Bad Seed (28 page)

‘Housekeeping. I needed some groceries.'

‘Do you know that harbouring a fugitive is an offence?' said Thornton.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Finished looking at my chest, yet?'

Cato sat on the edge of the bed and shook the prone figure. ‘Matt? Wake up.'

A grunt and expulsion of foul air from both ends.

Cato gestured to Thornton to help him bring Tan to a sitting position. ‘C'mon, Matt. Wakey, wakey.'

Matt finally opened an eye. A tear came out of it.

‘Do you know where you are, Matt?'

One of the uniforms brought a glass of water over. Cato held it to Tan's lips. ‘Get this down, you'll feel better.'

Matthew sipped. Then he spewed all over their feet.

Matilda swore and went to get a sponge.

David Mundine was viewing some violent online porn when his doorbell sounded. He was almost glad of the interruption; the storyline was doing nothing for him, it lacked bite. He zipped himself up and shuffled to the front door, uggs flapping where the sole had split from the upper. He opened the door to two men in hoods. He tried to close the door on them but failed. They were over the threshold, gloved hands covering his face and mouth, an arm around his neck. Then everything went black.

When he awoke he could feel that he was taped to a chair and the floor was hard under his feet. His head hurt and one of the fingers of his left hand throbbed, maybe broken or dislocated. Something warm, blood or snot maybe, dribbled from his nose. Tape had been wound around his eyes but he knew he was still in his own kitchen. He could smell the meal he'd cooked earlier, a mushroom omelette.

A voice said, ‘Davey you need to learn to stop bothering good
people.' High-pitched and nervy, like a two-pot screamer. ‘Stick to your own skanky circle.'

‘What? I think you've got the wrong person. This is all a mistake. I've done nothing.'

‘Where's the money?'

‘What money?'

A slap around the back of the head. Oh, you bitch. That was so mean.

He put a shake in his voice. ‘What do you want? I don't have money. I'm on a pension. My nerves.'

‘The money. Don't fuck about.'

A drawer was opened followed by the sound of rummaging through the cutlery. ‘This should do it.' The second voice was lower than the first. More manly. Must be the hubby.

‘What are you doing? What do you want from me?'

‘The money.'

‘I don't have any money! Please stop.' He lifted the volume a notch. ‘Jesus, somebody please. Help me!'

Tape went around his mouth. That was good. He didn't want them to see him laughing. That would ruin it. This was better than B-grade porn any day.

A more conciliatory tone from the deep-voiced hubby. ‘Look, mate. We know you've got a backpack with lots of money in it. Just tell us where it is and we'll be out of here. Nobody gets hurt. Okay?'

Mundine shook his head, grunted into the gag.

A sharp pain in the top of his thigh. He squealed like a pig. He wondered what was being used. It didn't feel like a knife. The corkscrew? He did the squeal again, to convince them they were getting somewhere.

Hot breath beside his ear, some spittle. It was the two-pot screamer again. ‘Your last chance, before things turn really bad.'

Delicious.

He nodded his head vigorously, he would tell them everything. Take the gag off. Release me from this terrible torment.

The tape gag came off, tugging at his hair and making it sting a bit. Ouch.

He took a steadying breath. Fixed them with a look. ‘Tell Mr H. I've been hurt by experts. Tell him I'm coming for him. Now fuck off out of my home.' He couldn't help himself. He started laughing.

They didn't have the heart for it. He knew they didn't. They had goodness at their core. They left.

Matthew Tan was still under the weather but had recovered enough for a little chat, on the record and under caution. His lawyer, Henry Hurley, was in attendance, as were Cato and Chris Thornton. By the time Cato had arrived home mid-evening, he was dead on his feet. The previous night's travel had well and truly caught up with him and the restless, raging energy that had fuelled his day had dissolved. He hadn't bothered eating and he'd once again neglected to call those members of his family who needed his attention. He collapsed on the bed and didn't wake until his alarm smacked him into submission.

Henry Hurley read out a statement. His client confessed to the assault on his girlfriend Lily Soong and he was genuinely remorseful for his actions. A domestic argument had got out of hand and, under the enormous mental strain of his recent bereavement, he had allowed his temper to get the better of him. Matthew was aware however that the slaughter of his family was no excuse for his atrocious behaviour and he was prepared to face whatever legal consequences may ensue. In addition, of his own volition, he would be signing up for the next available anger management program. Finally, his girlfriend, Ms Soong, had forgiven him, an email printout was appended as proof, and they hoped to be fully reconciled real soon.

‘If you were so remorseful why didn't you come forward earlier? Why did we have to come and find you?'

‘My client has been under enormous emotional pressure of late.
His actions, although erratic and, at times, reprehensible, can be attributed to his volatile mental state.'

Cato flicked his gaze away from the lawyer. ‘Is that right, Matthew?'

‘Yes.'

