Bad Seed (30 page)

‘But you also claimed that Ian was sexually aggressive.'

‘Oh,
that
Ian.' She visibly brightened.

‘What did he do, then?' asked Cato.

Tricia scratched at a scab on her wrist. ‘He was always taking pictures. Me during sex, from all angles. Surprised he could still concentrate on the deed. Then it got weirder. Me in the dunny snapping one off. Asleep, catching flies. That's okay if it's just for him but then he was selling the pictures.'

‘Who to?'

‘Some website in Russia that deals with all sorts of weird stuff? I mean who wants to pay to see me doing a dump? But they did. Ian showed me the webpage once. Click. There's me on all fours backing his way. Click. And another one of me when I had this bout of gastro.' She grimaced and shook her head. ‘He had to go. He didn't even share the money with me.'

This was as good a time as any to change the subject. ‘Heard from David recently?'

‘Who?'

‘Your son.'

‘No. Why, what's he done?'

Cato filled her in on the hostel inquiry and his role in it. ‘Do you remember if he mentioned anything at the time about the warden, about what was going on there?'

‘Nothing. Some bloke fiddling with him, you say?'

‘Yes.'

A shrug. ‘Wouldn't have been the first time. I've made some poor choices in boyfriends over the years.' A vague look of regret. ‘I had my suspicions about a couple of them. More interested in him than me, they were.'

‘Any that stand out?'

She looked like she was trying to remember. ‘Nah. Sorry. Why? I thought this was about Ian whatshisname and the shop dummies?'

He ignored the question. ‘Did David ever seem capable of violence?'

‘Oh yeah, he belted me once. Big time. Put me in hospital.'

‘Do you remember when? The circumstances?'

‘He must have been a bit older then, maybe sixteen. Can't remember why he did it though. I must have upset him or something.'

The interview wound to a close. Cato was running out of questions and Tricia was running out of answers and becoming increasingly insistent on wanting to know what this was all about. Cato said his farewells, reasonably confident that her shattered brain cells wouldn't hold the memory of this encounter for long.

Cato passed on the salient highlights of the encounter as Hutchens drove them home through the late afternoon traffic and the fading light.

‘So you reckon there's a Russian website specialises in upskirted mannequin shots?'

‘Nothing would surprise me,' said Cato. ‘And if it's a crime then it's probably a victimless one.'

‘Flickpass it back to Murdoch. Tell them they could be on to something big.' Hutchens braked sharply to allow a dickhead back into the traffic flow. They exchanged middle-finger salutes. ‘So Mum
says Davey has a propensity for violence and that Peter Sinclair might not have been his first love?'

‘In a nutshell. But I can't see how any of this helps with your current problem.'

‘No worries, Cato mate. Thanks for the favour, you're a legend.'

That sheen of sweat had returned to Hutchens' face.

‘Have you seen a doctor at all lately?'

‘Yep. Blood pressure's up a bit but he's got me on some tablets.'

‘And you're okay for going back to the Inquiry on Monday?'

‘Absolutely.'

‘Maybe you should move into a hotel for a few days until this stuff with Mundine gets sorted?'

‘Two hundred bucks a night? No way.'

‘Maybe you should be going official with this. Get some help.'

‘There's no evidence of him doing anything, yet.'

‘What about the texts to you? The abusive phone call to your wife?'

‘Unregistered phone. Unreliable witness. They'll send me packing. They'll say I've lost it.'

‘There must be something.'

Hutchens turned and beamed at Cato. ‘You've been a diamond, mate. Really.'

When Cato got home Jake was waiting for him on the weatherworn couch on the front verandah.

‘Where've you been?' he said, accusingly.

‘I might ask you the same thing. Why weren't you at school today?'

No reply. Jake followed his father into the house.

‘So?' said Cato.

‘So what?'

‘School. Where were you?' He shepherded Jake to the kitchen table. Sat him down and put the kettle on. There was a sweaty fug about his son. None of the obvious smells of dope. Maybe it was just teenage funk. But something wasn't right. ‘Answer the question.'

A smirk. ‘Am I under arrest?'

‘Stop being a smart-arse.' Cato phoned Jane to let her know what was going on. He said he'd keep Jake there for the night. Jane didn't object. Cato finished making a cuppa and slid one Jake's way. ‘Once again. Where were you today?'

‘Mates.'

‘Who? Where?'

‘Stef's. White Gum Valley.'

‘Who else was there?'

‘A few others. You wouldn't know them.'

‘And Stef's parents. Where were they?'

‘Working.'

‘What did you do all day?'

‘Hung out. Talked. Played music. Video games.'

‘Any drugs involved?'

‘Been talking to Mum and Simon, have you?'

The obfuscation, the attitude. He'd seen too much of it in his job not to recognise what probably lay behind it. Cato took a decision he hoped he wouldn't regret.

‘Empty your school bag.'

‘Are you serious?'

‘Do it.'

‘What happened to trust, here?' Cato took the bag from him and started rummaging through. ‘You can't do that. That is just so wrong.'

