Prime Cut (23 page)

Hutchens tapped the passenger-side window absent-mindedly with his index finger. ‘Beautiful. Lovely story. And Bataam, Yusala, whatever the fuck he’s called, he’s signed up to it?’

‘He will, boss, dotted line.’

Hutchens fixed her with a steady eye. ‘Everything’s falling into place nicely then.’

She gifted him a coy, admiring smile and credit where it was due. ‘You’ve cracked it, boss. Shall we bring him in?’

Hutchens nodded. ‘Get Woodward, but gentle on him this time, nice and civilised please. Leave McGowan in the office.’

Cato mixed himself a double sachet of coffee and finished drying his hair. After a sleepless and, for him, wasted night out at Starvation Bay, a shower and a further caffeine fix was a prerequisite for making it through the rest of the day. He wrapped the towel around his waist, took a sip of coffee and scanned Billy Mather’s crossword but his brain was all crypticked out. All was obviously not what it seemed at the accident scene – first and foremost what were Greg Fisher and the Pom doing there anyway? Looking out of his motel window on to the morning quiet of Veal Street he saw Lara Sumich returning from a run. A mad dash to Albany and back and a sleepless night had clearly not taken too much of a toll on her. What was she on? She saw him through the window and waved. Cato felt a stirring below as he remembered their late night encounter in the town hall. He started counting downwards from fifty to make it go away.

There was a knock on the door. He opened it. It was Lara, flushed from her run, dark sweat patches between her breasts and under her arms. All the usual places.

‘Morning,’ she said, using her bottom lip to blow some cooling air up her face.

‘No rest for the wicked?’ said Cato.

Too late, he realised the tent in his towel was on display. Lara smiled and stepped across the threshold, kicking the door closed with her heel.

‘No, no rest, not yet.’

She peeled off her top and shorts, kicked off her running shoes and pushed Cato on to the bed loosening his towel on the way. Straddling, she lowered herself onto him. The movement was slow and deep.

She leaned forward, hair brushing his face and placed her nipple in his mouth. His tongue jiggled at the ring. He’d expected something like that to be erotic but really it felt like discovering a plastic toy in your cornflakes. Still, Lara seemed happy enough.

‘No rest for the wicked.’ She closed her eyes and gripped him tighter, her breath quickening.

After several months of celibacy Cato was no longer able to contain himself. Some time later Lara shuddered and collapsed on him.

‘Well and truly fucked,’ she murmured, a sob escaping her throat as she came.

‘Me too,’ groaned Cato.

Lara opened her eyes, slightly startled, like she’d forgotten he was there.

‘So what’s your next move?’

DI Mick Hutchens folded his arms, sat back, watched and waited. Cato’s attention was miles away. He was consumed with guilt even though his marriage was over. At the same time he hadn’t realised how much he’d needed a good seeing to. Hutchens coughed him back into the moment. Cato collected his thoughts and spread them out on the table.

‘Interview the remaining occupants of those two caravans. We’ll need more interpreters.’

‘How many?’

‘Three or four would be good. Two would help.’

Hutchens made a note and nodded for Cato to proceed. So far it had been relatively painless. Cato suspected that Mark McGowan had already briefed his boss. He’d outlined the change in Guan Yu’s story since the arrival of Amrita Desai; the quick result on Flipper had evaporated and the case had collapsed.

‘We need to go through the dead man’s belongings with a fine toothcomb, along with Guan Yu’s, declare the caravans an official crime scene and get Duncan Goldflam in there to take a proper look. It’s been a bit half-arsed so far because of...’ he chose his words carefully, ‘competing resource priorities.’ He ignored Hutchens’ frown. ‘We also need a more thorough search of that area for a murder weapon and to pin down the means of transporting the body to the ocean. Somebody has to have seen something.’

‘Who do you need to help you?’

Cato bit his lower lip, bemused. Hutchens was meant to have hung him out to dry by now. Who was there? In terms of local knowledge, Greg Fisher had been useful but he was out of action and Tess Maguire was suspended. Jim Buckley was dead. A lot had
happened in the week since they’d taken that phone call on a hot, dusty road outside Katanning.

‘Mark McGowan is up to speed if you can continue to spare him...’ said Cato. Hutchens raised an eyebrow and smiled to himself as he made more notes.

‘And Tess Maguire knows the area.’

Hutchens shot him a warning look. ‘Give it a few days and we’ll see. Meantime use some of the Ravensthorpe crew.’

