Bad Seed (40 page)

Cato wondered how much Driscoll knew. His facial expression suggested everything. ‘Do you know Guido, then?'

‘I can't think where from.' He tapped his head. ‘It'll come to me. Help yourself to the Florentines. They're ace.'

‘How's the training course going?'

Driscoll swallowed the rest of his biscuit. ‘Not as fit as I used to be.'

‘So,' said Cato. ‘You found me.'

‘Nothing new to report on the nefarious deals in Thames Town, I'm afraid.'

‘But?'

‘But somebody knows you're digging.' You, not we, Cato noted. ‘Serious people, with a long reach.'

‘You're passing on a warning?'

‘Just offering wise counsel. You have your murderer. Time to tilt at new windmills, maybe?'

Cato chewed on a Florentine. Driscoll was right, they were ace. ‘I'm not interested in the Chinese, they're beyond my reach. But if there's any collars I can feel at this end, I'll do it.'

‘And in so doing you might still cause more problems than you really want. Take somebody down here and it might send out ripples.'

‘Guanxi?' said Cato.

‘Your pronunciation's improving.'

Mandy had invited him for dinner but warned that they ate early. Both little Bao and old Jack were usually cactus by 7 p.m. so dinner was 6.30 prompt. That suited Cato, he'd probably be cactus by seven too.

When he arrived, Kenneth was taking care of Bao's bathtime, the other kids were doing homework or music practice, Mandy was draining the rice, and Dad was snoozing in front of the six o'clock news. Mandy slid a bottle of red and a glass across the kitchen counter.

‘Help yourself.'

‘Thanks,' said Cato. ‘How's Dad been?'

‘He fell over yesterday. Big bruise down his side. The Silver Chain woman reckons we should strap him to the bed.'

‘Yeah, she'd love that.' It seemed Jack Kwong was awake. ‘Misery loves company.'

Cato went over and gave him a hug. ‘How's tricks?'

‘I'm still dying.'

‘What's the bad news?' said Cato.

Dad grinned. That was more like it. ‘He touched one of the faded bruises on Cato's face. ‘Did you win?'

‘Should see the other bloke.'

‘Good onya. Where've you been?'

‘China.'

‘What'd you want to go there for?'

‘Find some new rellies. The ones here are not much cop.'

‘Huh,' Dad and Mandy said in unison, enjoying the banter.

‘Find any?' said Dad.

‘Coupla million Kwongs. The name is common as muck over there.'

‘That right?' said Dad. ‘Ever heard of Kong Fu Tzu?'

‘No,' said Cato.

‘Otherwise known as Confucius, the renowned Chinese scholar. Kwong is derived from Kong so he's your great, great, great second cousin or something.'

‘That's good. I'll let Sharon know.'

‘Sharon?' said Dad and Mandy.

‘A colleague. In Beijing.'

‘Haven't seen you blush in ages, little brother. When do we get to meet her?'

No time soon, thought Cato, surprised at the depth of his regret.

They had dinner and the banter resumed. It was a great evening, even with the toddler chucking a fatigue tantie and the older kids pouting and squabbling, one of them with his head buried in his laptop – at the dinner table for goodness sake – it was a great evening. It felt like old times.

‘See, Dad?' said Mandy, squeezing Cato's arm. ‘You were wrong. Nothing bad happened to Phil in China. He came home safe.'

Dad paused with a forkful of food halfway to his mouth. ‘Why wouldn't he?'

‘You had a premonition of doom,' said Mandy. ‘Don't you remember?'

Dad finished his chewing. ‘That'll teach you to listen to a silly old bugger like me.'

His mobile woke him. He checked the time, 2.26 a.m. A call out?

‘Hello?'

Nothing except for the hum of dead air, like you hear before a Delhi call centre connects you to that guy from the computer security department.

‘Hello?' If it was a cold caller trying to wheedle his password out of him, blood would be spilt. Or he'd learn to just turn his phone off at night. Except that he wasn't allowed to, it went with the job.

There were voices. Laughter. Children there too. Then he recognised what it was: a recording of the dinner-time conversation at Mandy's earlier that evening.

See, Dad? You were wrong. Nothing bad happened to Phil in China. He came home safe.

Why wouldn't he?

You had a premonition of doom. Don't you remember?

That'll teach you to listen to a silly old bugger like me.

Cato hadn't slept well. He looked out of the window at the early morning sun brushing the top of the olive tree, the wind rippling the leaves. He stepped under the shower and absorbed the heat. Somebody was giving him a warning. That somebody had managed to obtain a recording of a private, domestic dinner table gathering. The content was well-chosen and the message was clear: his loved ones were at risk.

