Harum Scarum (19 page)

The sound of tea pouring into the cup reminded Wayne how badly he needed to use the bathroom. But he’d only just got the boy calm enough to sit at the table in the back room and he knew now wouldn’t be the time to excuse himself. The bolted front door might not keep the kid from running a bunk, or something even crazier. He took comfort in the feel of the machete lying by his feet under the table. Although the boy had handed it over without too much persuasion, the flitting dark eyes told Wayne he was still about as predictable as a spark in a fireworks factory.

Angela finished pouring the tea then removed a plate of steaming dim sims from the microwave, keeping up a steady prattle to which Sammy responded with the occasional grunt or monosyllable. Charming and as polite as ever, she translated some of their conversation for Wayne, interspersing it with a brief account of Sammy’s life up to now.

The boy’s story was typical of many of the street kids Wayne had come across. Their parents were dead and they’d migrated from Vietnam with their uncle when Sammy was a baby. He’d run away from home last year just before he was due in children’s court on a shoplifting charge. When he returned a few weeks later, the locks on his uncle’s house had been changed and his tearful sister had been left with the job of telling him their uncle had disowned him.

Wayne reached for a paper napkin and tucked it down the front of his shirt before sinking his teeth into the yielding marshmallow softness of a dim sim. Not bad, not bad at all, he thought as he dipped the remaining half in the dish of soy sauce. He glanced up and smiled when he saw the girl looking at him. The boy hadn’t looked up from his bowl since the start of the meal. He was obviously starving.

Wayne gestured to the empty chair beside him.

Angela shook her head, ‘I have to serve the food. Also, there might be customers for the shop...’

‘You don’t need to serve the food, we can serve ourselves. We need to talk,’ he said, keeping his tone firm but kind.

‘If Mr Cheng finds out the shop is closed even ten minutes early, he’ll get mad...’

Wayne reached into his jacket pocket and removed his ID card from his wallet. ‘This card says he won’t, understand?’

He slid the plate of dim sims towards her. When she did nothing but stare at it, he picked one up and put it in the bowl in front of her. ‘I don’t like eating alone.’ He shot Sammy a disapproving glance. ‘He doesn’t count.’ The kid continued to eat like there was no tomorrow.

‘Are you going to tell Mr Cheng about Sammy trying to steal from the till?’ Angela asked, lowering herself into the chair at last. Wayne dabbed at his mouth with his napkin, leaned back and took his time to regard the brother and sister.

‘I might.’

Angela put her hand to her mouth. The boy pushed his chair out from the table and jumped up.

Wayne jabbed his finger at him. ‘You, lad. Sit down, and listen to what I have to say. I said I might tell Mr Cheng, but that depends on you.’ To the girl he said, ‘And you Angela, for God’s sake eat something. Just watching you stress out is giving me indigestion.’

The girl gave in and took a nibble. The boy remained standing. He folded his arms and glared.

‘I said sit!’ Wayne said as if to a wilful puppy.

Sammy glared at Wayne for a moment longer before finally lowering himself back into his chair.

‘That’s better,’ Wayne said. ‘Let’s just play happy families for a while, okay? I need to get some things straight before we decide on a plan of action—like what to do with young Sammy here. Firstly, Angela, do you want to press robbery and assault charges against your brother?’

Her eyes widened and she shook her head violently.

‘Has he ever done this before?’

She glanced at her brother who mouthed something guttural back at her.

‘None of that now,’ Wayne said. He didn’t have to speak Vietnamese to know the gist of what that was about.

Angela fiddled with her plate, not meeting Wayne’s eye.

‘No, he never stole from the till before, I gave him money.’

‘Your money?’

‘Yes, usually I give him my money, but my uncle, he knows how much pay I get from Mr Cheng. I had to tell him I’d spent the money.’

Wayne sighed. ‘And then you were the one who copped it from the old man?’ He shot Sammy a look. ‘What a tangled web, eh? And as your habit grew, your sister couldn’t give you enough cash so you had to go elsewhere and take it for yourself.’

Sammy sniffed, wiped his nose across the sleeve of his jacket, and resumed his angry glare.

‘This was the first time,’ Angela said.

‘The first time from here maybe, but what about other shops, or breaking and entering houses, bag snatching—you’ve done that before, yeah?’

