Prime Cut (27 page)

‘Guan Yu did not kill Hai Chen with a knife. He broke his head with a stick.’

Jessica Tan finished off her translation with an appropriate miming gesture. Picture this, stick on head. Cato sighed impatiently. This was turning into bloody Cluedo. Was it Guan Yu in the paddock with the dagger, or by the campfire with the lump of four-by-two? Neither. Somebody shot the bastard but nobody was owning up to it. Mark McGowan was cracking his knuckles in an absent-minded yet vaguely sinister fashion.

Xi Xue looked to Jessica for some explanation of what the policemen thought of his revelation. Not very much.

McGowan glowered. ‘This is bullshit. We know he was shot.’

‘Shot?’ Xi Xue speaking, no need for the translation this time.

‘Shot,’ said Mark McGowan, ‘so how about giving us the truth and cutting the crap.’

That took a bit of creative interpreting but Xi got the message. He was adamant. ‘No gun, no shooting. They argued. Guan hit Chen with the wood. He told us he killed him. We sat and got drunk by the fire. In the morning Chen’s body was gone.’

At least parts of Xi Xue’s story seemed to correspond with Guan’s version: Chen demanding his weekly subs, an argument between him and Guan, Guan killing him, although the method differed both between the two stories and from the official pathology report. Then the correspondence of events again: yes, they got drunk by the fire, callously ignoring Hai Chen’s dead body, and in the morning he was gone. So what was the bullshit with the stabbing and now the ‘stick on head’?

‘Chen was shot,’ insisted Cato.

Xi Xue was equally insistent. ‘No. Not by Guan Yu. Guan hit him, he did not shoot him.’

Cato called a break and stepped outside with McGowan into a blustery sunny morning on the Stevenson and Sons’ worksite. Trucks rumbled back and forth sending up dust clouds whipped into willy-willies by the gusting breeze. Bobcats, earthmovers, fluoro overalls, hard hats, water tankers, the crackle of two-ways, the trilling of mobiles: the symphony of a boomtown. Over at his office, standing at the window and staring out at the two policemen, was the maestro and choreographer, Keith Stevenson. Cato met his stare. The maestro gave him the finger and turned away.

‘Doesn’t like you, does he?’ McGowan observed.

‘I’ll survive.’

Cato thumbed over his shoulder back in the direction of the demountable where Xi Xue and Jessica Tan were sitting on the top step sipping from water bottles, Xi seizing the opportunity for a nicotine fix.

‘How does his story fit with the others you’ve talked to?’

‘He’s the first one to be helpful. The others have completely zipped up. Three monkeys routine.’

Cato nodded in the direction of Xi. ‘So why is he any different?’

McGowan shivered, the breeze cool despite the climbing sun. ‘Not afraid like the others? Too stupid to keep quiet? Spinning a line because in fact he’s the real murderer? Take your pick.’

Cato squinted as a truck rumbled by sending dust into his face. ‘Run him through it once more, then get Jessica Tan back up to Ravensthorpe. Call Amrita back in too. I want to talk to Guan again this afternoon.’

They agreed on a time and Cato hopped back into the Land Cruiser.

McGowan scuffed his heels in the gravel. ‘Good result on Buckley I hear.’

‘Yeah. Hutchens is pleased.’

‘Yeah, he told me. He also told me to stay on this one with you for a few more days.’

Cato nodded. ‘That’d be good.’

‘Yeah?’ McGowan looked inordinately pleased at being wanted.

Cato nodded. ‘Couldn’t do it without you, mate.’

‘Reckon we’ll get any result here?’

Cato surprised himself with his confidence. ‘Yes, I do.’

He didn’t yet know why, but he was beginning to believe it.

She hadn’t seen anything quite as bad as this for years. The smell was revolting. Clouds of flies hovered above the corpses. She’d lost count. There were so many, all those sightless eyes, staring at nothing. The wind ruffled the gum trees, providing momentary relief from the stench of death. When it dropped there was only heat and silence. The silence of the lambs, at least thirty so far.

She wiped her brow with the back of her hand and plucked at her RSPCA uniform shirt where it stuck to her skin. Her name was embroidered below the logo – Cheryl. She nodded grimly to her colleague, a braided and nose-studded uni student on placement. This was grim enough for an old hand like Cheryl; it must be a vision of hell for a spring chicken like Brittany. Where do they find these names? Brittany was about fifty metres downwind, clicking away on her counter and camera with each gruesome discovery. She was near an empty water trough and the body count was higher there.

‘Aw, yuk.’ Brittany screwed up her face in disgust.

The Albany office had received an anonymous tip-off and flick-passed it to Cheryl in Esperance, an hour’s drive nearer. The student placement was going too quietly so Cheryl, sick of watching the younger woman yawning and playing with her mobile, decided they should have a nice day out. Nice. Somebody had made a half-hearted attempt to pile some of the corpses together in a heap, perhaps with a view to disposing of them eventually. A couple of old but obviously inhabited caravans stood about a hundred metres away. She shuddered at the thought of living near such rotting carnage. As she drew near to the stinking heap of carcasses she could see something protruding from the far side. A few centimetres of stick, the end coated in what appeared
to be blood. Cheryl shook her head in despair. Some sick bastard had been bludgeoning the sheep to death.

