Bad Seed (13 page)

‘Where's Dad?' said Cato.

‘Asleep.'

‘Ken?'

‘Squash club.'

‘You wanted a word?'

Mandy frowned and sipped her coffee. ‘I don't know whether it's the tumour or what, but Dad's obsessing about you, he talks about you all the time.'

That was the thing about Mandy. She never really coped with
the idea that she might not always be the centre of her father's universe. Any unseemly interest in her siblings must be down to his Parkinson's or, in this case, the brain tumour. But then again, she was the one who was doing all the heavy lifting on the day-to-day caring stuff that really mattered. ‘Really?' said Cato. ‘In what way?'

‘He keeps on talking about you, using your Chinese name. He's never used it since you were Bao's age.'

‘Chinese name?'

‘You don't remember? It was Qian Ping. You're Kwong Qian Ping.' She spelt it for him.

Qian Ping. Something was drifting back to him now. Those half-formed pre-memories of early childhood. A ride on his father's shoulders. Firecrackers and cymbals. A dancing dragon. Qian Ping. His father's seemingly nonsense words to him a few nights ago.
Champagne, champagne.
Qian Ping.

A rustle, a hiss, and a wail arose – the inevitable had happened. The cat scarpered and Bao lifted his hand to examine an ugly red weal. Tears streamed into the folds in his chins. Mandy rushed over to comfort him.

Cato mustered a sympathetic uncle-type look and poured himself some more coffee. Eventually Bao's tears subsided. ‘So what's Dad saying about me?'

‘He wants me to warn you. He made me promise.'

‘Warn me?'

‘He doesn't want you to go back there.'

‘Where?'

‘China. He thinks you're going to die there. In China.'

‘Why would I go to China?'

‘I dunno. I tried to tell him that.'

‘China?' said Cato.

‘I know. Silly old bugger. Must be the tumour.'

Hutchens wasn't having a good weekend. He'd hardly slept on Friday night. The extra pint of Kilkenny had woken him around
2 a.m., bursting to escape his bladder. The night was cactus from then. Marjorie had tutted at his tossing and turning and bolted to the spare room. He'd finally drifted off just as the birds started squawking in the gum tree outside the bedroom window. Awaking mid-morning he'd found a terse note on the kitchen table informing him that his beloved would be out for the day and that while she understood he was under the hammer she really hoped he'd have lifted his game by the time she got back. The house was his. With their oldest daughter now moved in with her boyfriend in Subiaco and the youngest overseas on her gap year, the place seemed cavernous. He'd wandered through the weekend papers, aware that his juniors would be assembled at the Tan family memorial service. Had any of the guests acted strangely, it would be noted and followed up. But what was ‘strange' behaviour anyway? What was normal? Cato had been offered a good steak and chose to eat chicken and mushroom penne for fuck's sake.

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.

Thanks a bunch.

Three weeks out from Election Day, the newspapers were full of people pre-judging the guilt of others. The outgoing government – and there was little doubt that they were outgoing – couldn't win a trick. Perhaps they didn't deserve to after the infighting and dysfunction of recent years. But you know that when intellect, reason and compassion are dismissed as weak, yappy, and well, a bit gay, that the country is in trouble. Hutchens threw some cornflakes into a bowl and drowned them in milk. He was no different. Wasn't that how he usually treated Cato's intellect, reason and compassion? God forgive him. But for all his anti-intellectual bluster Hutchens had a soft spot for what he saw as old-time conviction politics. Left or right, he just wanted people to believe in something and stick their necks out for it. And Hutchens admired that in Cato. The bloke was something of an intellectual who did reason things through and sometimes took a fucking age about it, but the bastard knew exactly where his moral compass pointed. He knew what he believed in.

… you're probably guilty and all you need to do is find the evidence…

Cato's question – what had changed between telling that kid Mundine to bugger off and deciding that Peter Sinclair needed sorting out? Hutchens had said he didn't remember but some neural pathway had unclogged at that point and a dribble of memory seeped through. David Mundine and his extended family had been a pain in the arse for years. Hutchens had come into contact with them early in his career while still in uniform. They were thieves, bullies, wife-beaters, druggies and drunks. Barely a week went by without some kind of call-out relating to them. When young David had walked through the door that day in the Mundaring nick it had been easy not to believe him. He was at Hillsview Hostel doing some anger-management-drug-rehabilitation wank, at the age of fourteen for fuck's sake. That day Hutchens had enough on his plate, and a hangover like a second Hiroshima. Who wouldn't have told the little tosser to take a walk? But later he had gone back through the files and taken a look at Peter Sinclair, anyway. The man had no record, not even a flag of interest. But something had rung a bell. What was it?

A suicide. Two years before that. Hutchens was still in Armed Robbery. The suicide was the teenage son of one of his regulars, an ex-army hard man who'd done a string of hold-ups out in the wheatbelt. He lived in Narrogin and that's where the suicide happened. It solved one problem anyway: no more hold-ups, the boy's father was a broken man after that – drinks all round in the Robbery Squad. The boy was thirteen and had just come back from a nine-month stint in a hostel in a neighbouring town. His dad was doing another spell in Casuarina and his mum had gone off somewhere. The hostel had been the idea of an over-stretched Child Protection Department. The warden was Peter Sinclair; he'd authored some welfare report on the boy. Dad was allowed out of prison for the day to attend his son's funeral, in handcuffs and flanked by guards. Hutchens had been in attendance on behalf of the Robbery Squad. He'd recalled Peter Sinclair in the pew a few rows ahead across the aisle. He had a space either side of him.
Maybe he gave off a smell. That's what the office manager Carol Ransley had said at the Inquiry – he smelled funny.