Cato nodded and pushed on. ‘Some urgent forensic, admin support, uniforms or volunteers for the wider search, but really...’ Cato sized Hutchens up: in for a penny. ‘I need a few more detectives. This thing needs to be done properly or not at all.’

Hutchens didn’t explode. He nodded, shrugged, smiled. ‘We should have some spares for you from the Buckley case in another day or two.’

‘Really? What’s happened?’ The last Cato heard Hutchens and he were comparing brick walls.

‘Lara Sumich’s detective work, some forensics, and a witness putting Justin Woodward firmly back in the frame. We’re bringing him back in today.’

That explained a buzzing, bewitching, bewildering Lara. Cato tried to stifle a blush by coughing and asking a businesslike question. ‘Witness?’

Hutchens gave him one of his funny looks. ‘Your mate from the Indonesian Navy, Yusala. He says Justin’s our man. Swears blind.’

Miraculous, thought Cato.

Tess Maguire sat at the end of Greg Fisher’s bed. He’d been given his own room in a side ward at Esperance District Hospital. He was hooked up to a drip and monitors, there were the usual tubes, wires and beeps. The right side of his face and chest, his right shoulder and right arm were swathed in gauze and light bandages. Most of the dark crew-cut hair on the right side of his head had been singed and here too were patches of gauze. This area had caught the brunt of the blast. He was sedated, he was on heavy-duty painkillers and he
was lucky to be alive. The burns weren’t as serious as first thought but there was still a chance of some grafting being required on his shoulder, chest, ear and cheek. He wouldn’t be quite so youthful and fresh-faced when he emerged from this ordeal. That was the upshot of the conversation witnessed between the doctor, a solemn-faced girl who seemed to Tess to be hardly older than her own daughter, and Greg’s teary mum.

Vanessa Fisher had driven from Pinjarra to Perth and taken a direct flight down to Esperance, arriving midmorning. It got her there quicker and it meant she didn’t have to drive through the cursed Ravensthorpe area. She saw Greg’s injuries as a direct result of him taking up that job in such a sad and evil place. He should have listened to their warnings. Tess couldn’t argue with that.

She encouraged Greg’s mum to go and have a coffee break and a spot of lunch while her son slept, promising faithfully to call her on the mobile if he woke in the meantime. Tess studied his face, asleep behind the oxygen mask, long curling eyelashes, and so young. She choked back a sob she never realised she had in her. What was he doing out at Billy Mather’s camp last night, miles from anywhere? DI Hutchens wasn’t the only one who wanted to know; Tess was curious too. Greg was her partner. Over the months since he’d started his probationary posting she’d got to know him and was beginning to like him and care about him. He was enthusiastic, energetic and ambitious. She remembered the feeling. They were meant to be partners but she knew nothing of this. Was he learning already to keep secrets, to have his own agenda? Or was she just too nuts to talk to these days?

Greg shifted a little in his sleep, his eyes and forehead furrowed in a frown. He had been with Jim Buckley’s brother-in-law, Stuart Miller, an ex-cop from way back, according to McGowan who’d phoned her on Hutchens’ behalf. What was their interest in Mather? Tess didn’t know enough to speculate. Once he woke she might be wiser. In the meantime she picked up one of a small bundle of glossy gossip mags left by the well-meaning nurse. A fading teen pop star was still in and out of rehab and banned from seeing
her kids, a Hollywood A-list super couple were pregnant again, and there’d been some dreadful wardrobe decisions at a recent red carpet event. All reassuringly divorced from the daily reality of Tess’s life in Hopetoun. Greg stirred and snored. Tess willed him to wake up and then almost immediately felt guilty about it. Okay, so her motives for accompanying him in the ambulance to Esperance were not entirely altruistic. She had other things to do here in town and was hoping to get on with it sooner rather than later.

Greg snuffled, opened an eye. ‘Tess?’ The voice was parched, croaking.

She put down the mag, poured a cup of water for him and held it to his lips. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Your mum’s just popped out for a break. Back soon.’

‘Yeah fine.’ He looked exhausted, like he might drop straight back off to sleep again.

‘What happened out there, Greg?’

‘Hoped you might tell me.’ Then he frowned, remembering something. ‘How’s Stuart?’

‘He’s been taken to Perth. Still waiting to hear.’

‘Bad?’

Tess nodded. ‘Why were you out there, Greg? Why the visit to Billy Mather?’

‘Stuart thought he might be some guy wanted for murder, an old Pommie case. I couldn’t see the likeness myself.’

‘Likeness?’