‘Too cheap to even waste a bullet to put them out of their misery: bastards.’

Something fluttered on the end of the stick and she bent closer. She expected it to be wool but it was a tuft of what looked like human hair.

‘How was the wedding?’

‘What?’

Cato slid the photo across the table to Guan Yu, once again flanked by Jessica the Interpreter and Amrita the Lawyer. ‘Hai Chen’s wedding. That’s you isn’t it?’ Cato tapped the photo with his finger.

Mark McGowan leaned forward next to Cato. They both had their arms crossed, resting on the table. Expectant. Waiting. Cato had briefed him in the car on the way over. Today they were going to sort Guan’s fairy stories out once and for all. Guan looked at Jessica and Amrita for guidance but there was no need for translation and it was a simple enough question.

‘That is you, isn’t it?’ Cato repeated, less conversationally this time.

‘Yes.’

‘Let me guess. The photo looks like it’s the family of the bride or groom but the bride looks a little bit like you. So, Chen’s your brother-in-law right?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell us this before?’

Guan conferred with Jessica and she turned to face Cato. ‘You did not ask.’

Mark McGowan put his finger to his lips as if he’d just worked something out.

‘Ah, so is that why you argued? He wasn’t just ripping off his coworkers, he was ripping off family.’

Guan played blank.

Amrita Desai leaned forward, hands clasped. ‘I’ll remind you that my client is under no obligation to answer any of these questions.’

‘And I’ll remind you that he has confessed to murder, whether you wish to withdraw that confession or not, and we have every right to ask these questions if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.’ McGowan tapped his pen on the table for emphasis.

Cato studied Guan Yu for a moment and decided to take a punt. One he hadn’t warned Mark McGowan about. ‘Interview suspended.’ He gave a time and flicked off the recording switch. ‘I don’t really believe your client killed anyone, Miss Desai.’

McGowan turned to his colleague, perplexed. This was not how he imagined they were going to nail Guan Yu once and for all.

Cato ignored him. ‘I believe he had an argument, he may even have had a fight. And I believe that Hai Chen’s body disappeared. But this bullshit about cutting his throat doesn’t get us anywhere. Chen was shot. Your client is making stuff up as he goes along. Why?’

Amrita Desai cleared her throat as if to speak but he cut her off.

‘Have a word with him. If he’s protecting somebody we’ll look after him. If he genuinely doesn’t know what really happened he should tell us, but he should know that I’m happy to walk away from all of this time-wasting bullshit today. We can still put him in front of a jury: even with his withdrawn confession, the witnesses to a violent argument and Chen’s dodgy financial records. I’ve seen juries convict on less. Your client is looking at serious time in an Australian jail. I personally don’t think he, or his wife and kids, really deserve that.’

Cato stood up out of his chair and nodded towards a watchful Guan Yu. ‘It’s a simple choice. Help us, or I walk away and leave you in the mess you’ve made for yourself.’

Jim Buckley looked deep in thought. He’d just finished his bartop dinner and ordered another Jim Beam and Coke. He was at a high table near the window in the long, narrow bar room, juke box to his left and shark jaws mounted on the wall to his right. The security camera high up behind the bar just caught him at the top
of its frame. It captured only every other second, so his movements and those around him were jerky. The time code showed it was still early evening, just after seven. He occasionally stared off up to his right. The pub plasma, the news would have been on.

Cato was filling in time watching the video while he waited for Amrita Desai and her client to either call his bluff or play ball. Mark McGowan was chasing Duncan Goldflam for any forensic developments. Cato had borrowed a spare office and video equipment from an ever-unhelpful Bernie Tilbrook but something about Cato’s manner today stopped the desk jockey from pushing his luck. Justin Woodward and his girlfriend had left their drinks unfinished and walked out of the picture without so much as a sideways glance at Jim Buckley. Cato wasn’t sure from the size and quality of the video image but he thought he’d seen Buckley smile at their departure. Figures passed in front of the camera: the afterwork drinkers leaving and the night-time revellers arriving. Some, like Buckley, just stayed put. How much of this had the Buckley squad watched? Had they stopped after Justin and his girlfriend had walked out because that’s where their focus was?

There were two disks with about three hours of footage on each. Cato didn’t know what he was meant to be looking for and couldn’t risk fast-forwarding. Six hours staring at a screen was more than he had the time or patience for. He scrolled through his mobile and found the number he needed. Tess Maguire answered on the first ring.

‘Hello stranger,’ said Cato.

‘No stranger than you.’

It was a shared greeting from the old days, shifts passing in the night. There was a smile in her voice, nice change.

‘Busy?’ he inquired.

‘Flat out, on the sofa. I’m watching Dr Phil, he’s telling me how to relate to my kids.’

‘Sounds like you’re suitably qualified for the job I have in mind.’

Cato explained his situation and found Tess to be willing and able to trawl through the Buckley footage. He would arrange for a Ravy minion to drop the disks off to her.

