Prime Cut (12 page)

Munro took a sip from his own cup. ‘Do you want to see a photo of Vicki?’

‘Sure.’

They put down their coffees and went into the open-plan living area. On a shelf unit, housing mainly home entertainment gizmos and DVDs, there was a row of photographs. Miller spotted her immediately: the twenty-something year old in her graduation gown in a photo taken in 1986, before she met ‘Bob’. Long blonde hair and a knowing smile, a dead ringer for the girl on the mantelpiece in Sunderland. Arthurs himself was no catalogue model and a good ten to fifteen years her senior. What did she see in him?

‘Vicki’s first marriage had fizzled out. No spark. She said Bob made her laugh, not just the funny accent, apparently he had a great sense of humour.’

Munro gave a short bitter laugh. He pulled out a heavy thick binder with more photos and flicked through the pages.

‘This is her after that bastard finished with her.’

Miller tried not to flinch. The upper right hand side of her head had required major reconstructive surgery. It had left her horribly disfigured and, by the look of the photo, blinded on that side too. Miller drew in his breath sharply.

‘When did this happen?’

‘Nineteen ninety-eight, February, they’d been together about four years by then. They were talking of finally getting married
later that year. They already had a child at that point. Shelley, three.’

Miller didn’t want to but he knew he had to ask, ‘Did she ... the little girl...?’

Munro’s sad shake of the head and brimming eyes said enough.

Miller pushed on, hating himself for it but determined to know. ‘How come Vicki survived?’

Munro pulled himself back together. ‘The bastard didn’t hit her hard enough and his little electric gizmo didn’t work. Must have blown a fuse or something. Who knows? The police at the time also speculated that he may have been interrupted, a knock at the door maybe.’ Munro closed the photo album and put it back on the shelf. ‘It destroyed her. She pretty well died then anyway, the day he took away Shelley. Vicki was half blind, disfigured, brain-damaged. She could no longer talk or walk properly. That nasty mad fucker needs to be put down.’

Miller nodded. ‘The newspaper mentioned a sighting of him in 1998?’

‘We gave the police a description at the time. We did have photographs of him, well Vicki did, but he took them, along with the negatives.’

Clearing up after himself, learning from the Sunderland and Adelaide crimes.

‘The sighting?’ Miller pressed.

‘It was towards the end of that year. Vicki was still in hospital, she spent nearly nine months in there one way or another. One day she looked out of her ward window and there he was down in the car park, just standing and staring. Maybe looking for a chance to finish what he started. She told the police but they weren’t able to find any trace of him. One even suggested she might have imagined it.’

‘The description you gave, that’s what’s been in the papers recently?’

‘Pretty much. We gave more detail at the time but I suppose the main thing they’re interested in now is what they need to make up the photofit.’

‘Anything that you thought was important that didn’t appear in
the recent press reports?’

Munro scratched his chin then fingered the sleeve of his shirt. ‘There was this tattoo, a crude thing he’d done himself, the letters “CK”. As he told us his name was Bob Kerr we assumed it was a family member.’

Miller grimaced; that at least nailed for him that Arthurs and Chapman and Kerr were the same man. But who was CK?

‘Anything else?’

Munro shook his head. ‘I remember Vicki saying something strange to me one day after it all happened. She said she used to try to ask him about his past, his early life as a kid. And he used to always say he didn’t have a past. But that’s not really useful for identifying him is it?’

Miller didn’t know what to make of it. Munro was looking at his watch; maybe Mrs Munro was due home soon. Miller had one last thing he needed to know.

‘Vicki’s suicide, when was that, what happened?’

‘It was just over a year later, early in 2000. One night she climbed up the lookout tower just back up the hill there and jumped off. We found her the following morning.’ He choked on his words. ‘I didn’t even know she’d gone out.’

‘No doubts about the cause of death? Definitely suicide?’

Munro looked pained at the very idea. ‘As I said, she died inside the day her daughter was taken. She was an empty shell after that. Besides, she pinned a note to herself.’

‘What did it say?’

Munro shrugged irritably and checked his watch again. ‘It said, “Had enough. Vicki.” Speaking of which...’

It was time to go. As Munro ushered him out the front door he murmured, ‘I said it to Delaney and I’ll say it to you. We don’t want to talk to you people again. Either do your jobs and find him or close the book, so we can too.’

They shook hands and Miller turned to leave.

‘But...’ Munro breathed deeply and Miller turned back. ‘If you do find him, do me a favour and kill the bastard. Or God help me I will.’