The boy shrugged, took another mouthful of food. To his sister he said, ‘Angela, get more dim sim.’

Wayne put his hand out to stop the girl from going anywhere. ‘Now wait on mate, you’re running your sister ragged. Sometimes you got to help yourself and I don’t mean taking it either—know what I’m saying? Do you want to help yourself, Sammy, do you want a chance to go straight?’

‘Not in fucking juvie, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I could charge you with attempted robbery with violence.’

The girl gasped.

‘But if you cooperate, if you show some manners towards your sister, I might be able to get something else sorted.’

The boy eyed Wayne suspiciously. ‘What, a foster home, an orphanage? You can’t force my uncle to take me back, he hates my guts and I wouldn’t stay there even if you did. He thinks I’m his punching bag. He put me in hospital when I was twelve, with a cracked rib.’

‘Does your uncle hurt you too, Angela?’ Wayne asked.

‘No, he wouldn’t dare.’ She lifted her chin and he saw the return of some of the spark he’d seen in her the other day. ‘I work hard, I do as I’m told, but I don’t take shit, he knows that and so does Mr Cheng. If either of them laid a hand on me I’d leave.’

‘But you let your little brother walk all over you,’ Wayne reminded her.

‘No, I don’t.’ Angela cast her eyes to the table.

Sure you don’t, love, Wayne thought with an inner sigh. ‘Angela, how old are you?’

‘Sixteen,’ she said.

He pondered the point for a moment; she was way too young to play the part of ‘responsible adult’.

He said, ‘There’s a social worker I know, might be able to help you both out, providing Sammy agrees to undergo some kind of rehab. He’ll need to attend a residential treatment program for a while, probably be placed in some kind of hostel as a ward of the state...’

Sammy let rip with a string of abuse aimed firstly at Wayne and then at his sister.

‘If you want it that way, fine.’ Wayne reached for his phone and called for a paddy wagon, his feet still planted firmly on the machete.

‘No, wait, wait!’ Sammy sprang from the table.

And promptly burst into tears.

In the hallway Stevie handed over a bottle of red. ‘Take the top off for a while, let it breathe,’ she said.

Tash unscrewed the cap, had a sniff and looked dubious. ‘Think we should try CPR first?’ Her hair was wet and slicked back. She’d not long returned from a trip with Terry to the public pool, she explained. A seventies cheesecloth skirt swished around her ankles, its drooping hem accentuating an aura of vulnerability that Tash usually went to great lengths to hide. Tash in a skirt was even more rare a sight than Stevie in a skirt.

‘Dagging around home gear,’ she said in answer to Stevie’s quizzical look.

‘I was thinking more like a perfect match for Wayne,’ Stevie said, ducking away from the predictable swipe.

Stevie followed Tash into the kitchen where Terry, who didn’t give her a second glance, was playing with his slot cars on the kitchen table.

Then disaster struck. Tash’s hip nudged a jutting piece of track head just as the red car was about to reach the chequered flag. The delicate road system swept from the table to the floor and clattered in a mangled heap.

Purple with rage, Terry screamed at his sister. Before Stevie’s eyes he transformed from a gentle child to a violent, booming-voiced man.

‘It’s okay Terry, it’s not broken,’ Stevie tried to placate him. ‘It just needs to be put back on the table and slotted together again.’

Tash dropped to her haunches and began gathering up the strips of track. Stevie bent to help.

‘I’ll be right with this, Stevie,’ Tash’s voice caught. ‘Take the wine and glasses into the lounge. I’ll be there in a minute.’

Stevie pointed a finger at Terry as she passed. ‘You behave now,’ she warned. ‘If I ever hear you talking to your sister like that again, you’ll have to answer to me, right?’

Terry’s rage had burnt itself out. He nodded his submission, looked sheepishly at Stevie then dropped to his knees to help Tash with the track.

Stevie left them to make up in private. In the lounge she put the bottle and glasses on a small table and sank into Tash’s circular cane chair. Her heart went out to her friend—she’d always thought that as a single mother
she’d
had it tough.

At the academy, Tash had had few friends. People were put off by her brash, I-can-do-anything-any-man-can-do attitude; it was Stevie who’d been the popular party girl. How times had changed, she reflected as she folded herself deeper into the huge cane chair. Not many parties these days, thank God. Her idea of a good night now involved curling up on the sofa with Monty watching a movie from her vintage collection.

