Bad Seed

First published 2015 by

FREMANTLE PRESS

25 Quarry Street, Fremantle 6160

(PO Box 158, North Fremantle 6159)

Western Australia

www.fremantlepress.com.au

Also available as a print book.

Copyright © Alan Carter, 2015

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

This book is copyright. Apart from any fair dealing for the purpose of private study, rexsearch, criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright Act, no part may be reproduced by any process without written permission. Enquiries should be made to the publisher.

Consultant editor Georgia Richter

Cover design Ally Crimp

Cover photograph Getty Images: Shanghai Skyline

Printed by Everbest Printing Company, China

National Library of Australia

Cataloguing-in-Publication entry

Carter, Alan, author, 1959 –

Bad Seed

ISBN 9781925162257 (paperback)

A823.4

Detective and mystery stories

Fremantle Press is supported by the State Government through the Department of Culture and the Arts. Publication of this title was assisted by the Commonwealth Government through the Australia Council, its arts funding and advisory body.

For Vilya, Isaac, Grace and Liam

Zhou hadn't slept well. He was still sick; a bug that he couldn't shake off. Once again he'd spent most of the night squatting in the toilet, emitting a foul liquid stream. He took a swig from his flask of tea, hoping it would stay in his stomach for a while. The kids were down with the bug too, complaining the whole time, but the hospital was full and the drugs were too expensive. The kids just needed to finish their education and get a job with computers so they wouldn't end up a city sanitation worker like him, clearing up everyone else's shit. The boy was a worry though, fifteen and already flirting with the local gang. Another cramp gripped Zhou's guts, he wanted to fart but he didn't dare. He stood on the river shore among the debris of plastic and aluminium and surveyed the earthmovers rumbling across the mud on the far side. Maybe one day they would live in one of those fancy clean skyscrapers and have their own yokel servant to bully. He lit a Double Happiness cigarette and drew deeply, gazing at the Huangpu River and the yellow-grey smog hovering over his life.

The river was brown and sluggish today, like nearly every day. The gulls flew low, squawking half-heartedly. A sand barge chugged by, low in the water, filthy smoke curling out of its funnel. Around him people went about their business of scraping a living. Zhou shivered and pulled his jacket tighter, wondering when spring might arrive to drive away the sickness and misery. He took a final gulp of tea. A full and stinking communal bin awaited his attention, a builder's skip brimful of grease and oil, rotting food, cans and
bottles. He readied his shovel and hose and flicked his cigarette into the river. That's when he noticed the dark shape bobbing in the water.

Was it a body? He couldn't tell. Then there were more. Many more. The river seemed to change colour: brown, rust, red. He tried to count the shapes but it was impossible, there must be hundreds. It was like the stories his grandfather told him of the Japanese occupation – the massacres, the rivers of blood. He could see flesh now, pinky-brown torsos rolling in the current. As one edged close to the shore he could finally make out clearly what it was.

‘It's a fucking pig,' he said.

Thousands of swine floating down the Huangpu River on a chill morning in March. It had to be an omen for something terrible. Others had seen them now; pointing, chattering, cursing, even laughing. He too started to laugh.

‘Shanghai Pork Soup! Throw in some dumplings. It's breakfast for those rich bastards down in Pudong.'

He cackled. He couldn't help himself. If he didn't laugh he would surely cry.

Cato Kwong wondered how long it had been since the goldfish was fed. He sprinkled a couple of flakes in the tank and the fish lazily vacuumed the surface. Rain lashed the windows and another southerly gust shook the walls. Across the road the ocean was churned milky green-grey. Foaming rollers pounded the limestone groyne of the marina. Several million dollars worth of pleasure craft bounced around like corks in a washing machine. Cato looked out across the luxury development they'd called Port Coogee. It was one of several coastal confections that had emerged from the undergrowth south of Fremantle, like dieback in a national park. It had been built on industrial wasteland and offered sparkling ocean views and the chance to live the dream. The blocks alone were priced anything up to three-quarters of a million. But here in Coogee the property boom seemed to have faltered. Cato glanced out of the rain-spattered window. Sand from the many unsold lots wind-whipped and swirling across the deserted streets; half-built McMansions abandoned with flapping tarps; a security guard patrolling in a Hyundai runabout to scare away undesirables. The guard had failed miserably today.

The master of the house, Francis Tan, had been the first to die – and the quickest. Cato turned to the sound of bootie-muffled steps on the metal footplates. It was DI Mick Hutchens, phone glued to his ear, tiptoeing across the blood in a blue paper suit.