The scenic lookout tower atop Marlston Hill stood twenty-five metres high. From it you could see Brian Munro’s house, Bunbury port, Koombana Bay, most of the city, and the Indian Ocean. The spiral concrete staircase left Miller straining for breath after the climb. The parapet was nearly chest height on him. He looked down at the concrete car park below. How and why would a half-blind, brain-damaged and movement-impaired woman come all the way up here one night, clamber over the high parapet and chuck herself to her death? There must be easier ways of topping yourself. Or did she have help from Davey Arthurs? It wouldn’t have been beyond Arthurs to squeeze a suicide note out of her or forge her handwriting, nobody was going to be looking too closely at it.

Maybe Vicki Munro did do it all by herself but if she didn’t and Arthurs was involved it raised two new issues about him. First, he was becoming very meticulous at covering his tracks and second, he was no longer restricting himself to his usual method of killing.

‘They’ve gone.’

‘What?’

‘Gone. We let them go about an hour ago. Bailed for a court appearance at a later date. Got their IDs and driving licences and all that. Well-behaved, polite blokes, considering.’

The Ravy desk sergeant, Bernie Tilbrook, was fresh back off a week’s holiday, fishing and camping over at Bremer Bay on the far side of the national park. He had a farmer’s red tan and a well-fed face, ripe for impending retirement. He liked to see a bit of good in everybody, generally. All this Cato gleaned from a bit of introductory Stock Squad–style country banter.

Cato growled. ‘Considering what?’

‘Considering what they were suspected of possibly planning to do. All speculation of course, could have been just planning a party, all consensual and that.’ Tilbrook winked.

‘With two fourteen year old kids? And they’re all what, pushing twenty-five, thirty?’

‘The girls had told them they were eighteen. You can’t tell these days can you?’

Cato shook his head, he wasn’t going to buy into this. ‘Their papers?’

‘What?’

‘Their process papers, you did process them? Photograph them?’

Bernie Tilbrook was beginning to lose his post-vacation joie de vivre. ‘A bit of civility wouldn’t go amiss. Yes we did process them and photograph them. We are capable of doing things just like you do them up in Perth. Sometimes better.’

‘That’s not the first time I’ve heard that today.’ Cato smiled thinly, belatedly attempting a soothing manner.

‘Doubt it’ll be the last either,’ said Tilbrook. ‘The book’s over there.’

Cato opened the file and looked at the names and charges. He read them out loud to himself. ‘Jonah Silver, twenty-seven; Bevan Tuckey, twenty-eight. Neither seems to have any previous. Both work at the mine.’

‘Doesn’t everybody these days?’ muttered Tilbrook, without looking up.

The last name grabbed his attention. ‘Freddy Bataam, twentysix.’

Cato turned the pages and found the photo. Hair a bit longer, but still without a doubt it was the handsome, youthful clean-cut face of Lieutenant Riri Yusala, Indonesian Navy.

‘Pretty-Boy.’

Tess recognised him straight away, but not as Riri Yusala. She knew the name from Cato’s meeting updates but had not got around to digesting the Flipper file so she had not seen the photo from the Missing Persons website. She knew him as Pretty-Boy, the one his daughter had been pawing in the back seat of the sleazebags’ doofdoof ute. No wonder they’d been so well behaved: they weren’t just smart about the likelihood of quick release, at least one of them really had something to hide.

‘Last seen heading west,’ confirmed Cato grimly.

Tess kept staring at the photograph. ‘Shit.’

Cato couldn’t have put it better himself. He’d asked Bernie Tilbrook, nicely, to put out an alert on the vehicle but it could be anywhere in a radius of two to three hundred kilometres by now. Cato and Tess were on their way to Justin Woodward’s home. The coffee van remained firmly closed, much to the consternation of the Hopetoun yummy mummies group. Greg Fisher and the Ravy uniforms were in charge of the crime scene. DI Hutchens had texted an update: he was due in the next hour or so. If Woodward really was a contender for Jim Buckley’s murder then Cato wasn’t going to wait for the cavalry before checking it out. This could be his first and last chance of a sniff on this case.

Cato cast a sideways glance at Tess. ‘Sorry for earlier.’

‘Yeah.’ She didn’t meet his look, instead she pointed out of the front windscreen over towards the left. ‘That’s it there, just past the blue Hyundai.’

The Woodward abode was a cream-coloured fibro in Barnett Street, running parallel with Hopetoun’s main drag. They rolled to a stop outside the house. No sign of life. No car in the drive. A dirt
bike leaned against a gnarled peppermint tree in the front yard. Its stand had snapped and there was mud and rust on the wheels. A tasselled and striped hammock was slung between two posts on the front porch, weighed down by a hardback book and cushion. The book was
Moby Dick,
a page corner folded over about a quarter of the way through. Further than he’d ever got, noted Cato. He rapped on the front door; a dog yapped from inside. No answer from any humans. He tried the door: locked.

