Prime Cut (32 page)

The weather improved the further inland Cato drove. By the time he reached Lake King, three hours northwest from Esperance, the sun was dropping behind a copse of salmon gums. Pink and grey galahs hopped at the side of the road pecking the ground absentmindedly. He still had a good four or five hours left of his drive back to Perth. In Esperance the Land Rover had been taped off and Duncan Goldflam and a minion were on their way over to check it out. Billy Mather was long gone. Nobody had seen what vehicle he might have used for his getaway. DI Hutchens probably had the wrong man locked up and Jim Buckley’s killer was, it seemed, a diminutive ageing Pom with an uncanny ability to disappear into thin air. And a vicious old bastard at that. Cato was finished. He needed to get back to Stock Squad, if only to type up the resignation letter he’d been composing in his mind during the drive from Esperance. He needed to get back to Perth, to his family – even if it was only shared custody every other weekend. He hadn’t worked out yet whether what he was doing was Stepping Forward or yet more Walking Away.

If you blinked you’d miss Lake King. Hopetoun was a thriving metropolis by comparison. There was a tree-lined main street that consisted of a general store, the sports oval and the cemetery. Then it was on to the next milestone on your journey to somewhere else. He and Jim Buckley had passed through it on the way down, what was it – ten days ago? There were only really two or three routes between Perth and Hopetoun or Esperance and two of them went via Lake King. The ‘lake’ had dried up probably a hundred years or more ago leaving behind a blinding white saltpan. It was one of a chain of dry lakes snaking for hundreds of kilometres through the southern wheatbelt. It made Cato thirsty; good time for a fuel stop.
He pulled in at the general store beside a four-wheel drive Nissan Patrol with tinted windows.

It was Sunday quiet. Cato filled up and gave the windscreen a wipe with a squeegee. He triggered a loud electronic beeper as he crossed the threshold into the store. He nearly jumped out of his skin.

‘Gets me like that as well and I’ve been here twenty years.’

The storeowner was perched precariously on a stool beside the checkout.

‘I’m Troy.’ He gave a little wave.

Cato hadn’t seen anyone that big fit on such a small stool before, except maybe David Tahere the man-mountain Maori. This was no man-mountain. This was more like a bouncy castle with a damped down central parting and creepy kiss-curls along the fringe.

Cato smiled like everything was completely normal. ‘G’day, Troy. Cold drinks?’

‘Back there in the fridge. Best place for them ey?’

Cato found a large bottle of water and supplemented it with a can of something cold, fizzy and sugary, and a Mars Bar, and handed his credit card over. ‘See you mate. Drive safely,’ wheezed Troy.

‘Cheers,’ said Cato, waving the Mars Bar at him.

The Nissan Patrol was still there. Maybe it belonged to Troy: there was certainly no one else in the store. Cato opened the driver’s door on the Land Cruiser and chucked his purchases on to the passenger seat. He held on to the lemon fizz and cracked the can open. A baby whimpered somewhere near. Was it in the Nissan? Hard to see with tinted windows. Another whimper, but not a baby this time. Someone older. Cato’s skin prickled. The abandoned Land Rover in Esperance – a pram, some blood. He cupped his eyes close up to the side window of the Nissan. The engine roared into life and the four-wheel drive reversed at high speed. The passenger wing mirror caught Cato a solid blow in his side before snapping off. The Nissan was on its way leaving Cato doubled up with what felt like a fractured rib.

The road northwest out of town bisected the large saltpan aka
Lake King. The Nissan Patrol was about two hundred metres ahead of Cato and even though he had his foot to the floor he didn’t seem to be gaining. He’d flicked on the flashing blues and reds but the Nissan wasn’t interested. Every time Cato breathed, a sharp pain stabbed through his chest. Who or what was behind the whimpering? Had he imagined it? He didn’t know who was in the car ahead. Was it Mather? That whimpering. Had he done it again?

Heading their way about three hundred metres further on, Cato saw the orange flashing lights on a ute and behind it a roadtrain carrying what looked like a Tonka tip truck for the mine. Oversize Load was the warning sign flashing on the pilot ute. The Nissan would have to slow.