Cato towelled himself dry and checked his old knife scar – yes, manly as ever. He padded through the kitchen naked, flicking the kettle on and dropping bread in the toaster. He picked up a remote and the radio sputtered to life. A week out from Election Day and the pundits were in full swing. They all agreed that the government was heading for a wipeout by a tsunami of antipathy against foreigners, do-gooders and indecisive wimps. You had two choices: enjoy the ride or take cover.

Driscoll was one who had elected to enjoy the ride, mused Cato. He was gearing up for the new order and the adventures to be had for men of his calibre and loose morality. Their time was nigh. Driscoll had let Cato know that he was treading on toes and that someone was looking to stomp back at him. Driscoll was a spook who could make jokes about stalking people but could also just as easily turn it into a reality. Was he behind the phone call?

Cato threw some clothes on, made a plunger of coffee and spread some marmalade on his toast. He zapped the radio and the poll pundits back into silence and put a CD on instead. It was a soothing
Mozart andante that had been sitting in the tray, waiting to go. That was better.

He called Driscoll. ‘You busy?'

‘Got an appointment with Q this arvo but otherwise I'm just reading some boring statistics.'

They agreed to meet.

He wanted her to leave. Couldn't she see he was crook? Hutchens' head hurt like a bastard after the pistol-whipping and he was daubed in huge ugly black bruises. And there were the drips and the wires and the beeps and the lights. He looked and felt like the evil blob inside a Dalek.

‘It's a shame Marjorie hit him so hard with that poker,' said DI Pavlou. ‘He just dribbles and pretends he can't remember a thing.'

‘He killed Sinclair. He admitted it.' Hutchens squinted against a sudden stab of pain in his skull. ‘You've got four witnesses to what he said.'

‘Not entirely objective though, are they?'

‘Whose side are you on?'

‘Truth and justice, Mick.'

‘Fuck off.'

‘The Inquiry has put your matter to one side and is pushing on with submissions from other former hostel residents and staff and associated agencies.' She leaned over from the bedside chair and patted his arm reassuringly. Just a little closer and he could wrap the drip tube around her neck and squeeze. ‘Between you and me I think they'll be dropping the idea of pursuing you on Sinclair. Too-hard basket.'

‘Not good enough. Mud sticks. I want Mundine charged.'

She frowned. ‘Investigations are ongoing, Mick. We'll keep you posted.'

‘Finished?'

‘Have you thought about whether or not you'll be coming back to work?'

‘Nothing to think about. I'll be back on Monday.'

‘I hear Jimmy Spittle is standing in for you. The troops seem to like him.'

‘Great,' said Hutchens, stony-faced.

She pursed her lips as if making a decision about something. ‘I think I need to be up front with you, Mick. I've invited Cato to apply for one of the vacancies in Major Crime.'

‘And?'

‘The deadline is next Friday. He's thinking about it.' Pavlou gathered her notebook and phone and stood to leave. ‘Don't hurry back to work. You've been through the wringer and the older we get the harder it is to bounce back.' She nodded towards the flowers, the cards, a basket of fruit, even a teddy. It was like a shrine at a crime scene. ‘You're well regarded, Mick. People care about you. That's the stuff of life.'

Canary in the mine, frog in the cesspit: Cato wasn't quite sure what he was but something he'd done or said had triggered a response. First a quiet word in the ear and then the more sinister follow up, just to make sure he got it. It was Driscoll who'd been looking into the Thames Town land deal on his behalf. Suzhou Dragon and Wongan Enterprises would be the big winners in that deal. With Yu dead, then Des O'Neill would be the sole benefactor. Was that it? If so, then the threats had to come from O'Neill. Cato found that hard to imagine. O'Neill presented as a farm boy on the make. He might drive a hard bargain and be a ruthless deal-maker and you'd find his like in any stockyard in outback Australia, but murder and threats seemed a step way beyond. And Cato couldn't see Des having the resources or technical know-how to bug people's conversations, or was that just a country bumpkin stereotype he'd formed?

Alternatively, Thomas Li's much bigger development, which necessitated the buyout of Yu and O'Neill, was playing for even bigger stakes, ‘gazillions' Driscoll had said. To Cato's mind two people were at the centre of all this dark economics: Driscoll the spook and possibly freelance fixer, and Phoebe Li the dutiful daughter who shared her bed with her father's rival Yu. Now dead.
Both Phoebe and Driscoll were killers and Cato had seen what they were capable of. Was he willing to provoke either of them further?