Bad Seed (12 page)

‘And you don't remember a thing?'

‘Not a peep, Cato mate. I was looking at the world through the bottom of a whisky glass in those days.' He finished off the last of his dinner, salad notwithstanding. ‘So, any suggestions?'

Cato took a gulp of Fifty Lashes. All these new beers with their funky hipster names increasingly tasted the same to him; he may as well be knocking back some cheap wallop. What advice could he possibly offer on a fifteen year old crime and a case of convenient drunken amnesia? ‘Do
you
think you did it?'

‘Killed Peter Sinclair?' Hutchens' voice had risen enough to attract the attention of neighbouring tables.

Cato nodded.

Hutchens eyes went glassy. ‘I could have. I was capable of it back then. Once I knew what he'd done.'

‘How did you know?'

‘What?'

‘You've told me the evidence at the inquiry is that you told everybody to forget it. So what changed between you not taking it seriously and you wanting to kill him?'

A slurp of Kilkenny. ‘I don't remember that either.' He caught the expression on Cato's face. ‘You don't believe me?'

‘No.'

‘Thanks.'

‘If you were outside, looking in on this, what would you be thinking?'

‘I'm guilty as sin and full of shit. Not to be trusted for a second.'

Cato lifted his glass in salute. ‘Now we're on the same page.'

Hutchens' eyes narrowed. ‘You're enjoying this a bit too much.'

‘Perks of the job. Maybe you should start looking at this whole thing from the perspective that you're probably guilty and all you need to do is find the evidence.'

‘The Major Crime approach?'

‘If you like.'

‘That's what I get in return for a sumptuous steak dinner?'

‘I had the penne.'

‘Yeah, I noticed. No wonder you don't make friends easily.'

St Patrick's Basilica was about three-quarters full. Outside, the media contingent was healthy considering all the overnight storm damage news. It was a blustery day, a blue sky patterned with fluffy but still threatening white-grey cumulus. Propped on easels in front of the altar were large framed individual photographs of the deceased along with the family five-shot portrait from the staircase. In the front pews sat Matthew Tan with his girlfriend Lily, his lawyer Henry Hurley, and some people that Cato recognised as Matthew's uncles and aunts. There would be no grandparents. Genevieve's folks had died in a car accident when she was still in her twenties. Franco's mother was in an old people's home in East Fremantle, completely gaga. Today that would have been some kind of blessing. His father had died of throat cancer six years earlier. In the rows following there were more family, business associates, friends, a couple of politicians, friends and teachers of the children, and a smattering of police. Cato's own sisters were also there with their partners. Mandy signalled a need to talk to him when he had a moment.

It hadn't occurred to Cato that either Francis or Genevieve Tan were Catholic but now that he thought about it he recalled Genevieve sometimes wearing a crucifix and, let's face it, their given names were Catholic as. A man was giving the eulogy; he was stocky and middle-aged with a shock of red hair greying at the temples. His face was a mess of freckles and his nose had the hallmarks of a youth of rough sport, fighting and drinking.

Cato heard all sorts of new stuff he hadn't known about Francis. His support for country sports clubs, his charity work, how proud he was of all his children, how good a friend he could be. This version must have materialised in the ten years since they'd drifted apart. Cato felt vaguely regretful that he'd missed seeing his friend grow into this less cynical, seemingly softer and perhaps more mature Francis. Lara slid into the pew beside him.

‘Dodgy gangster at eight o'clock,' she whispered.

Cato glanced over his left shoulder a couple of rows back and across the aisle. It was Guido Caletti and a young tattooed woman who looked sex-kittenish in a chunky roller derby kind of way. Both of them really suited black. Guido nodded gravely at Cato while the sex kitten curled up closer and fiddled with her nose stud. A few hymns and chants later and the goodbye music was playing, people were crying, reaching for cigarettes and phones, proceedings were drawing to a close.

‘You intercept Guido, make an appointment for a chat.'

‘What about you?' said Lara.

He nodded to the pews up front. ‘I'd like to pay my respects to the family.'

The church emptied onto Adelaide Street and the steady stream of Saturday shopping and tourist traffic. Cato made his way through the crowd of well-wishers and waited his turn to condole with the family. Matthew Tan's handshake was limp and brief. He lit up a cigarette and eyed Cato through the smoke.

‘Any progress?'

‘We're exploring a number of avenues.'

‘I'm not a fucking journalist, Uncle Phil. I'm the surviving son.' Speaking of which, the media pack were muscling their way towards them. Henry Hurley and a couple of uncles moved in to shepherd them away.

‘Sorry Matt, it's still too early. We're doing our best.'

‘Sure.' Lily leaned into Matt protectively.

Deb Hassan sidled up. As Family Liaison Officer it was her job to try to keep Matthew sweet. Given the distractions of the last few days, that wasn't going too well.

‘We did have a couple of questions about somebody who was seen in the vicinity of your parents' house around eleven p.m,' said Cato. ‘We'd like to show you a photofit, see if you know them.'

‘Is this urgent?'

‘No, of course not. I'll get Deb here to drop round at your convenience.'

Matthew turned his gaze onto Deb Hassan. ‘I'll be at the Shelley place at five. Don't be late. I'm going out at five thirty.'

‘No problem,' said Hassan with all due respect.

Matthew and Lily headed for his Beemer behind a protective phalanx of uncles and cousins.

Cato felt a tap on his shoulder. ‘I don't think we've been introduced.'

It was the red-haired eulogist. Cato stuck out a hand. ‘Philip.'

