calm, Cato thought he detected a mad eye-gleam here too. Maybe there was something in the water. Maybe he should check a mirror in case he had a crazed glimmer of his own: it wouldn’t surprise him.

Cato had gone through it all behind the closed door of the Sea Rescue hut: the floating head in the cave, the Chinese connection, SaS Personnel aka Keith Stevenson and the granny director. Then
there was Guan Yu putting his hand up for murder, Hai Chen, the caravans, the need for forensics to confirm that Chen really was Flipper. All through it Hutchens nodded, jotting notes here and there. Listening, not exploding.

Hutchens got on the mobile and gave a nod to Forensics to get to work on this new job as long as everything on the Buckley case was under control.

‘The interpreter, when’s he due?’

‘He’s a she. Afternoon flight.’

Ravensthorpe Airport was a runway, a shed, and a paddock. The flights were all Western Minerals fly-in fly-out charters with public access restricted – usually to fill out any spare capacity. These last few days the blue and orange–fluoro brigade was outnumbered by police, journalists, lawyers, and now interpreters. At this rate WMG were going to have to organise extra planes just to get their own workers to and from the mine. Hutchens let Cato know that he had already fielded one grumpy call from somebody in HR, whose cooperation was hanging by a thread.

‘Bit rude you authorising that ahead of me.’

Hutchens was trying to look surly but couldn’t quite pull it off. It was written all over his face, he was as happy as a pig in shit. It probably didn’t get any better than this. Two murders on his patch, one of them a cop: a good quick result on one and significant progress to report on the other and all in time for the evening news.

‘Sorry, boss. So, where to from here, sir?’ Cato’s feeble attempts at remorse and obedience were transparent but Hutchens clearly had other fish to fry. He looked at his watch, then at Cato.

‘You stick with the Chinaman. Do a first-run interview with him as soon as the interpreter is here. We’ll see how we go from there.’

Cato failed to smother his pleasure.

Hutchens wasn’t giving it all away. ‘I want one of my crew in there with you.’ Cato nodded warily. ‘Mark McGowan’s not too busy. Take him.’

Cato forced a smile and a nod of thanks, too caught up in his own world to ask how it was going with the Jim Buckley case. Hutchens
told him anyway. In another day or two he hoped to have enough to bring Justin Woodward back in and bury him. This was news to Cato.

‘Really? I thought he was off the hook?’

‘Released pending further inquiries. There’s a difference, remember?’

‘So what’s the progress?’

‘Forensics in the coffee van, drug traces.’

Cato nodded slowly, expression neutral. Hutchens looked him in the eye.

‘There’s a bullshit story going around town about an undercover drug sting, linking it to the carcass on the beach. Heard that one?’

Cato shook his head and shrugged.

Hutchens didn’t let up. ‘Stupid bumpkins got their murders mixed up. Buckley’s the one that has the drug connection. What’s his name, Flipper, nothing to do with it. That’s right isn’t it?’

Cato couldn’t stand it anymore, he wasn’t in the mood for cat and mouse games. ‘I started the rumour, a bit of tree-shaking. We didn’t have anything else at that point.’

Hutchens sat back and put his hands behind his head. ‘Get the result you were after?’

Cato averted his gaze, his eyes blurred, his chest tightened. But he held it all together, just. The thought he’d been trying to bury for the last few days was now jumping around in front of him waving its arms frantically.

‘Jim Buckley’s dead. I think I might have caused it.’ His breath shuddered. ‘I don’t know what to say or do about that.’

Hutchens sighed. ‘Neither do I, Cato mate.

According to the phone call, Jai Stevenson had been held back after school to have a chat about the cackling, the disruptive behaviour and the animal noises. Tess had nodded down the line like she knew exactly what Kate McLernon was talking about. Poor love, first she finds a headless torso on her morning run then she has a mad kid threatening self-harm. Don’t waste any money on a lottery ticket
right now, Tess had joked, letting her know she was on her way.