They made their way down the side to a gate that would take them into the backyard. Wind chimes hung from a low-roofed pergola over the back patio, the breeze not yet strong enough to produce a sound. The dog was still yapping away but at least it was a yap rather than a big, boofy attack-dog kind of bark. The dog bowl was outside on the patio, one of those double ones with biscuits in one side and water in the other. There was no sign of a dog flap. Why had the dog been left in the house if they had gone out somewhere? Had they left in a hurry? Cato stepped towards the French doors to peer inside. There was a scraping noise behind him. He froze.

‘Anything?’ Tess whispered.

‘No,’ he hissed, heart racing.

‘So why are we whispering?’ she whispered again.

There was a sudden frenzy of scratches and thumps. Both Cato and Tess jumped backwards, she reaching for her gun and he stumbling and falling over an aloe vera plant. It was the dog, yapping, tail wagging, pawing at the French window.

‘Fuck,’ Cato barked.

He held the thumb of his left hand, it was throbbing. He’d fallen on it. Dislocated it by the looks.

Tess barely suppressed a giggle as she put her gun back into the holster. ‘You okay?’

‘No.’ He nursed his hand between his arm and his side. ‘It looks like there’s no one at home and we haven’t got authority to go breaking and entering. Yet. Let’s go.’

‘What about the dog?’

‘What?’

‘The dog. It’s inside, but the food and water is out here.’

‘Boo hoo,’ said Cato, uncharitably.

Another hundred-kilometre round trip to Tumbleweed General just to look at a dislocated thumb seemed a bit extreme. It was tempting to be anywhere else but Hopetoun when DI Hutchens and the A-team arrived, but that would be running away and Cato was sick of doing that. So he sat in the Murder Hut with half a bag of Tess’s frozen peas tied to his thumb with a handkerchief. Tess looked deep in thought. The whiteboard hadn’t changed much since day one. Just a few names and phone numbers and the word Flipper in the centre, ringed and question-marked.

Tess broke the silence. ‘What do we do about Woodward and the rest?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Pass the information on to Hutchens when he gets here. He’s in charge now.’

‘And Flipper and the lists of Chinese?’ She prodded the piece of paper in front of her.

‘Same. It’s Hutchens’ call from here on in.’

‘Roll over and play dead, huh?’

Cato just shrugged again. It was about as articulate as he was going to be today. He could see that Tess was itching to do something and it wasn’t necessarily going to be something constructive. He remembered her in his face earlier that morning. He had to admit to himself, he’d been scared of her. It wasn’t as if it was the first time he’d come up against anger and potential violence but it was always from the punters and he could switch off with them. Us and Them: easy. ‘Us and Us’ was a little more complex and unsettling.

Tess found some paperwork to hide behind, her pen stabbed at an official form. After a few more minutes at the sharp end of her body language, Cato picked up his bag of frozen peas and headed for the door.

On the way back down to the groyne Cato passed the Snak-Attack, still closed. There was a small collection of Stepford mums, prams and toddlers resolutely gathered around Justin’s picnic table as if just by their loyalty and presence they could will him to show up and
make them their morning lattes. One of them recognised Cato from that day when he and Buckley had paid Justin a visit. She glared at him; clearly he was to blame for her coffee morning being ruined yet again. Maybe she was right about that.

The sun was high in the sky and had picked up strength, along with the breeze. Constable Greg Fisher was leaning against the bonnet of his paddy wagon, parked across the access road. Inquisitive souls hovered nearby, peering towards the tarp and crime-scene tape over on the jetty and trying to get a response from Fisher. He’d obviously dispensed with his public relations training and now relied upon his glare to send them packing. One resourceful ghoul had managed to evade Fisher’s roadblock and kayaked straight out from the beach to inquire with a bright smile what was going on. Ravy Sergeant Paul Abbott leaned down from the jetty and crooked his finger towards her. As she edged closer, slapping the water with her bright yellow paddles, he fixed her with a stare.

‘None of your fucking business, now fuck off before I arrest you.’

Abbott informed Cato that Buckley’s mobile had beeped midmorning. Cato checked the message through the transparent evidence bag: a friend who didn’t know yet.

how’s it going? stu

Not good, mate, not good. He noted the incoming message number and added it to his list. Cato circled Buckley’s body slowly. It had already changed shape, seemed to have sunk and shrunk a little. The smell was getting stronger. DI Hutchens needed to be here soon before things really started getting unpleasant.

‘Speak of the devil,’ Cato said under his breath.

Two unmarked white Commodores rolled up to Greg Fisher’s roadblock. A short sharp exchange of words followed and Greg backed the paddy wagon out of their way. The cars bumped across the potholes and gravel to within a metre of Cato’s feet, the passenger door opening on the front car before it had come to a stop. Detective Inspector Mick Hutchens: grey forward-comb fringing
a grim chubby face and piercing blue eyes. Half a head shorter than Cato, he made up for it with belligerence and attitude.

‘Can’t trust you to do a simple fucking job. Unbelievable.’

‘I’m good thanks. We’re all bearing up well after the tragedy.’