Surely.

It did. But Cato didn’t. He was gaining. The Nissan was now less than a hundred metres ahead and the extra wide load was still bearing down on them. With less than a truck length to go, the Nissan slowed and veered off the bitumen as the roadtrain thundered by. Now less than fifty metres behind, Cato was still flooring it as the truck-carrier loomed with horns and lights blazing. He waited until the last possible moment before swinging on to the gravel to allow it to pass.

He could feel his back wheels sliding, the rear of the vehicle fishtailing. Instinctively he did the wrong thing and braked, spinning the Land Cruiser to face the way it had come. For a moment it seemed to float a couple of inches off the ground. There was a sickening thump at the back end and an acute awareness that he was going into a roll and he couldn’t do anything about it. Cato gripped the wheel tight and braced himself as the horizon flipped. He closed his eyes and waited to die.

‘Wake up, wake up, sleepyhead.’

Cato opened his eyes. It was a beautiful sunset. One of those purpley-orangey glowing ones with wispy clouds fanning out across the sky and the bush burned into silhouette. A soft breeze whispered
across the salt lake and a waning but still huge yellow moon hovered low on the opposite horizon.

‘Now then, son, what’s all this about?’ Billy Mather crouched above him, concerned and inquisitive.

Cato tried to sit up and felt the stabbing pain in the side of his chest from the broken wing mirror adding to a splitting headache. He was aware of something sticky on the side of his face. Blood? ‘What happened?’ he croaked.

‘You rolled. Me and the roadtrain driver got you out. He’s gone to get help along with the lad from the pilot ute. There’s a police and ambulance post in Lake King. They’ll be back in another twenty minutes or so, I expect.’

A few metres away the Land Cruiser rested on its roof, windows shattered, one wheel slowly spinning and catching the last rays of sunset. The axle must have sheared. The bull-mobile was a writeoff. Silver linings. Cato wondered if Mather remembered him from their brief encounter at the smouldering caravan.

‘You haven’t got me thermos have you, son?’

Question answered.

‘No. Sorry.’

‘Nee bother. So, how did you find me?’

Cato couldn’t bring himself to say blind luck so he kept quiet.

Mather sighed and shook his head like a disappointed parent. ‘You and your mate, Beefy, don’t know when to stop sticking your nebs in do you? He thought he had me twigged, thought he’d play it cool. I can read you lot like a book. Fucken amateurs.’

Beefy? Buckley, he assumed. Nebs? Cato’s head was spinning.

‘How did he know it was you?’

Mather snorted. ‘Soon as I opened me mouth when he bought a round in the pub, his piggy little eyes lit up. Then I heard him on the phone out on the jetty saying, “Course it’s him, how many other bastards talk like you?” It was only later I realised he was talking to my old marra Stuey Miller.’

‘But why kill him? You could have just disappeared, you’ve done it before.’

Mather shook his head dismissively. ‘Nah, things were closing
in. I needed a diversion. Your body on the beach provided that. Plus there was a rumour around town about drugs. All helped to add to the confusion.’

Cato’s guts curdled. His Chinese Whispers campaign had provided a smoke screen for a killer to hide behind. He may as well have handed Mather the rock, pointed him at Jim Buckley and said go for your life.

Then with a jolt Cato remembered the scene at Lake King general store. The whimpering in the Nissan: who was it? Where were they?

Mather was still in full flow. ‘Ah well, enough small talk. I’ve got to be getting on now.’ He dragged a holdall closer to him and started rummaging. Muffled metallic sounds.

Cato tried not to think the worst. ‘Who have you got in the car?’

Mather smiled and patted his arm. ‘No need to worry about them, bonny lad.’

Cato started to rise but Mather pressed him back down with unexpected strength for a man over twenty years his senior.

‘Stay down, son.’

Cato felt weak as a kitten. Was he really going to let himself be at the mercy of an old-aged pensioner? He tried wasting more time, more time for help to arrive. ‘Why do you do it?’

