Bad Seed (7 page)

DC Thornton put up a tentative hand. He'd briefed Cato earlier and been given the go-ahead to raise the matter. ‘Something else has emerged, boss.'

‘Yeah?' said Hutchens.

‘A bloke round the corner from the Tans' house woke up that morning after the murder and found his jet ski had been vandalised.'

‘In what way?'

‘Somebody had spray-painted “WANKER” on it in orange fluoro.'

‘What's his point?' A low titter around the room.

‘Well I checked with the Neighbourhood Watch team and there's been a handful of incidents in the same area over the last month.'

Thornton listed them. An advertising billboard had been smeared with faeces, possibly human. An architect's sign had been defaced with the words “HOW HARD IS IT TO DRAW A BOX?” and a wall beside one of the main entry roads to the development had been graffitied with “ABANDON HOPE ALL YE WHO ENTER HERE”. Clearly somebody had a grudge against the place; maybe it was DI Hutchens?

‘So what's the theory?' said Hutchens. ‘Is our man escalating from petty vandalism to wholesale slaughter?' Another titter.

‘No,' said Thornton. ‘But he, or she, might have been loitering with a can of spray paint around the time of the murders but feels unable to come forward in case we bust them.'

‘Good point,' conceded Hutchens. ‘Check the CCTV for any anarchists. Failing that maybe an early morning raid on Murdoch Uni? Ten a.m. should be fine.'

More mirth. Even Duncan Goldflam was grinning. ‘We could get some DNA from the faeces. We might get a hit on the shit.'

Hutchens restored order before things got too out of hand but gave Chris Thornton a passing thumbs up. Hutchens, Pavlou, and the ACC Mystery Man had been locked up in the DI's office since dawn. Cato, as 2IC Investigating Officer, hadn't been invited. He suspected a carve-up of Yalta proportions. Hutchens introduced DI Pavlou to the throng even though everybody knew who she was.

‘As some of you may already know, I have a pressing previous commitment with the judicial process so it's in the best interests of this case that it's handled by a focused and experienced leader
with plenty of time on her hands.' Hutchens thumbed in Pavlou's direction. ‘Here she is.'

‘Thanks, Mick,' said DI Pavlou, checking her watch. ‘You should be able to make the eight forty-seven. Don't let those bastards grind you down, mate.' Hutchens left in a new huff. An exchange of winks between Pavlou and Headline Hannah. The A-Team was now in charge.

Pavlou then announced the results of the carve-up. Major Crime and ACC would follow the Thomas Li thread exclusively. Got that? The domestics, Matthew the Bad Son and Zac the Troll, would be pursued by Fremantle with a Major Crime finger in each pie. The fingers were DSC Lara Sumich and DC James ‘Blond' Maloney. Forensics and the techies would continue to do their specialist boffin thing. DC Chris Thornton would collate everything into the system with the assistance of some civilians: a dream job for a budding warehouse manager. DI Pavlou was in charge and no initiatives were to be taken without her blessing. Her eyes rested on Cato as she said that. So did Lara Sumich's. They'd been talking.

The meeting broke up and Pavlou summoned Cato, Lara, and James Blond into her office. She'd set up camp at Hutchens' desk, the photo of Mrs Hutchens now blocked by a bigger one of Pavlou's husband and kids.

‘All of that sit well with you, Philip?'

‘Sure,' said Cato.

‘Everybody seems to still call you Cato around here.'

‘Yeah, it stuck.' She would know. She was at the Academy when it kicked off. He seemed to recall her nickname then was The Velvet Hammer. It too had stuck.

‘Do you mind?'

‘No,' he said.

‘I'll go with Philip, or your rank, as the situation demands. You can call me Boss.'

‘Right. Thanks. Boss.'

‘Here be Dragons.'

‘What?' said Deb Hassan.

‘It's what they used to say on the maps when they didn't know what was over the horizon,' said Cato.

‘Who? When?'

‘Explorers. A long time ago.' They were driving around a new-build suburb at the southern end of the freeway. According to the street directory it didn't exist yet. The satnav had never heard of it either.

‘Good place for a troll to hide,' said Hassan. ‘Maybe there's a whole community of them out here. Waiting. Watching.' She crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue. ‘Trolling.' She pulled over to the kerb and Cato rolled his window down to speak to a passing mum with stroller. The wind whipped up dust and sand, black clouds loomed.

‘Endeavour Boulevard?' he said hopefully.

‘Second left,' said the woman without stopping.

‘Thanks,' said Cato.

‘Where do you reckon she was going?'

‘Mmm?'

Hassan nodded her head back at the mum. ‘No bus stops. No shops. Nothing.'

‘Friend? Fresh air?'

‘She might have been a troll. Off to a meeting.'

‘Next left,' said Cato.

Zac Harvey's house was one of just four completed in the street. An off-the-peg Tuscan villa with a boat on a trailer in the driveway, blocked in by a powder-blue turbo ute. The doorbell went ding-dong. A dog barked. A woman answered the door.

‘Yes?' She was somewhere in her forties and dressed for the gym.

‘Mrs Harvey?' said Cato.

‘Yes?' Her face didn't move. Maybe it couldn't.

Cato showed his ID and introduced his colleague. ‘Is Isaac home?'

‘Why?'

‘We'd like to talk to him.'

‘What's he done?'

‘Is he home or not?' said Deb Hassan. ‘We need to talk to him, either here or at the police station. We're investigating the murder of his girlfriend.'

‘Ex-girlfriend,' said Mrs Harvey, turning her head. ‘Isaac, sweetie. Visitors.' She walked back down the hall. ‘You'd better come in then,' she said over her lycra'd shoulder.