‘Watch me,' said Cato. ‘If there's nothing there you've got nothing to worry about.'

He emptied the bag onto the kitchen table. Books. Files. Scraps of paper. Pens, pencils, a calculator, eraser. School lunch, untouched. Cato opened the lunchbox. Two halves of a ham salad sandwich in grainy brown bread. An apple, a bruised banana. And a pipe. And a lighter. And a small plastic bag of leafy material.

Cato shook his head. ‘I'd thought you were better than this …' he searched for words, ‘bullcrap.'

‘Sorry. Dad.' No apology at all. Just contempt and derision. Jake's phone started beeping.

‘Hand it over.'

‘No.'

Cato wrestled the phone out of his son's hand. It was from Stef – a photo of him with his pipe. And a message:
Duuuuude!

‘I hate you,' said Jake, red-faced, his eyes watering with anger.

‘I don't hate you. But I don't think much of you right now.' Cato sent Stef's number to his own phone. ‘Your mum and I will need to talk about some punishment for this.'

‘What for? I've done nothing wrong. Everybody does dope.'

‘You won't be doing it anymore. If there are no consequences then it won't stop.'

‘You are so naïve. This is pathetic.'

‘No, I'll tell you what's pathetic. A bunch of affluent western suburbs kids bunking off school, fucking up their studies and doing dope. That's what's pathetic. There's no noble rebellion in any of this because you've all got parents who'll dig you out of whatever hole you get yourself into.'

The phone buzzed. Stef again.
Wassup?

‘And you haven't got enough real rebellion or independence in you to go out and buy your own bloody gadgets. Meanwhile there are people crying out for the kind of privileges you have. Poor little rich boys. That's what's pathetic.'

‘Don't hold back, Dad.'

‘Cut the backchat.' Cato wrenched open the fridge door. ‘Scrambled eggs for dinner. Okay?'

Lara Sumich's funeral was a full-dress uniform affair at St George's Cathedral in the city. The Commissioner was there along with the Police Minister and other top brass. Farmer John was there, holding it together, just. Mr and Mrs Sumich and their entourage occupied the front rows. She was a porcelain figurine ready to crack, whereas Oscar Sumich had snapped into professional diplomat mode, pressing the flesh of dignitaries, putting on a show. It would have been nearer to the world he understood. Whatever it takes, mused Cato.

There was a large photo of Lara on an easel in front of the coffin. An earlier picture. In the last few weeks Cato had caught glimpses of a different Lara, one who seemed a whole lot more human, happy, in love. This photo showed no hint of any of that; it showed the self-assured, steely, ambitious Lara. Maybe that was the only Lara her parents got to know, or wanted to know. Certainly Oscar Sumich's eulogy stuck to that script.

She was buried in the family plot in Karrakatta. A kilted police bagpiper had led the funeral procession the last few hundred metres through the tombstones. Cato wasn't sure where the Scottish connection came in but it all sounded and looked quite impressive. The news media certainly got what they came for, including a statement from the Commissioner that the horrific Tan family murders had now been solved and attributed to a business feud involving a Chinese national, since deceased. High fives all round.

‘She'll be missed.'

It was DI Pavlou, eyes red-rimmed. Cato wasn't expecting emotion from her. ‘Yeah,' he said.

‘It's good that you nailed the bastard responsible.'

‘The kid? The locals took care of him.'

‘Yu Guangming. He was behind it wasn't he? You and that Driscoll fella sorted him.'

Cato shook his head. ‘Odds on it came from Thomas Li, or at least his daughter. We'll probably never know.'

‘Unfinished business for you, then?'

‘Story of my life,' said Cato. ‘But I think Lara's death has to mean more than a bit of spin for the Commissioner.' Over Pavlou's shoulder, Cato could see Farmer John being gently led away by rellies. The man was an absolute wreck. ‘Lara deserves to rest in peace, not be swept under the carpet.' Cato wondered if he'd gone too far.

Pavlou appraised him. ‘You're a good man, Philip, and a good cop. We all know that. But you need to learn to let go of things. Not rock the boat.' She drew a pack of ciggies from her bag and offered him one. He declined. She lit up and blew a plume of smoke towards the heavens. ‘Major Crime needs some balance, maybe an injection of integrity and heart. Not too much of course.' She spared him a wry smile. ‘The careerists are taking over, they cut corners, give us a bad reputation.' She nodded towards the grave and the mourners drifting away. ‘There's a vacancy. Think about it.'

Cato got home, changed back into civvies, and drove around to Jane's house in East Fremantle, the house they'd shared when they were still married. It was a large airy old place in King Street with polished wood, open-plan kitchen, lots of natural light. Tasteful art and photographs on the walls and expensive ethnic rugs. He'd dropped Jake there on his way to the funeral and agreed a catch-up time with Jane to discuss their wayward son. Simon, it was agreed, might exacerbate things and would be encouraged to head off to the Men's Shed for an hour or two to make some more cigar-box guitars.