When Tess arrived she found Jai sitting on a high stack of chairs in a corner beside the broad beans that were germinating in recycled milk cartons. He was pressing a pocketknife against his own throat. Most of the kids had gone home apart from a handful galloping around the playground just outside. They were making more acceptable after-school animal noises, oblivious to Jai and his knife and his throat. He was humming and swinging his legs. He seemed unaware that he’d pricked himself and that a tiny trickle of blood ran down his neck. His eyes never left the teacher’s and he was trying hard not to smile but couldn’t help himself.

Tess nodded towards the teacher and walked in. Outside, Greg Fisher was shooing the kids away from the playground and off home. Other teachers, unaware of what was going on, were wondering about the sudden police presence. Fisher shooed them away too. Tess sat on the corner of a desk a couple of metres away from Jai. Behind his head, blutacked to the window, the class photo – a mixed mob of kids squinting at the camera. There he was, second row, third from left, the dark red vertical scar on his upper lip helping to mark him out from the crowd. The Disaffected Youth of Hopetoun. On a good day you could read him as a shy kid desperately in need of friends, fun and a fair go. On a bad day, like today, he looked dark and malevolent, an ugly stain on the childhood innocence around him.

‘Hello Jai, what’s happenin’?’

He rolled his eyes and gestured towards the knife. ‘Duh. What do you think?’

Tess acted like she’d only just noticed it. ‘Oh yeah, the knife. So, what’s this all about Jai? What’s going on?’

‘Her.’ He chin-pointed in the direction of the teacher.

‘Mrs McLernon?’

‘She prefers Muzz.’

Tess grinned and rolled her eyes too, co-conspirator with Jai. ‘Okay then, Muzz. What’s Muzz McLernon been doin’?’

‘Givin’ me the shits.’

Ms McLernon looked out the window, expression unreadable.

‘Not again.’ Tess turned an accusing eye on the teacher. ‘What’s she gone and done this time?’

‘Said I was making noises. Disruptin’, shit like that. She’s a fucking bitch. Always pickin’ on me.’

Ms McLernon sniffed and drummed her fingers on the desk.

Tess nodded in apparent agreement. ‘I reckon. So what’s with the knife? How does that help?’

‘Gonna kill meself. Sick of this shit.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

You and me both, thought Tess, there had to be better ways of spending your day than dealing with dipsticks like the Stevensons. Like, for instance, stalking your former tormentor. She’d tailed the Djukic minibus convoy all the way down the Hopetoun– Ravensthorpe Road until the mine turnoff. There they’d parted company, for the time being. John Djukic occupied all her waking moments (and too many of her sleeping ones) and she wished he didn’t. A soft breeze rustled a photocopied word-sleuth from a nearby desk; it fluttered to the floor at Tess’s feet. It looked like it was about the weather. She could make out some of the words ringed in yellow highlighter: THUNDER and LIGHTNING.

‘I’ve got a better idea.’

‘What?’ His dark little eyes narrowing.

‘Remember that time I took you kids for a ride in the van? Siren, all that stuff?’

Jai sneered, that was obviously for little kids. Three months ago he’d been rapt, a bit of hearts-and-minds stuff from the new cop in town, but not good enough, not any more. Jai found the monotone he was looking for.

‘Wow. Cool.’ He gave her the finger.

Tess was losing patience; eleven years old and already she could see the man he would become, a vicious, manipulative coward, like bloody John Djukic.

‘Have you seen how these work?’ She took the taser off her belt and held it out towards him.

Jai’s eyes widened. He said it again but this time he meant it.
‘Wow. Cool.’ Hypnotised, he leaned forward.

Tess pulled it back from him. ‘You need to put the knife down first though, Jai. Hand it to me, eh?’

Jai lowered the knife and reached out for the stun gun. ‘Can I have it now?’

‘Sure.’

Tess started to pass it over. He snatched at it and there was a brief clumsy struggle as Tess tried to hold on to the taser and get the knife off him. Then Jai Stevenson yelped and dropped like a stone.