Time to move on. Cato placed two traffic and CCTV photos of Matthew's car on the desk. ‘Can you identify these for me, please?'

Matthew confirmed it was him, driving his car, through those places, on the night of the murders. As per his previous statements.

Cato substituted two close-ups of the same images and prodded the blurry shadow of Matt's passenger. ‘Who is this?'

Matt didn't know. He seemed genuinely surprised to have had a stowaway. ‘Sorry, I haven't a clue.'

‘You really weren't aware of a presence in the back of your car?'

‘I was miles away. To be honest I might still have been a bit over the limit.'

‘You didn't hear anything? Smell anything? Sense anything?'

‘Sorry.'

‘Any idea who it might be?'

‘My client has explained his bewilderment at this turn of events. It is not up to him to speculate. It's up to you to do your job.'

‘Thanks,' said Cato. ‘But help us out here anyway, Matt. No ideas?'

‘As I said, sorry, no.'

And that's all they could do, for now. Matthew Tan was returned to the cells for a magistrate's appearance later that morning on the assault and related charges. DI Pavlou would be pleased. It was shaping up nicely to load everything onto the conveniently deceased Yu Guangming and close the case. Cato put in a call to Hutchens to bring him up to date. Still no answer. He left a message.

Hutchens took the call from his special friend halfway through a breakfast of soft boiled eggs and toast soldiers.

‘I thought you said he was piss weak?'

‘Has to be,' said Hutchens, taking a slurp of instant coffee. ‘He was Sinclair's plaything in the hostel for two years. He's been in and
out of prison since and usually hooked on some shit or other. What happened?'

The friend told him.

‘And you didn't hurt him anymore?'

‘I'm not a sadist. This was a favour. You asked us to scare him. He doesn't scare. End of story.'

‘Fuck's sake.'

‘He asked us to pass on a message.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Words to the effect of he's been hurt by experts and he's coming to get you.'

‘Thanks,' Hutchens muttered. ‘I owe you one.'

‘On the house. Sorry about the money, we looked around but couldn't find it. Watch yourself, Mick, this bloke is more than a bit troppo.'

So. He was ten grand down and he had a psycho stalker who knew no fear. He'd kept on taking Mundine for granted and getting him wrong. He needed to do his homework and he needed to start taking this seriously. Maybe the best thing was to get Marjorie and the kids out of town for a couple of weeks, hunker down and deal with whatever was coming. He poured himself another coffee and mooted the question with Mrs Hutchens.

‘Ten thousand bucks? What the fuck were you thinking, love?'

‘Right now the money is not so much of an issue, it's the fact that he's a nutter.'

‘It's an issue for me, sweetie. Fucking hell.'

‘Marj, maybe you could go and stay with your folks in Augusta for a week or two until this blows over?'

‘What about my job? I've got half a dozen punters waiting for me to sort out their future nest eggs. Financial gurus don't work teachers' hours, Mick.'

‘Tell them it's a personal family crisis. It's the truth, they'll understand.'

‘Can't you just have the bastard killed?'

‘No, pumpkin. It's not legal.'

‘Shit.'

‘Sorry.'

‘S'pose you want me to take Melanie as well, do you?'

‘If her bloke's out bush making another one of his poncy documentaries, yeah, you'd better.'

She sniffed. ‘One week. Get it sorted.' She pecked him grumpily on the cheek. ‘And take some more of your spray, you're looking pink again.'

‘So do we have enough corroboration to sheet this over to the Yu fella and file it away?'

The question came from DI Pavlou. She'd called a Cabinet Meeting of the heads of various departments: Cato, Hutchens, forensics honcho Duncan Goldflam, Chris Thornton as data wrangler and statement checker, and Mystery Michael the ACC spook. And it seemed to Cato that Lara Sumich's ghost also haunted the room, restless and demanding. Demanding what? The ghost of the old Lara would have been a vengeful one. Cato suspected the new Lara was less strident, but still insistent to be heard.

‘We can now put Yu's DNA in the master bedroom and in one of the victims on the day of the murder,' conceded Goldflam who was still smarting over the ACC and Pavlou holding back on him about the ID on the mystery traces.

‘I showed Yu's photo to the graffiti girl, Ocean Mantra,' Thornton added. ‘She's pretty confident it's the same guy she saw driving erratically near the scene that night.'

‘And you can confirm Yu's admission to you of being on the premises that day?' Pavlou was looking at Cato expectantly.

‘Yes. But we still haven't cleared up the matter of Matthew Tan's stowaway.'

‘This wouldn't be the first case I've dealt with that's had its little … anomalies.'

‘Not wrong,' said Hutchens, half under his breath. But not half enough.

Pavlou turned to Hutchens. ‘Nor you for that matter, Mick.' Back to Cato and the business at hand. ‘Philip, can you oversee the boxing
off? Take care of the paperwork and send the finished product off to the archives. In the meantime, a summary report in my inbox by day's end so I can give the top brass some good news. Doable?'