Tash was one of the few who’d stuck around after she’d had Izzy. She’d turn up on the doorstep with a bottle of brandy, pour Stevie a stiff one and take the screaming baby out for walks that would sometimes last hours. When Stevie and Izzy both had gastro, Tash was there with the mop and bucket, and when Stevie was having problems with her ex, Tash had given her a key to her house.

The tables had turned when Tash’s parents were killed and she’d been the one left caring for Terry. Stevie had been there for her when she could, though she’d always wished she could have done more.

Tash came out of the kitchen with her characteristic self-satisfied smile. Peace and order reigned once more. She reached for the wine and poured a generous amount into each fat bellied glass. They clinked.

‘I can see that it’s more than a fixed Scalextrics that’s got you excited,’ Stevie said. ‘Go on. You first.’

Tash made herself comfortable in the chair opposite. ‘Did Clarissa tell you my photographer news?’ she asked.

‘That a dodgy photographer’s been using the Internet cafe? Yeah, she did—tell me more.’

‘The staff at the cafe described a regular client who says he’s a photographer,’ Tash explained. ‘His session times correspond closely to the times the porn photos were upped.’

‘Did you get a physical description?’

‘Better than that, we have a name—Julian Holdsworth.’

‘Might be an alias.’ Despite her cautious response, Stevie found herself leaning as far forward as the cane chair would allow her. This was the closest lead they’d had so far.

‘Don’t you think it’s a bit strange that a professional photographer should need the services of an Internet cafe? You’d think he’d have all the necessary high-tech computer equipment himself,’ she mused aloud.

‘It is weird. That’s what I thought too, but the woman at the cafe said he complained of having a recurring virus,’ Tash said. ‘That’s what made her remember him. She said she’s never known anyone have such bad luck with computers. She’ll contact us the moment he comes in again. Meanwhile, I’ve given a couple of the team the task of tracking him down.’

Stevie lit a cigarette, took a drag and queried the likelihood of a man giving out his real name and profession when uploading porn on the Internet, especially one who had gone to such lengths to hide his Internet ID.

Tash shrugged. ‘It’s a start. He could be overconfident—many a clever villain’s downfall.’

‘True,’ Stevie conceded, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to the stupidity of criminals. Let us never overestimate them.’ She took a good swig of her wine. It was time she got Mason’s assault allegations out of the way. Here goes nothing.

‘I, err, had a meeting with Dolly today.’

‘Yeah, I know, we had to cancel our lunch date.’

‘Robert Mason put in a complaint about you.’

Tash casually blew smoke towards the ceiling. ‘Bullshit, I hardly touched him. You know that.’

‘Dolly wanted me to give you a bollocking for it.’

Tash shrugged. ‘Bollocking accepted. I suppose he mentioned the water pistol too?’

‘Afraid so.’

Tash laughed. ‘Now there’s a story.’ She explained how she’d secreted the water pistol out of the armoury from under the nose of the uniformed sergeant who’d been too busy inspecting her cleavage to see what she was doing with her hands. Tash told the story without guile, as if she had no idea of its implications. When she finished, though, she did take a moment to narrow her eyes and stare at Stevie through a smoky veil.

‘You going to tell Dolly that?’ she asked.

Stevie hesitated. ‘No.’

‘Good.’ Tash blew away the cloud. ‘I can take a few black marks against my name, but stealing from the armoury might be pushing it.’

Stevie took a sip of her wine and thought about the best approach. Straightforward honesty, she decided. ‘I don’t think you realise how close you got to the edge with that stunt, Tash. Kusak was killed with an automatic pistol. Monty had the guns in the armoury checked because of a notion he had that you might have snitched one when you took the water pistol.’

Tash paled. ‘Jesus, shit. How the hell did he know about that?’

‘He’s mates with Sergeant Jenkins in the armoury.’

‘Fuck, I should have guessed.’

‘It’s okay, that’s been cleared up, the guns in the armoury have been tested and they’re all clean.’ She hesitated. ‘But there’s still the question of where you went after you’d seen Mrs Kusak.’ She held Tash’s eyes unwaveringly in her own and softened her voice. ‘Tash, Monty and I both know she told you where Kusak was hiding out. And I know you didn’t go straight home after you saw Mrs Kusak, because I called around and you weren’t here. Where did you go?’