Prime Cut (22 page)

Cato wrinkled his nose. The air was acrid with the stench of smoke, melted rubber and plastic. Charred clothes hung from a bizarrely intact washing line in a grotesque mockery of the devastated scene. DI Mick Hutchens and his forensics man, Duncan Goldflam, were deep in conversation. A tie-less and shirt-sleeved Mark McGowan was taking notes from a bewildered grey nomad and his distressed wife. Lara Sumich looked like she hadn’t slept; she’d driven the three or four hours from Albany and gone straight to the scene. For all that, she seemed to be buzzing. Now and then she would catch Cato’s glance and lock on for an unsettling second too long. Lara was interviewing the caravan’s owner, a shell-shocked, grizzled old hermit called Billy. Blue and white tape secured the area around the still-smouldering remains of the caravan. Cato Kwong didn’t really know what he was doing there. As far as he could tell he was surplus to requirements. Maybe they wanted him to help with a grid search or to make the coffee.

Across the millpond serenity of Starvation Bay, wispy orange and pink–tinged clouds fanned across the brightening sky, heralding sunrise over the carnage. A fire truck tended by Hopetoun volunteers was damping down. Recent heavy rains had helped ensure that the flames hadn’t spread. Such a conflagration didn’t bear thinking about. A fire investigator was on the way from Albany and more were on standby in Perth if required. Arc lights still illuminated the scene for the photographers and forensics team. The ambulances were long gone: one was headed for the airstrip to meet the Flying Doctor for emergency airlift to Perth, the other to Esperance Hospital, a two-hour drive east. Tess Maguire was accompanying the patient in the Esperance-bound ambulance. DI Hutchens had hardly paid her or Cato any attention. He clearly already had plenty
on his plate.

Cato surveyed the scene from beyond the tape and tried to make sense of the little he knew. Greg Fisher and an older man, Jim Buckley’s brother-in-law and apparently a Pommie ex-cop according to Hutchens, had been found seriously injured on the ground in front of a burnt-out caravan owned by one William John Mather. That was him over there, being interviewed by Lara. Cato knew him as the one Fisher had interviewed about boat movements in connection with the Flipper case. The stalled Flipper case that would have to revert to the hard slog of painstaking investigation now that Guan Yu’s confession was withdrawn. History was repeating itself and Cato was not learning from it.

Greg Fisher wasn’t in uniform when he was found. It was his heat-blistered ute, not his police wagon, that was parked a short distance away on the other side of the flame-singed gum tree. So their visit didn’t appear to be official police business. Jim Buckley’s brother-in-law and young Greg Fisher, what were they doing calling on this hermit on a dark night in the middle of nowhere? There had been an explosion, probably gas. The men had been found by Billy Mather at around 10.00p.m. when he returned from an evening fishing trip. He had prevailed upon a couple of grey nomads arriving late in their campervan to drive back to within mobile phone coverage to report it while he tended as best he could to the injured.

It was touch and go. Greg Fisher, en route to Esperance Hospital, had second-degree burns to the upper body. The other man was in a much more serious condition; somebody said he was likely to lose his sight. Cato could see the markings where Fisher and Miller had been found. Forensics were wrapping up the video and photography side of things, flicking off the arc lights. Lara Sumich finished talking to Billy Mather; somebody had rustled up a cup of tea for him from a thermos. He now sat dazed, in a folding chair outside the taped perimeter, staring into space and cradling the warm cup in both hands. Hutchens and Goldflam were also winding up their chat.

The boss summoned them all before him with a casual wave, mustering them away from earshot of the witnesses. Goldflam’s
forensics team continued their analysis of the site. Hutchens nodded briskly towards Lara.

‘The old boy, what’s his story?’

She scanned her notes. ‘As per the initial call-out, he got back from fishing around ten-ish– couldn’t be exact, time’s not really his thing– saw the flames and found Fisher and Miller. At the same time the couple in the campervan rolled up. He got them to phone triple zero and he stayed and tried to help...’

‘Yeah we know all that already. Why were they visiting him?’

Lara shrugged. ‘He doesn’t know. He recognised Greg Fisher from previous meetings in connection with the beach torso...’ her eyes connected with Cato’s, ‘but he didn’t know the other man, Stuart Miller.’

‘He had no idea why these two men should drive all the way out here at night-time to visit him?’

‘No, boss.’

