Bad Seed (15 page)

He was beginning to warm to her. A few years younger and he might have turned on the twinkle. In fact he wasn't entirely sure that she wasn't flirting with him now. ‘So just blank them? That's your advice?'

‘That's right.'

‘Get paid much for this work?'

‘Shitloads, dear. I'm really good at it.'

She gathered her bags, gave him a wifely peck on the cheek, and left him to pay for the coffees. Somebody slid into the vacant chair. David Mundine, the grown-up version of the abused boy he told to piss off all those years ago.

‘Didn't know this was your neck of the woods, David.'

‘It isn't. Just visiting.' Mundine tore open a sachet of sugar and poured it into his mouth. Then he did it again.

‘I'm not sure we should be talking, mate. Probably some rules against it at the Inquiry.'

‘Chance meeting, Mr H. What's your problem?'

‘If you've got something to say, say it. Or …' Hutchens chose his words carefully. ‘Piss off and stop wasting my time.'

A snort and a bitter chuckle. ‘Fucking laugh a minute you are, Hutchens.'

‘Mister Hutchens. Say your piece.'

‘I was there.'

‘Where?'

‘Mundaring. The hotel car park. That night.'

‘This supposed to mean something to me?'

‘I know what you did.'

‘You've been watching too many films, son, and laying into the wacky baccy.'

‘You wish. I know where Sinclair's car went afterwards. There was blood in it.' Mundine seemed distracted, hands fiddling under
the table. ‘Look, I'm the last to complain. The dirty old bastard had it coming. You did us all a favour Mr H.'

Hutchens leaned forward and summoned Mundine closer. ‘Is there a point to this, only I need to be somewhere.' His phone buzzed.

‘That's me,' said Mundine. ‘It's a pre-paid, so don't get excited. Let's stay in touch, eh?'

‘How did you get my number?'

‘Wouldn't you like to know.'

‘You need to be careful, son. You're way out of your depth.'

‘That right?' said Mundine. ‘So how come you're the one sweating like a pig?'

A smile and a pat on the shoulder and he was gone. Hutchens reached for the angina spray. It was nearly empty.

The afternoon drifted by and Cato found himself wondering about Lara and her misgivings about the investigation. It was a side to her he hadn't seen much of. As if the job had become secondary, and so doubt and insecurity had crept in. He could understand that: doubt and insecurity were second nature to him. He could feel a headache coming on, the lingering effects of the pepper spray. Cato checked his desk drawers for Panadol and found a couple. He took them with a swig of water from his bottle. He also noticed Des O'Neill's business card lying there. The down-to-earth farm boy from the Tan memorial service. Cato clicked a few buttons on his computer screen and got in to the investigation database. He couldn't see Des O'Neill's name on any of the inquiry lists drawn up by DI Pavlou. This was a close business partner of Francis Tan's, so why weren't Major Crime following him up? Their focus was clearly Francis Tan's relationship with Li Tonggui. The Chinese connection was the only thing they were interested in, along with the Northbridge identity Guido Caletti. The very least Des could provide was a bit of background to perhaps corroborate their ‘Yellow-Peril-meets-Mafioso' theory. Instead they seemed to be heavily reliant on so-called intelligence from the ACC spooks.

We need to take back control.

Hutchens' words. Cato prodded his phone. ‘Des? Philip Kwong. Francis Tan's mate, we met the other day at the service.'

‘Phil, how's it going?'

‘Good. Thought we might have a chat about a few things?'

‘Sure. Cop business is it?'

‘'Fraid so.'

‘Not a problem. When?'

‘How does today suit?'

A chuckle. ‘You don't ask much. Beer in Clancy's work for you?'

They agreed to meet there in half an hour. Cato chose to walk to fill in some time and give his head a chance to clear. Crossing Market Street he had to pause at the kerb while an election billboard was towed past him. It listed the number of asylum boat arrivals over the last twelve months and a simple slogan about stopping any more. A couple of passers-by gave it the thumbs up. A couple more gave it the finger. Fremantle had been built on the movement of boats, of people, of trade. Generations of immigrants and refugees had landed here and made it their home. The
Tampa
had docked here before and since those shameful game-changing days when Australia had decided to greet a leaking boatful of wretched humanity with guns and soldiers. Was it just him or did everything feel meaner and uglier now? Those sly looks in the squad meeting, checking out his reaction to the implied race jibes. It wasn't like these people were new. They'd always been there and had never gone away but now they seemed cocky, emboldened, given permission for their bigotry. Their time was nigh.

Across the road from the squat redbrick that was Clancy's Fish Pub, skateboarders sought refuge from the bitter wind against the graffitied wall of the long-abandoned Woolstores. They checked Cato out, decided he wasn't of interest, and continued their rolling and flipping. Inside, Des O'Neill was surveying a blackboard with its array of boutique ales with absurd names. He settled on a stout called Black Plague. Cato, head still wobbly from the pepper spray, went for a pilsener. They also agreed a cone of hot chips would go down well, and retired to a table near a fire. After some harmless
banter about the weather, the election and the footy, the chips arrived and they got down to business.

‘So how did you and Franco come to be partners?'