Cato couldn’t help himself, he had to give some lip. Somebody was in his face for the second time that day.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Hutchens hissed, sour traveller’s breath blasting Cato from point blank.

He brushed past Cato and knelt down beside Buckley. Just looking, that’s all he could do. Hutchens’ fellow passenger was now out of the car. She seemed too young to be a detective, or was Cato just getting old? Tall. Brown hair pulled back in a businesslike ponytail, a clear-complexioned look of confidence that said Perth private school and good at sports. She stuck out her hand towards Cato.

‘Lara...’

Croft? wondered Cato.

‘Sumich.’

They shook. Her grip was firm enough to let you know she was present but not trying to prove anything.

A man stepped out of the second Commodore, same vintage as Lara. He sported an overly firm handshake and a loud tie.

‘DC Mark McGowan.’

‘Hi Mark,’ said Cato.

Lara Sumich donned some paper overshoes and set to work with a video camera, recording the scene and adding a low, soft commentary as she circled the body. McGowan followed her tracks, clicking away on the stills Nikon. With nothing to add from his own appraisal of the scene, Hutchens asked for an ambulance to be brought to take Buckley away as soon as Lara was finished. The body had lain there for four hours more than necessary, but at least it had now been perused by a real detective.

‘Family?’ Hutchens nodded towards Buckley.

They all looked at Cato. He realised he knew absolutely nothing about Jim Buckley because he’d never really shown any interest, until the last few days, and even that was more idle curiosity than
interest. What had made Jim act so strange and troubled these last forty-eight hours? Was it anything to do with this?

‘I don’t know. We never really...’

‘Two grown-up sons, wife died year before last. Aneurysm. He became a grandad last year. Little girl. Samantha.’

They all looked around. It was the voice of Greg Fisher, fresh from replacing the paddy wagon at the roadblock.

A forensics team was among the squad flying down from Perth that afternoon. Hutchens had taken one look at the Hopetoun Police donga and snorted. He’d commandeered the town hall next to the telecentre and waved away the protests of the Bootscooters Club, due to hold their practice that very afternoon. The Bootscooters president, a tall woman with a five-paddock voice, would be reporting him to the shire president, she promised.

‘I think you just broke her achy-breaky heart, boss,’ Lara Sumich had commented out of the corner of her mouth.

The Sea Rescue whiteboard had been scrubbed of the few Flipper notes and trundled the fifty metres or so up to the town hall. Folding tables and stacks of chairs had been dragged off the stage. Hutchens saw to it that the crime-fighting tableau was arranged exactly ‘just so’. For now they would use their mobiles and laptops until a fully equipped mobile command post arrived tomorrow. The room was huge, dingy, cold and echoing. And it beat the donga hands down. In the far corner of the hall sat an old upright piano, coated in dust and flaking white paint. It looked like it hadn’t given out a tune in years. Cato trailed his finger along the dusty lid absentmindedly. Hearing Hutchens bark out his orders reminded him of crime scenes past when he was still on his upward trajectory and the DI’s little protégé. He glanced over at the self-assured head girl, Lara Sumich. Was she the new golden one?

The uniforms were still guarding the locus for forensics. The detectives had been joined in the hall by Tess Maguire. Hutchens said hello and flicked a glance towards Cato who pretended he hadn’t seen it. Now Hutchens wanted a briefing before they started,
as he put it, kicking down doors. Lovely. Cato filled them in on who had found the body and when, the doctor’s preliminary findings, and the circumstances under which they’d last seen Jim Buckley. He held back on the bit about Justin Woodward; in his mind it was pure speculation so far. He didn’t want Hutchens jumping the gun, they’d already been down that disastrous path once before. Besides, Cato harboured hopes of pulling a rabbit out of a hat.

Hutchens snapped out some orders. ‘Lara, you talk to the fisherman again, the one who found the body. Take the uniform with you, the one who took the original statement ... Greg? That him?’ Tess Maguire nodded confirmation. Exit Lara. Hutchens twisted his head. ‘Mark?’

DC McGowan raised an eyebrow, he must have seen it on a TV cop show somewhere. ‘Boss?’

‘Get down the pub. See if they’ve got any CCTV footage there. If so seize it.’

‘Done.’

‘Before you go...’

McGowan halted mid-stride, keen as mustard. ‘Yes, boss?’

‘Organise some coffee and milk and biscuits and stuff. Tim Tams, they’re always nice.’

McGowan glowered. Cato stifled a cough.

‘Soon as you can mate,’ Hutchens prompted him with an encouraging smile. McGowan stalked from the room, face like thunder. That left just Tess, Cato and Hutchens.

‘Now then...’ Hutchens said, smile disappearing, eyes locking with Cato’s. ‘Tell me what it is you’re holding back.’

Bang goes the rabbit, thought Cato glumly.