So why hadn't Hutchens come clean with Cato on this newly jogged memory? That's what worried him. While Cato's moral compass pointed true north, Hutchens often felt he was navigating by distant dim stars on a cloudy night.

Cato found out about the raid on Guido Caletti's place when he got to work on Monday morning. Major Crime, backed up by TRG and other assorted uniforms, had raided five properties early that morning: Guido's office and home and three other residences. Guido and two others were in custody for questioning. One was being examined at Royal Perth Hospital for a suspected broken nose, another for possible concussion and taser burns. Meanwhile Guido was ensconced with his lawyer. Hutchens was going ballistic at being kept out of the loop and was stalking around Freo cop shop with an angina spray lodged in his nostril. DI Pavlou radiated a Xena Warrior Princess aura as she summoned them all to a squad meeting. Lara Sumich would have been one of the main movers behind the raid –
Thanks for your time. We'll be in touch
– yet she seemed unreadable, like she was somewhere else that was far more captivating. She caught him looking at her and squared her shoulders, the professional was back from her brief sabbatical in Faraway Bay. Outside the weather had cleared nicely. It was a sunny if blustery day and would remain that way for the rest of the week. The remainder of Saturday and Sunday had been, for Cato, a muted rondella of chores, reading, eating, and watching crap TV. He hadn't expected Jake's absence to leave such a hole in his weekend but it did. He'd dwelled no further on the Qian Ping and China stuff.

With a teacherly clap of the hands, Pavlou brought the crowded room to attention.

‘As a result of intelligence from ACC plus some corroborating
phone records we brought Guido Caletti and two of his associates, Minh Do and Bobby Huang, in for questioning. Minh and Bobby are back from the hospital and right as rain for those of you who had concerns about their welfare.'

An ugly titter ran through the room. Cato didn't like it, especially when a few pairs of eyes slyly checked him out for a reaction. ‘What was the intelligence?'

The same eyes returned to him. How come the 2IC on the investigation wasn't in the loop? Cato knew he probably should have kept quiet and saved face but he felt combative today, although buggered if he knew why. Maybe it was the smug grandstanding, or maybe it was his shit family life. Pavlou came back with the inevitable reply. Classified.

‘How about the corroborating phone records? What did they say?'

‘They say that there was phone traffic between Guido and Tommy Li in Shanghai, and between Guido and his friends, Minh and Bobby, in the forty-eight hours preceding the Tan murders and in the following twenty-four hours.'

‘From which you deduce…?'

A freezing smile from Pavlou. ‘From which I deduce nothing, Philip. But it's worth having a chat with these blokes, you reckon?'

Of course it was. So why did he feel so aggro? He caught Lara looking at him, a hint of warning in her gaze. Maybe there was something much bigger going on here. Pavlou dished out the rations. She and Lara would take Guido, James Blond and his twin would have Minh, and another team would question Bobby. Nothing in there for Cato or his mob. Hutchens crooked his finger and invited him into a side office.

‘It's a fucking circus.'

A rare meeting of minds. ‘Boss.'

‘We need to take back control.'

‘How?'

‘Don't know yet. I'll keep you posted.'

That sounded ominous. ‘Getting anywhere on your
predicament?'

‘Nah.' A shifty look. For a political operator with decades of
workplace experience, Hutchens was a crap liar. ‘But you did give me food for thought.'

‘Did I?'

‘Yeah. So cheers for that. Must do it again sometime.'

‘No worries,' said Cato. They went their merry ways. Back in the open-plan, Deb Hassan sought him out. ‘How's Chaz?' The FIFO hubby.

A satisfied smile. ‘Gagging for it, bless him.'

‘Lovely. No word from Mrs Harvey yet?'

‘You or the boss will probably hear before I do.'

‘Which boss?'

‘Let's not go there.' She nodded in the direction of a departing Hutchens. ‘How's he taking all this?'

‘A bit out of sorts, for sure. But I think he's shaping up for a fightback.'

‘Good. Not before time. Want a cuppa?'

He put his order in for tea with milk and none and asked her to meet him down in Duncan Goldflam's lair in five.

Goldflam had news for them. ‘There was some semen on a set of sheets in the laundry basket. The sheets were from the master bedroom but the stains didn't belong to Francis.'

‘Or one of the sons?' suggested Deb.

A wince from Goldflam, he could still be a bit prudish sometimes, even in this job. ‘No, not them either.'

‘So Mrs Tan had a boyfriend?' said Cato. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Residual jealousy for a relationship over which he'd long since lost any claim? Misguided loyalty towards Francis? It was illogical and unreasonable but it was there all the same.

‘Or a sad wanking tradesman, yeah, something like that.'

‘Does it match the other rogue DNA and stuff you found in the master bedroom?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you've put it through the criminal records system for a match?'

‘Think it's worth a go, boss?' Goldflam's sarcasm could be wearing at times.

‘Nothing, huh?'

‘So far. I'll keep you posted.' Cato turned to leave but Goldflam lifted a finger. ‘One more thing.'

‘Yep?'

‘The lab confirmed Zac Harvey as the father of Emily Tan's kid.'

Cato nodded. Another box ticked.