‘I thought I was persona non grata. The mad woman in the attic?’

‘Always were and always will be. Hutchens is cool, he’s leaving town and so are the media. Long as you’re out of sight, you’re out of mind.’

‘I’m definitely the latter.’

‘I owe you one.’

‘I’ll keep you to it.’ Tess severed the connection.

The door to Cato’s cramped office squeaked open and Bernie Tilbrook popped his head through.

‘That Indian lady wants to speak to you.’

‘Me first...’ McGowan squeezed in behind Tilbrook, ushered the sergeant out with a smile and closed the door. ‘Couple of developments from Goldflam.’

‘Yes?’ Cato couldn’t read McGowan’s expression, perhaps because McGowan himself didn’t know what to make of it.

‘The red paper you guys found at Mather’s caravan turns out to be part of a matchbox. Redheads.’

Cato nodded to himself, a matchbox and the sticky tape they found. Tape the striking strip to one edge of the door, and a bundle of matches to the other, and hey presto – a crude, not entirely reliable, but potentially very effective booby trap when the door is opened and the gas taps are left on. But such a trap would have to be set from the inside. How did he get out? Window? Roof vent? Most likely, unless he was a phantom shape-shifter. Cato realised he needed a coffee, a good big one.

‘Anything else?’

‘Duncan was on his way out to Paddy’s Field. A call came in from the RSPCA about a stick with what looked like blood and human hair on it. He said watch this space.’

‘Looks like we’ve found our lump of four-by-two,’ said Cato.

‘And I hit him hard with the wood and he fell down. Dead.’

Jessica Tan finished off with another of her action mimes. So far Guan Yu’s new story and Xi Xue’s tallied – an argument, a lump of
wood, no knife and no gun. It was progress of sorts. Guan was a changed man, helpful as anything. The campfire drinking and the missing body in the morning also tallied. So how did Hai Chen end up shot? Where did the body go? And what made Guan own up to murder and then spin this bullshit yarn about slitting throats?

‘Mr Stevenson.’

‘What?’ Cato and McGowan both leaned forward.

‘Mr Stevenson said Chen was dead.’ Guan made the fingeracross-the-throat gesture and Jessica copied him.

‘He knows I need money to send home for my daughter. She’s sick.’

Guan Yu and Jessica Tan conferred for a moment looking for the right translation for the sickness. Finally Jessica turned back to face Cato.

‘Leukaemia.’

Guan nodded and continued as if he’d just mentioned chicken pox. ‘Mr Stevenson said he would keep on sending money. He would make everything right. Not to worry.’

Cato still didn’t get the picture. ‘Why did he come to you? How did he know about the fight? How did he know that Chen was dead?’

‘I told Travis. I said we fought and Chen was dead but he disappeared.’

Cato frowned. Travis had neglected to mention that. ‘So did Travis and Mr Stevenson dispose of the body?’

Guan shrugged. ‘They must have.’

Cato shook his head, it still didn’t add up. ‘The body is gone by the time you wake up. How would they know to come out and do that?’

Guan shrugged again, he really was trying to be helpful. ‘Mr Stevenson said I should not worry. Police not interested in Chinaman, especially a bad man like Hai Chen. Police not interested if he’s dead. Just to keep my mouth shut.’

‘And if you didn’t?’

‘He would send me back without money. No more medication for my daughter.’

‘So why did you confess? All you needed to do was keep quiet.’

‘Everybody saw us fight. Mr Stevenson said I would be the one you would want to talk to if you were interested in Chen. If so then he would take care of everything.’ Guan Yu smiled sadly while Jessica finished her translation. ‘And you
were
interested in a dead Chinaman, Mr Stevenson was wrong. He did not expect a Chinese policeman maybe?’

Mark McGowan sat back and folded his arms, a sceptical and belligerent look in his eyes. ‘Did you get your money back then?’

‘What?’

‘Chen had just taken his weekly cut off each of you. He was dead. He didn’t need it any more.’

Guan flushed and looked down at the floor. ‘Yes, we took it back.’

That explained the three monkeys routine from all of them. They’d taken money from a dead man, even if it was their money in the first place. Cato remembered something from his conversation with Travis Grant.

‘Chen’s mobile phone, did you take that too?’

‘No. It did not belong to us. We took only what was ours.’

‘And the wallet, what did you do with that?’

‘Back in the pocket also.’

Phone and wallet missing, probably sitting in forty metres of Southern Ocean by now. Cato was running out of brain space, he needed a break.

‘One more question: what was all that rubbish about the knife and throat-slitting?’

Guan looked at Cato like he was an idiot. ‘It’s what Mr Stevenson said. Hai Chen dead.’

Guan made the finger-across-throat gesture again. That was it. Stevenson’s generalised gesture for death or ending had been taken literally by Guan Yu. He really believed he was meant to confess to slitting Chen’s throat.

At last it was becoming as clear as mud but now Cato had even more questions: how did Hai Chen’s body get from Paddy’s Field to the Southern Ocean? Who shot him and why? And where did Keith Stevenson and Travis Grant fit into it?