They sat in the lounge room: lots of glass, straight edges, gadgets, and a view of a bleak, recently turfed backyard. The dog, a tan staffy, was shivering against the wind and scratching to be let back in, leaving muddy paw prints on the glass.

‘Bernice! Stop!' snarled Mrs Harvey. The dog stopped and looked sad.

Zac Harvey made his appearance. The boy from the framed photograph on Emily Tan's wall. He was a good-looking kid. He yawned a lot and kept tossing his head to keep the blond frullet out of his eyes.

‘No school today?' said Cato.

‘Don't go to school. Go to TAFE.'

‘Right. No TAFE today?'

‘I'm sick.'

‘Sorry to hear that. You'll have heard the news about Emily Tan then?'

‘Yes.'

‘You don't seem very upset that your girlfriend died a violent death.'

‘Ex-girlfriend,' said Mum.

‘Is that right, Zac?' said Cato.

‘Yeah.'

‘Since when?'

‘Last week.'

‘When last week?' said Deb Hassan.

‘Thursday, Friday.' A shrug.

‘Why'd you finish?'

Another shrug and a yawn. ‘Got boring.'

‘Who finished it?'

‘Me.'

‘Fair enough,' said Cato. ‘Still it must be a bit of a shock even if you weren't an item anymore.'

‘A what?'

‘An item.' Cato glanced at Mum who was playing with her smartphone. ‘I'll try a direct question. Are you sad or shocked by Emily's murder?'

Zac flinched at the word. ‘S'pose. Yeah. Sucks.'

Try to contain your grief, thought Cato. ‘What are your feelings for Emily?'

‘Nuthin. She's dead now isn't she?'

‘Do you hate her, Zac?' asked Deb Hassan.

Another shrug. ‘Nah.'

Hassan unfolded a piece of paper and showed it to him: a printout from last night's Facebook tribute page. ‘So why did you say, among other things, “U got yours fucking slut”?'

A smirk. Charming.

‘She was pregnant. Was the baby yours, Zac?' asked Cato.

That wiped the smirk off his face. Even Mrs Harvey bothered to look up from her phone.

Cato found Lara Sumich sitting at his desk and Deb Hassan found James Blond sitting at hers. They all adjourned to a meeting room down the corridor.

‘How'd it go with the boyfriend?' said Lara.

‘We've invited him and his mum in for another chat first thing tomorrow. They'll probably be lawyered up.' Cato sipped from a water bottle.

‘Reckon he did it?'

‘He's a self-absorbed little prick like most teenagers but, first impressions, he seems a bit puny and low energy. Mass murder requires a bit too much effort for this kid. He gets his aggro out on the internet, doesn't even have to leave his bedroom.'

‘Amen to that,' said Deb Hassan, who had a fourteen year old.

‘Meantime, what've you been doing?' said Cato. ‘Any progress?'

‘Been trawling Matthew's phone and financial records and internet use.'

Cato had already done that. Yesterday. ‘Anything new?'

‘Well, in addition to calling her nasty names by text last Friday …'

‘Which he reckons was just a little tantrum, nothing to worry about. He wanted an advance on his allowance.'

‘Not surprised. He's living way beyond his means and has debts left, right and centre.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yep. One name in particular stands out. Not known for his patience and understanding.'

‘Go on then, dazzle me.'

She did, and Cato was duly dazzled.

The Inquiry was winding up for another day. Another day of pale, angry, shattered young men who'd suffered as boys at the hands of the missing warden Peter Sinclair. The man was a beast, no doubt about it. Another day of accusations of cover-ups and whitewash, of finger-pointing at local school principals, social workers, councillors, and police officers. Hutchens' name kept popping up. Another day of Burke QC harrumphing.

Hutchens had been slipped a note from the young woman assistant to the ex-judge presiding over the Inquiry.
You're on tomorrow morning.

‘About time,' he muttered under his breath.

He wanted this over and done with.

Hutchens shoved the note in his pocket and took the lift down to the foyer. He checked his phone messages: Cato wanting to give him an update, DI Pavlou wanting to keep him in the loop, Mrs Hutchens checking his availability for a dinner date. Various brass, or their minions, looking for reports, budget estimates, policy feedback, stats, agenda items for upcoming meetings. The tightness was there again in his chest. Hutchens reached into his briefcase, found what he was looking for, and shoved the angina spray up his nostril.

‘Stressful times?'

Andy Fucking Crouch.

‘Still here, Andy? Bowling club shut for repairs?'

Crouch tittered. ‘Won't be long now. Better get home and iron my shirt. I'm up tomorrow. Just before you, apparently.'

Hutchens realised now what lay behind the smirk. ‘Surprised you can remember that far back, Andy.'

‘Don't need to, mate. I kept a diary.'

Matthew Tan owed money to GFC Loan & Savings Pty Ltd, a company owned by prominent Northbridge identity Guy ‘Guido' Caletti. The ‘F' in GFC stood for ‘Federico' apparently. Lara, James and Cato paid him a visit. As ever, Northbridge had a Jekyll and Hyde personality. On a hot summer weekend night you could be forgiven for thinking you'd just wandered into Dante's inferno,
but on a winter's day, if you managed not to see the junkie whores scratching their goosebumped arms and nursing Coke Zeros at a recently hosed kerbside table, the place had a soiled normality about it. Like a vicar harbouring a secret.

Guido was sipping Turkish coffee in a little place called The Cazbar down a side street near Cinema Paradiso, a couple of henchmen at a table nearby. An immaculate white polo shirt stretched across his broad chest, his black leather jacket was draped across an adjacent chair. The
West
was open on the table in front of him – election news. Caletti tutted and shook his greying ponytail disapprovingly.