Mather raised an eyebrow, ‘Do what, son?’

‘You know what I mean: the women and kids – bashing
and
electrocuting. Bit over the top doing both?’

Mather smiled playfully. Was there a trace of pride in there too? ‘I was just seeing if it worked the first time, me little invention, just curious really. After that it just became a kind of signature. Like on a work of art. Know what I mean like?’

His answer was actually more of a ‘how’ than a ‘why’ but the worrying thing was that Cato did know what he meant. Sometimes horror has an internal logic all of its own, like those seemingly nonsensical cryptic clues.

‘Bonny lass, lovely bairn.’

‘What?’ Cato looked up.

Mather was flicking through a wallet. It was Cato’s. He showed Cato the photo of Jane and Jake on Rottnest.

‘What’s their names?’ the old man asked with childlike curiosity.

Cato’s blood ran cold, he closed his eyes and concentrated, trying to think of a plan. When he opened them again he realised it was all a bit too late for that.

Mather’s hand was raised high, he was holding a tyre lever. Cato could see the initials CK tattooed on Mather’s forearm but realised he was never going to get the chance to ask him about it. He managed to turn, raise his arm and take the force of the blow on his right elbow. He felt it shatter and almost vomited with the pain. With his good arm he grabbed a handful of salty gravel and flung it feebly into Mather’s face, rolling and scrambling desperately to get out of harm’s way. Mather brought the lever down on the back of Cato’s neck and shoulder. Everything went white and the shock sent his whole system into shutdown. He had to hold on. Cato knew he was just another blow or two from death, he’d read the files on what Mather was capable of and he’d seen the results of his handiwork on Jim Buckley. Three strikes and you’re out, right out. He crouched on the balls of his feet and launched himself forward, driving the top of his head into Mather’s face. He heard the crunch of breaking bone, Mather gasped and the tyre lever dropped. Cato grabbed it with his good hand and set about finishing the job.

At some point the Lake King cops arrived and eased the tyre lever out of his grip as a dark stain radiated out across the white salt lake.

There was someone in his room. He could hear it. Soft rhythmic breathing and the occasional rustle of fabric. Stuart Miller’s skin, already raw and tight beneath the gauze and bandages, tingled with fear. It wasn’t a nurse or auxiliary, they usually announced themselves and clattered about regardless. He was the tetchy blind man in number 7 and he knew their strategy was to smother him with their good-natured life-goes-on noises. This morning they’d announced a new bunch of flowers had arrived. They read the card out to him:
Get Well Soon. Tim Delaney & Colleagues. South Australia Police.
The personal touch, very nice. The flowers smelt sweet and cloying.

It wasn’t a doctor either. They usually introduced themselves too and got straight down to business asking stupid questions about how he was feeling today and then moving on without really hearing the answer. Like shite again, thanks Doc.

It wasn’t Jenny, he knew her smell and her trembling fearful touch of his hand and sometimes he thought he could almost taste the tears he knew were running down her face. So who was it?

‘Who’s there?’

A soft clearing of the throat and a rustling of movement in the bedside chair accompanied by a sharp intake of breath.

‘Sorry. My name is Philip Kwong.’

So it was a doctor, probably a young med student or intern, come to gawp at the English Patient.

‘Come to check my blood pressure?’

‘Actually, Stuart, it’s Detective Senior Constable Philip Kwong. Some people call me Cato.’

The voice had firmed up, gained five years or so, maybe a bit of a
chip on his shoulder. That was more like it. Cato?

‘Like in
The Pink Panther?’

‘That’s right.’

‘I used to love that. He was always ambushing his boss, leaping out from behind the curtains when he least expected it.’

‘That sounds about right. By the way Greg Fisher says hello, we shared a ward in Esperance together for a few days.’

Miller nodded, his guess had been right; the visitor was nursing an injury. ‘Fisher’s a good lad. The only one who listened to me. How’s he doing?’

‘He’ll be fine. No permanent damage.’