‘Yes sir, I will still be at the hearing as arranged and on time.' He frowned at Cato, rolled his eyes, and mouthed ‘fuckwit'. ‘I
appreciate that, sir. Look it's a bit of an abattoir down here so I'd better get back to it. I'll keep you posted throughout the day. Cheers.'

One of Duncan Goldflam's forensics boffins shuffled by, taking in the wretched scene on a video camera and murmuring her commentary along the way. Hutchens waited until she'd moved on.

‘Okay, lead me through it.'

Cato took a deep breath and waded in. He pointed towards the front door. ‘The mains power switch was either manually flicked off or triggered by a short circuit or power cut in the storm. We'll know later. Either way the result's the same, darkness.'

Technicians measured, cameras flashed, shadows played on walls. Outside, the weather got worse. Cato led Hutchens up the wide polished jarrah staircase past a large gilt-framed family portrait. Their steps echoed dully on the footplates; along the way there were numbered markers on blood splashes, prints, and smudges. ‘No signs of forced entry. Our killer heads straight to the master bedroom.'

The room was tasteful and subdued in its decoration: a large picture window overlooked the frothing Indian Ocean, thick cream-coloured carpet, en suite bathroom, and walk-in robes. A Nellie Crawford still-life needed straightening. They stood on the threshold and surveyed the sprays of blood on the walls and sticky dark puddles on the bed. A naked man, face down, with the back of his head caved in.

‘Victim one: Francis Tan, age forty-three. No struggle. He never even got to wake up.'

Next to him, a naked woman lay sprawled on her back, half out of the bed, a bruised and bloodied left arm hanging down and shattered wrist grazing the carpet. Face gone.

‘Victim two: Genevieve Tan, age thirty-nine. She probably woke up as her husband was being attacked. Tried to do something. Failed. Some defence wounds on the arms and hands.'

The boss didn't ask Cato how he knew it was her for sure with the face obliterated. Just as well, this wasn't the time to tell everybody he recognised the birthmark low on her hip. He knew
everyone in this house, at one time they had been as close as family. Closer. He was used to wading through other people's bloody nightmares. Now he'd taken a wrong turn, got lost, found himself back up his own street. Inside his own bad dream.

Hutchens nodded, businesslike: tick, move on. Cato felt the strong need for a hot shower and a long sleep; he was ready to tear adrift, like those boats rocking in the gale. They followed the sad trail down the hall to the next bedroom: a Bob Marley poster on the wall, clothes erupting from drawers and scattered on the floor, an acoustic guitar and a Fender Strat leaning against a bookcase. A desk cluttered with files and a laptop, an unmade bed. Just inside the door, a body curled foetus-like on a blood-soaked sheepskin rug. Jocks. A T-shirt. Eyes wide open.

‘Joshua Tan. Fourteen. Must have heard the commotion and was on his way to find out what was going on. Again, defence wounds, he tried to put up a fight.'

There was one more bedroom. Duncan Goldflam, forensic honcho, just coming out as they were going in.

‘Dunc?' said Hutchens.

A shake of the head. ‘This might be the one that finishes me, boss.'

Kanye on the walls: a double bed, dressing table with make-up, tampons, pills. A framed happy snap of a couple, the young man with tickets on himself. No body here, just an awful lot of blood. Cato swallowed the metallic taste of nausea.

‘Victim four: Emily Tan, sixteen. Still alive until about half an hour ago. She died on her way to hospital. She was the last.'

Then the killer had left. A bloody smear of size nine sock footprints down the stairs and out the front door, disappearing where he'd have put his shoes back on and went his merry way.

Hutchens thumbed over his shoulder. ‘Coming up the stairs we passed a family photo. Five people. Where's the other one?'

‘Matthew Tan. Nineteen. We haven't managed to locate him yet.'

‘And no forced entry, so we assume either the door was unlocked or the killer was welcomed over the threshold. Or he had a key.'

‘Fair bet,' said Cato. He could see that even surrounded by all this carnage, the DI seemed to be distracted, somewhere else. Hutchens still hadn't asked Cato how he knew so much about the family, so soon.

A call came in on Hutchens' mobile. ‘Hold on a sec,' his hand covered the mouthpiece. ‘Matthew Tan sounds like a good place to start, do you reckon?'

Another strong gust shook the walls. Cato couldn't disagree. He knew the boy, and if anybody was capable of this, he was.