‘Partners
is probably overstating it.' O'Neill dipped a chip in some aioli. ‘It wasn't a formal thing at first, we just found ourselves working together on a number of projects. We enjoyed each other's company.'

‘Yeah?' said Cato.

‘You seem surprised. What would a cool, sophisticated Chinese yuppie have in common with the likes of me? Am I guessing right?'

‘To be honest, yeah.'

‘Tell you the truth I wondered the same myself at the start. Is he slumming? Is he taking the piss? It took a while to find the man behind the smirk.'

‘And you did? Find him?'

‘I think so.' O'Neill drew from his pint of stout and winced. ‘Fucking liquorice.'

‘You did well. I've known him for twenty-odd years and never got near.'

That drew a chuckle of recognition. ‘Francis just wanted someone to take him seriously. To wait for his jokes to run out, see what he had left. Me, I had all the time in the world.'

‘What did he have left?'

‘He had a real passion for this country, for the land, it was deeper than anything I've come across before or since. He loved the place: the bush, the desert, the ocean, the people, the history.'

‘Franco?'

‘Yep. Your mate was a true-blue patriot.'

Cato shook his head. ‘Bullshit. He was a cynic. He was having you on.'

‘Well if he was, it was the longest, drawn-out, most boring joke in history. He kept it going for most of the ten years I knew him.'

‘But all that time he was trying to sell this place he “loved” to his Chinese mates.'

‘What's wrong with that? The land is turning to dust in front of our eyes, farms going down the dunny everywhere you look.
When Francis travelled around this state he saw opportunities for growth, for renewal, for partnership. The people he knew have bucketloads of cash and are crying out for wide-open spaces. They're after clean land to grow clean food because where they live is pretty much stuffed.'

‘It all sounds very noble.'

‘You're not convinced? Neither was I for a long time. As far as I was concerned it was just a profit grab, asset-stripping vulnerable cockies who had the bailiffs at the door and nowhere else to go.'

‘Until?'

‘Until nothing. I had no real problem with asset-stripping and profit-grabbing. I'm a businessman. I was happy to let him peddle his schtick if that's what sealed the deals. But one day I realised he actually believed in it.'

Cato's pilsener was slipping down surprisingly well, the headache had gone. ‘Go on.'

‘There was a farmer down south. A couple of thousand acres, god knows how many sheep. The wool and lamb prices had gone through the floor. The animals were starving, all rib, no meat. The bank was demanding the keys to the place. The next-door neighbour, a so-called mate for life, had his eyes on the farm and was trying to nail the poor fucker for a fraction of what it was worth. The bloke was past caring. Francis could have had it for a song. Instead he offered over the odds, more than his Chinese partners had budgeted, and found the difference himself by mortgaging his own house.'

Hence the move from the river view mansion on Preston Point Road to Port Coogee, guessed Cato. Saint Francis, who'd have thought it? ‘And where did you fit in?'

‘It was my job to soften up the cockies for takeover while Francis got the financial backing from China. Sweet as.'

‘So mainly rural deals, then?'

‘For the most part. Also did the odd block of luxury flats here and there.'

‘Any enemies along the way?'

‘People who might want to kill him, you mean?'

‘Yes.'

A long thoughtful draw from the pint of liquorice. ‘I could say no, nothing worth killing for, but people get topped for fuck-all these days, don't they?'

‘Anything stand out, particularly over the last, say, twelve months? A ripped-off farmer or something?'

‘As I said, Francis was a kindly soul. Maybe too kind. He tried not to rip off any poor cockies. Me? I'm not so sentimental.'

‘You didn't do it, did you?' said Cato with half a smile. ‘Kill him?'

‘Now that would be a really stupid thing to do, wouldn't it? He was my cash cow.'

Lara had kicked off her shoes and her work gear, luxuriated under a hot shower, then slipped into her jimjams and thick woolly bedsocks. Not the most romantic and alluring of get-ups, she knew, but it was winter and she felt comfortable enough to do this with John. She was putting together some pasta when he came through the door. His face dropped. Had she miscalculated badly? Was the nanna gear a no-no?

‘Everything okay?'

‘You didn't get my message?'

No, she didn't.

‘I'd booked our favourite restaurant.'

‘Sorry sweetie. I'm stuffed,' she said. ‘Besides, dinner's on now.' She was trying not to pout at being taken for granted and he was obviously putting on a brave face about something.

‘No worries.' That smile of his warmed the room.

They ate, chatted about the day, and when it all threatened to slip into something too homely and domestic they retreated to the bedroom for a glorious fuck.

As the heat subsided he propped his head on an elbow, face deadly serious. ‘I've got something I need to say to you.'

Uh-oh, here it comes, she thought. Maybe she'd been wrong all along. She'd thought John was different. With the odd exception she'd always chased the same kind of man: mad, bad and dangerous
to know. A showman like her father. A showman like those buskers working the weekend crowds in Fremantle. A fire-breathing juggler to light up her night. But in the morning all that remained was singed sheets and a bleak aftertaste of stale paraffin. Then came John, leaving his tricks at the front door and bringing only his passion and sincerity into the bedroom. But now this.

‘John?' she said, bracing herself.

And that's when he produced the engagement ring.