Greg Fisher popped his head round the door and took in the scene: a little boy groaning on the floor, Tess clipping the taser back on to her belt.

‘Shit Sis, did you just do what I think you just did?’

‘You did what?’ DI Hutchens’ good day was turning bad.

‘Tasered him, sir.’ Tess Maguire looked down at her feet. She wondered vaguely about the chances of an earthquake in Hopetoun tearing open the floor in the town hall and swallowing her up.

‘He’s eleven fucking years old.’

No. Hutchens was the one tearing up the floor and swallowing people whole. Tess scratched her nose, she didn’t know whether to burst out giggling or break down sobbing.

‘Twelve next month, sir.’

‘He’s still a fucking kid,’ hissed Hutchens.

‘He had a knife, he was a danger to himself and others. It just kind of went off accidentally. Anyway I only had it on warp factor two.’

Hutchens breathed deeply. ‘Why today, Tess? Why today?’

She studied a spot high on the wall behind him.

Hutchens closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Is he okay? Up and about again?’

Tess brightened. ‘Oh yeah. His mother came to fetch him. Right as rain now, bit shaken maybe.’

‘Well he would be. Fifty thousand volts.’

Hutchens mobile trilled, a Hawaii Five-O ring tone. He listened
for a moment.

‘No fucking comment.’ He snapped the phone shut. ‘Channel Nine wants to know if the tasering of this eleven year old kid had anything to do with the murder of Jim Buckley.’

Cato looked up from his file. ‘Are we ready?’

Suspect and interpreter nodded in unison. Cato announced names, times, dates and places for the recording. It was 5.30, the sky outside still bright. Guan Yu had been cautioned and had confirmed through the interpreter that, for the moment anyway, he was waiving his right to have a lawyer present. The interpreter, Jessica Tan, had stepped off the plane an hour ago and was sharp, efficient and ready to roll. Cato knew the type, he’d gone to school with lots of them. Confession time: he
was
one of them. Conscientious, always did their piano practice, always did their homework. Always did everything very, very well – except in his case. Jessica Tan looked about ten years younger than Cato. He wondered idly if she was related to the Tans from down the street where he grew up. Probably not; anything less than doctor, dentist, or lawyer was abject failure for those Tans. Interpreter? Not a chance.

They went through the basics about Guan Yu. Age twentyeight and married with one child, a daughter. A home address in Chengdu, Sichuan Province, China. A welder by trade, he had been in Australia for about six months. His contract was for a year. He had been recruited to come to work in Australia by Hai Chen who was also from Chengdu.

‘Mr Guan, today you told me you killed Hai Chen.’

Jessica repeated it to Guan Yu who already half-understood. He nodded his confirmation, adding a clear ‘Yes’ for the recording at Cato’s insistence.

‘Tell me what happened.’

A deep, shaky inhaling of breath from the other side of the table, Guan speaking, Jessica almost simultaneously translating.

‘It was Thursday. We had all been working on the pipeline again.’

Cato thought back to the projects lists on the contractors’ websites, the desalination plant pipeline for the mine.

‘Ten days without rest, long hours. Dawn to nearly dark.’

Cato nodded at him to go on.

‘We were sitting around the fire. Eating. Tired. Ready to sleep. It was already dark.’

‘Who is we? How many? Their names?’ prodded McGowan.

Guan Yu obliged: five people, the rest at the toilet block or already asleep. He gave their names and they were written down with spellchecks courtesy of Jessica Tan. Cato cursed silently. He was quite happy to leave this nailing of detail for a later run-through. He didn’t want Guan’s train of thought derailed. He whispered to that effect in McGowan’s ear and was answered with a curt nod.

It transpired that Thursday night was dues-paying night. That figured, Thursday being payday. Hai Chen was the gangmaster. He had organised the Chinese end of the hiring in return for a commission from the contracting company, SaS, and a percentage fee agreed with each of the hired men individually. Chen had the best English, acting as a go-between from day one. On Thursday nights he collected fifty dollars cash from each of his fifteen Chinese workmates.