Miller heard the last few words trailing off apologetically. He changed the subject and injected some brightness into his voice to reassure the visitor. ‘So, have you found Arthurs then?’

‘Yes.’

Stuart Miller’s pulse quickened, it had been a rhetorical question and he was expecting a no. ‘Tell me more.’

‘He’s dead. I killed him.’

‘Bastard.’

‘Yeah, I suppose he was.’

‘I meant you.’

‘What?’

‘Ever read
Moby Dick?’

‘The first few chapters.’

‘Well I’m Captain Ahab and you’ve just gone and killed my fucking great white whale.’

So Cato Kwong told Stuart Miller his story, including the bit at the end about the bludgeoned near-dead body of a young woman found in the boot of Davey Arthur’s stolen Nissan. The baby on board was unscathed although a bit dehydrated. The mother would spend the next three months in intensive care and, perhaps mercifully, may remember nothing of her ordeal.

‘So it
was
that same bloke from the caravan, Mather,’ said Cato.

‘Yes.’

‘And he killed Jim.’

And Christine and Stephen Arthurs. And the four members of
the Chapman family in Adelaide, jeez he couldn’t even recall their names. And Vicki and Shelly Munro. At least Brian Munro now had his wish; Arthurs was dead. Miller sighed and shifted his weight in the bed.

‘Can I get you anything? Water or something?’

Miller shook his head. ‘No, ta. So that bloke you had in the frame for Jim. What happens to him?’

‘The case is being quietly dismantled as we speak.’

‘That would please that little bull terrier boss of yours no end.’

A derisive snort. ‘He’ll survive, he always does.’

Miller paused. ‘I don’t suppose Arthurs ever told you why?’

‘Not really, he bragged about his gizmo. Called it his signature on a work of art. But we did pass on your family history notes to Northumbria Police and they found some stuff out.’

Cato told him all about Davey being committed to a hospital, the shock treatment the brain-damaged war hero father. It made as much sense as any in trying to pin down the MO.

Miller sat on the thought for a moment and smiled. ‘CK. I think I might have cracked it.’

‘Who was it?’

‘Not who, where. Cherry Knowles was a mental hospital just outside Sunderland. If the ECT was playing havoc with Davey’s memory maybe he wanted the tattoo to make sure he’d never forget.’ Miller sipped from his cup. ‘Looks like Delaney’s profiler was right.’

‘What?’

‘Mad as a cut snake, as you Aussies say.’

They said their goodbyes.

‘Thanks for dropping in, son.’

‘All part of the service.’

Stuart Miller heard Cato Kwong’s footsteps recede down the corridor. He was weary. Closing his eyes he drifted off and dreamed about the 1973 FA Cup Final: a sea of red and white, Ian Porterfield’s match-winning volley on the half-hour, Jimmy Montgomery’s miraculous point-blank double-save, Bob Stokoe racing across the pitch in his brown trilby and little Bobby Kerr
lifting the cup for Sunderland. And for the first time in nearly thirty-five years he didn’t wake up in a cold sweat.

It was still light when Cato Kwong walked out of Royal Perth Hospital. He saw his reflection in the sliding door and realised he looked more like an escaped patient than an official visitor. The sky was blue, the sun was still high and the concrete shimmered. Listening to the same flattened vowels and singsong rhythm of Miller’s accent, it was easy now to see how Jim Buckley drew his conclusions about Billy Mather being Davey Arthurs. Cato shuddered at the sudden recollection of the spreading red stain on the salt lake and wondered how long it would take for his bad dreams to go away.

He rolled up his copy of the
West,
bought out of his own money and cryptic crossword completed on the train journey from Freo. The headline was about the shock closure of the Ravensthorpe nickel operation due to the global financial crisis: so much for the fifty-year mine. From boomtown to ghost town in the blink of an eye and the counting of a bean. It was far worse than the rumour mill could ever have imagined. A photograph on the front page showed graffiti on the town sign; somebody had sprayed ‘NO’ in front of ‘Hopetoun’. Apparently the first for the chopping block were the foreign guest workers, now surplus to requirements and set for the next flight home. Concern was expressed for those plucky battling locals who had set up shop to service the boomtown and how they would fare now the bottom had dropped out of their market. Cato suspected that the Keith Stevensons and Jimmy Dunstans of this world would always find a way to turn a buck somehow, somewhere.