‘Jim Buckley’s brother-in-law, an ex-cop himself, takes an interest in Herman the Hermit here and enlists Greg Fisher’s help. Nobody knows why?’

Shrugs and blank faces. Hutchens looked sceptical but whatever he was thinking, Cato noted, he kept it to himself. The DI shifted his attention to Mark McGowan.

‘What have you got?’

McGowan flicked through his notepad. ‘Mr and Mrs Hale: him Peter, her Nancy, from Toowoomba. Doing the “See Australia Before You Die” thing; arrived late last night, around 10.00, 10.30 They’d taken a wrong-turn and got bogged. Got in here, flames, et cetera, the old guy...’ he thumbed over his shoulder towards Billy Mather who was still staring into space – or trying to listen in, Cato couldn’t be sure – ‘running around like a madman. He got them to try to phone for help, they were out of range so he told them where to go, so to speak.’ McGowan smiled at his little joke. Nobody joined him.

‘Once they got back from making the call what did they do, what did they see?’ Hutchens pressed.

‘They tended to them as best they could until help arrived about
an hour later. They also tried chucking a few buckets of water at the flames but it was no use.’

Hutchens checked his watch. ‘Anything else?’

‘No, sir, nothing.’

‘Did he catch anything?’ Cato to Lara.

‘What?’

‘He was out fishing. Catch anything?’

She yawned. ‘I’ll check if you like. Want to know what bait he was using?’

‘No need, I’ll take a look for myself later thanks.’

Cato got a funny look from Hutchens who then took up where he’d left off, barking instructions to all and sundry.

‘Mark can you put in a call to the ambulance guys and Tess Maguire? I want an update on the patients. If Greg Fisher is able to talk, get her to ask him what he was doing here last night.’

McGowan yessirred and Hutchens switched to Paul Abbott, acting Hopetoun sergeant.

‘Organise for a couple of uniforms from Ravensthorpe or Esperance to get out here to mind the place once forensics is finished. Then get Mr Mather to the motel in Ravy, soon as the hospital has checked him over. Organise some clothes and stuff and get somebody to stay with him for a while to make sure he’s okay. We’ll have him in for a chat later.’

Next it was the turn of Lara Sumich.

‘Lara, you can drive back with me...’ he tossed her the car keys, ‘and tell me about your trip to Albany.’

All boxes ticked, Hutchens squinted at Cato, ‘I’ll see you back at the ranch. We need to have a talk.’

Cato watched them go, wondering what the talk with Hutchens was going to be about. Apart from the terse exchange at the end, Hutchens hadn’t paid him any attention. He hadn’t been interested in an update on Guan Yu. He hadn’t given Cato any specific task at the fire scene. He hadn’t said goodbye nicely. What was he trying to say? This is what you’re missing out on? Welcome to your world– the margins. Was Hutchens that spiteful that he’d get a man out of
bed for the night to let him know he’s as useless as a cheap Chinese import? Yes, he was. But Cato suspected there was something else at play. Was he being tested or auditioned in some way? Was he being deliberately kept at the margins because Hutchens knew that was his favourite stamping ground? Cato shook his head; too deep, too meaningful, too early in the day.

An old green Land Rover and trailer were parked on the boat ramp. Cato glanced in the windows. There was the usual paraphernalia: map book, lolly packets, a baseball cap, and a packed holdall on the floor space behind the driver’s seat. The old man must have been planning a trip before his world turned upside down. Behind the car and trailer, Mather’s tinny lay half-in and half-out of the water. With an incoming tide it was on the verge of floating off again of its own accord. He must have seen the flames and jumped out giving it a cursory pull up onto the ramp to try to secure it. Cato kicked off his shoes and socks, rolled the bottoms of his jeans up, and pulled the boat further out of the water. The cool ocean felt good around his feet and between his toes. He looked inside the dinghy: a fishing rod, a half-bag of berley and another of bait; squid bits, sealed with a rubber band and resting at the bottom of a red plastic bucket. No water in the bucket and no fish. A poor result for the night. A thermos, it felt full. He twisted the cap and sniffed the contents. Coffee. The aroma was rich and warm. Had Mather forgotten to drink it in all the excitement, or was his thermos full and his bucket empty because he hadn’t yet gone fishing? If the latter, then why say that he had? Cato stifled a yawn. Let Hutchens and his Ace Detectives work it out. Last on the inventory: a rolled up and slightly damp edition of yesterday’s newspaper. He weighed the options and consequences. Would he be tainting evidence if he drank the coffee and stole the crossword? Possibly. Probably. He poured some coffee into the flask-top cup and sipped. He’d had worse.