‘Des. Des O'Neill.'

‘Nice eulogy. You knew Francis well, I take it?'

‘Very. Friends and business partners for the last ten years or so. We spent a lot of time together. Holidays, fishing trips, business junkets, you name it.' A woman of similar age to Des linked her arm into his. She was pale and gaunt and wore a scarf to cover her hair loss. Radio or chemotherapy, guessed Cato. Possibly both. ‘Our wives were thick as thieves as well. That right, Joyce?' Joyce nodded sadly.

‘I'm sorry for your loss,' said Cato, trying to picture Genevieve and Joyce as friends.

‘So how about you?' said Des. ‘Rellie?'

‘Friend. We went to school and uni together.'

Des's smile broadened. ‘You're the cop. Phil the cop, is that right?'

‘That's right.'

Des leaned in. ‘You make sure you catch the cunt that did this, you hear?'

‘I'll try my best, Des.'

‘Good to hear.' Des patted his wife's arm and she dabbed her red eyes. He handed a business card to Cato. ‘Anything I can do, mate. Anything.'

Guido had changed into his winter woollies and had an electric fan heater blasting away at his feet beneath the cluttered desk. It was cosy but any moisture had been sucked out of the air and Cato was parched. On Guido's wall there was a team photo of Juventus FC and a calendar featuring the leaning tower of Pisa. The office was cramped and smelled of cigarettes and men. Lara and James Blond had a chair each and Cato leaned against the wall. From down the hallway came the hiss of an espresso machine and the murmur of café patrons.

‘You guys need a drink of something?'

Cato nodded, over-eagerly, but Lara and James Blond declined. Guido hadn't noticed Cato, so that was the end of that.

Lara took an iPad mini out of her jacket pocket and fired it up. ‘Mr Caletti do you know a Chinese national by the name of Li Tonggui or Tommy Li?'

‘Got any games on that?' said Guido.

‘Just answer the questions, Guido,' said James Blond, ‘and we can be on our way.'

‘Mr Caletti to you, son.'

Lara gave James a glare. ‘We appreciate you slotting us in today, Mr Caletti. We'll try not to take up too much of your time.'

A grunt. ‘Li, you say?'

‘Yes.' She repeated the full name for him.

‘Rings a bell, yeah. Tubby bloke, always smiling. Everybody's grandad.'

‘That's the one. How would you describe your relationship to him?'

‘Distant. He lives in China doesn't he?'

‘Is it a business relationship?'

‘Was. We had a joint venture going a couple of years ago.'

‘What kind?'

‘That's commercial, in confidence.'

‘In general terms?'

‘Property. He was interested in a new housing development in East Perth.'

‘And?'

‘And nothing. He pulled out. Found another partner, another block of flats somewhere.'

‘But you stayed in touch?'

‘Sure. Never close a door on any future opportunity, eh?'

‘When were you last in touch?'

‘Why? What's he done?'

‘We're just trying to build a picture, Mr Caletti.'

He nodded towards Cato. ‘Is that why he's here? Crossword Man. Is he your China expert, then?'

‘When were you last in touch with Mr Li?'

‘Fuck knows. Last year, maybe?'

‘Our understanding is that it was more recent than that. Just over two weeks ago in fact.'

‘And where did you get your “understanding” from?'

‘Sorry, can't say right now. So what was the call about?'

‘Sorry love, can't say right now.'

‘Mr Caletti we're investigating the brutal murders of four people, two of them just kids. We'd appreciate your help in this matter as an upstanding member of the community.'

‘If you think I'm so upstanding then why are you tapping my phone?' He snorted. ‘Upstanding. Understanding. My arse.'

Lara shoved her iPad back into its cover. ‘Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch.'

They were shown the door.

On his way back down the freeway, Cato took a call from Deb Hassan.

‘I called in on Matt. He doesn't recognise Ocean's mystery driver or have any ideas about who he may have been.'

‘Do you believe him?'

‘We haven't got much choice right now. But I also showed him photofits of the guys who stomped Zac Harvey and that got more of a reaction.'

‘He knew them?'

‘Said not, but he was way twitchy. I don't think he likes Zakkie-boy.'

‘Who would? His sister's dead and this prick takes it on himself to rubbish her.' Cato didn't want to be drawn into this sideshow. ‘Pass it on to the Rockingham Ds, they can have it, we've got enough on our plates.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘How's it going with you? You okay?'

A shake in the voice. ‘Yeah, nothing a bottle of wine and a good root won't fix.'

‘Chaz back from the mines is he?'

‘Tonight. I'm on my way to pick him up now.'

‘Have fun.' Cato signed off.

Cato nearly missed the Canning Highway turn-off, his mind had been on going straight home via South Street. Then he remembered – Applecross, another summons from his sister Mandy. Wind whipped the river and grey clouds scudded over the distant Perth skyline as he crossed Canning Bridge. By the time he got to Applecross it was raining again. Judging by the sounds emerging from behind numerous closed doors around the house, Mandy's kids were either practising piano or engrossed in computer games. Except for the youngest, Bao, a pudgy toddler who lived up to his family pet name – dumpling. He was absorbed in tormenting the family cat, grabbing handfuls of fur and tugging fiercely. The cat would occasionally swipe feebly at him with a paw and this would provoke gales of laughter and more tugging. It was a patient old tabby but Cato could see this ending in tears. Mandy poured them coffee from a fresh plunger and nodded towards the sofa where she could still keep half an eye on little Bao.