Cato thought about hailing a taxi for the journey home to Fremantle. Driving was out of the question with a badly broken arm and his neck still in a brace. At least he was able to breathe again without it hurting too much. He opted for a stroll over to the Northbridge food halls for a laksa and then the train home again. Cato switched his mobile back on and it beeped with three
waiting messages. The first an SMS photo: Tess and Melissa on Mount Barren with the long white stretch of Four Mile Beach, blue Southern Ocean, shimmering Culham Inlet and a hazy Hopetoun behind them in the far distance. Tess was laughing and Melissa was attempting sultry but couldn’t pull it off because of the mischief curling the edges of her mouth. Underneath were the words:

Wish u were here?

Cato sniffed the fumes from the rush-hour cars grinding past on Wellington Street and texted his reply.

Yes

Next a characteristically terse greeting from DI Mick Hutchens.

Call me – worth your while

Cato sighed. He was enjoying his time off, even if it was enforced and painful. It would take another four to six weeks for the broken arm to mend and about the same time for internal affairs to conclude that his killing of Billy Mather was indeed self-defence. He needn’t make any rash decisions about quitting or returning to Stock Squad until then. But he was intrigued by the ‘worth your while’ bit and Hutchens no doubt knew he would be. He dialled the number, it rang once.

‘Cato mate, how’s the arm?’

‘Good thanks. You rang?’

‘Heard the whisper?’

‘I’ve given up rumour-mongering for Lent. But go on, humour me.’

‘Stock Squad is for the chop. You’re all dead meat.’

Puns like that and Jim Buckley in his grave less than three months.

Cato shook his head in disgust. ‘Go on.’

‘Budget cuts across the board plus an epidemic of kiddie-fiddlers up north and volume crime in the electorates. The likes of you chewing straw and talking about the weather in Mukinbudin is a luxury we can no longer afford, mate.’

‘Thanks. Is there a point to this?’

‘Tetchy, tetchy. Not so relaxed back in the big city are we? Look, got an offer for you, mate. The game is afoot, change is in the air, and I’m in charge of it. You’ll be needing a job.’

Hutchens outlined his plan. Help downplay Mather’s candidacy for the Buckley killing and keep quiet about his early reservations about Justin Woodward. In short, help cover Hutchens’ arse yet again. In return, Bob’s your uncle, a job in Hutchens’ new squad. As plans go it was desperate and stupid.

‘Could be the making of you, mate.’

Or the undoing, thought Cato.
Step Forward.
‘No, I’m not going to help brush Billy Mather under the carpet. He was the one that killed Jim Buckley, not Woodward.’

‘But the little prick will sue the arse off us! I’ll be back up shit creek again. Fuck’s sake,’ whined Hutchens.

‘You’ll think of something.’

The silence at the other end of the phone was deafening. It was broken by a petulant sigh. ‘So, is that a yes or a no?’

‘What was the question again?’

‘Can I depend on you to keep your mouth shut at least until I take care of the Woodward fiasco?’

‘No.’ said Cato. It felt good.

‘Fuck’s sake, come and work for me anyway. It’s that or the scrap heap and no cunt else’ll have you.’

Cato scratched his chin with a spare finger. ‘When do I start?’

The final message was another text, this time from Jane, his very soon-to-be ex-wife.

Can we talk?

Good question. He didn’t know the answer to that one. He did know that he wanted Jake to be happier somehow so he texted back

Sure

then pocketed his mobile and started walking. He had plenty to ponder so he unravelled his iPod and scrolled down to some walking-and-pondering music: a Schubert impromptu. Cato’s arm throbbed in protest at the memory of the movements it took to play this particular piece. He wondered if he would ever play the piano again.