‘Need a lift?’

It was McGowan calling down from the campsite. Billy Mather had paused with the back door of the car half-open. Paul Abbott was already in the driving seat looking expectantly at McGowan. The
police contingent had commandeered the two four-wheel drive paddy wagons and a Prado borrowed from the motel owner. The detectives’ Commodores would have been useless on the potholed road.

‘No thanks.’ Cato called back, holding up the keys to the Stock Squad vehicle. McGowan nodded, waved, said something to Mather and hopped in the paddy wagon next to Abbott. Billy Mather looked a little longer down at Cato before getting in the back. Cato realised he had a cup of Mather’s coffee in his hand and the newspaper under his arm. The poor old bugger had lost his home, his thermos, and his
West
in one fell swoop. Cato Kwong, Mr Sensitivity.

Cato strolled back up the boat ramp to the blackened ruin of Mather’s home. He approached the blue and white cordon tape and nodded a greeting to Duncan Goldflam. Goldflam was a diehard Hutchens man. The response was a surly, suspicious, and barely perceptible head twitch.

Cato ignored the snub. He gestured over towards the van. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘About what?’

‘The van, was it an accident?’

‘Who wants to know?’

Cato shrugged nonchalantly; what he really wanted to do was jump up and down on Goldflam’s head, teach the nerdy fucker a lesson in civility. Cato Kwong, born-again aggro boy; where did that come from?

‘The boss just asked me to take a look. Second opinion,’ he lied.

Goldflam obviously didn’t know whether to believe him or not, then must have decided it didn’t matter anyway. ‘Seems kosher enough to me. Help yourself. Look but don’t touch.’

The fire crew, ambulance, Mather and the grey nomads, along with Fisher and Miller had all left prints in the sand and gravel. Water from the fire hoses and buckets had saturated everything in sight. There was no real need to tiptoe through the tulips here. Besides, it looked like an accident, not a crime scene. Cato approached the epicentre of the blast.

The van was now little more than a blackened shell. Three
of the walls and most of the roof had disintegrated in the fierce heat, as had most of the floor. Half of the wall on which the stove sat had survived. The blast had radiated out from that point. The tyres on the trailer base had melted but the metal components and base-frame remained. There was little evidence of any of Mather’s personal belongings surviving the inferno. Cato caught sight of something fluttering on the ground. He knelt down to examine it, a charred fragment of what looked like brown packing tape stuck to the edge of what remained of the caravan door. It was about ten centimetres up from where the door handle used to be.

‘Did you see this?’

Goldflam came over and crouched down beside him. Peering closely he could see there were small dots of red paper or paint stuck to the tape. He appraised Cato with a sidelong glance.

‘Could be something. Could be nothing. I’ll take it away for a closer look.’ Goldflam photographed and bagged the buckled, smoke-blackened section of the door. ‘If you see anything else, Sherlock, give me a hoy.’

‘Poor bastard,’ Cato muttered.

‘Say something?’

‘The old boy, nothing left.’ Cato waved his newly acquired newspaper at the devastation.

Goldflam snapped shut his equipment case. ‘Looks like his simple life just got simpler then.’

‘No shit?’

‘That’s what he said.’

They were in the motel Prado and Lara Sumich was in the driving seat. She’d just delivered Justin Woodward up to Hutchens courtesy of Freddy Bataam aka Riri Yusala. They were back on the sealed section of the road about ten kilometres east of Hopetoun. To their left the Southern Ocean shone blue to the horizon. Out there a distant smudge of dark cloud hovered; it may or may not make landfall, the weather jury was still out. Overhead a hawk hung in the soft morning breeze before swooping for its breakfast. A
couple of crows feasted on a recent roadkill, leaving it until the last possible second before hopping out of the path of the car, flicking their wings and shaking their heads contemptuously.

Hutchens shook his head too and smiled. ‘Justin Woodward killed Jim Buckley because he was being blackmailed by him?’

Lara kept her eyes on the road. ‘Makes sense, boss. Jim did find drugs in the coffee van but kept schtum to Cato. Then he phoned Woodward later and demanded a slice for his silence. Woodward, after talking it over with his associates, takes care of business, his way.’