‘Photo. In the
West
one day last week.’

‘What made Stuart think it could be Mather?’

Greg croaked again and took another sip of water. ‘I told him they had the same funny accent, Stuart and Mather. Plus Jim Buckley had phoned Stuart the night he died. He was convinced he’d seen the guy from the paper in the Hopey pub that night.’

‘Mather?’

‘That’s what we were going to check. Stuart wanted to meet him to see if he was the same bloke.’

‘And was he?’

Greg shifted position and winced. ‘We still don’t know. The caravan exploded. As far as I know, Stuart still hasn’t seen him yet.’

Tess kept to herself the news from the hospital in Perth that, in all probability, Stuart Miller would never get to see Billy Mather.

Cato Kwong and Mark McGowan had retired to the peace and seclusion of the Sea Rescue hut. The town hall was heading for fever pitch. The media contingent had got wind of some significant development and were milling on the gravel outside. Some had also heard about the explosion out at Starvation Bay and were putting two and two together to make nonsense. DI Hutchens seemed happy to let them speculate away to their heart’s content. He and Lara Sumich had already left for the Ravensthorpe lockup in a three-car convoy. The other cars contained Justin Woodward and his girlfriend Angelique, each in separate vehicles and accompanied by stony-faced detectives who looked like they’d been specially bred in an Orc factory on the outskirts of Albany. The suspect and his girlfriend would stew in Ravensthorpe until the arrival of Woodward’s solicitor, hastily summoned from Perth. Cato couldn’t help but smile when he’d caught sight of a freshly dapper Hutchens and his big wide grin on the way out the door. The pugnacious little prick was in his element.

McGowan, with the personnel list in front of him, was on the phone to Keith Stevenson, arranging to link up with the residents of the two caravans. Keith’s previous threats to evict the Chinese workers and send them back home were, of course, all hot air for Cato’s benefit. In fact they were still on the payroll, still living in their less than salubrious surroundings and still doing their tenhour days. McGowan had the phone on speaker so Cato could enjoy the show. Stevenson hadn’t lost the bluster.

‘Why don’t you bastards just leave me alone? This is harassment, plain and simple.’

McGowan tried his soothing voice. ‘Keith. Mate. I’m just trying to do my job. Just like you.’

‘Don’t call me mate,’ he growled.

McGowan abandoned soothing. ‘Have them at your office by three, Mr Stevenson, or we’ll come looking for them. Obstruct us any further and we’ll close down your operations while we carry out our lawful business. You won’t make another cent until we’re good and ready. See you at three.’ He flicked his phone shut.

Cato mimed applause.

McGowan looked a bit flustered. ‘So where do we put all these ... people?’

‘Let’s commandeer one of Stevenson’s portacabins. Least he can do.’

McGowan smiled. ‘I’m beginning to like your style, Cato mate.’

Cato returned to the tagged belongings of Guan Yu and Hai Chen. He’d already dispatched around half a dozen uniforms from Ravensthorpe, Ongerup, and Lake Grace to comb Paddy’s Field under the supervision of Duncan Goldflam. The geographical radius of cop reinforcements was growing exponentially to the twists and turns in each of the cases. Cato cursed the fact that he hadn’t nailed Paddy’s Field earlier, thus allowing even more time for any evidence to be removed, or destroyed by the elements. He’d also made an appointment for a chat with the foreman, Travis Grant, later that afternoon. Grant picked these blokes up and dropped them off at Paddy’s Field every day. Had he noticed anything unusual? He must have. For one thing a key worker hadn’t shown up for work that morning. By all accounts Chen was the gangmaster of the Chinese, the main conduit between employer and employees, yet Grant was lumping him in with the rest of the faceless hordes just pulling another sickie. Bullshit, and Cato Kwong had let it flow, unchecked.

He opened the first plastic Ziploc envelope: Guan Yu’s contract of employment with SaS Personnel. Cato remembered the man’s cheerful thumbs-up as he proudly told them about his weekly pay packet of five hundred dollars. On paper it all looked reasonable enough. His employer was sponsoring him as a temporary skilled migrant for the duration of the contract up to a maximum of two years. Travel expenses from China to Australia, and back again, would be covered by the employer. He would be paid the minimum
award wage, just over forty-three thousand dollars a year. Cato did the sums: just over eight hundred a week coming down to about five hundred after tax and other deductions. So far so good, Guan Yu hadn’t been lying about that part anyway.

What were the deductions? Accommodation, uniform, agency fees, daily travel to and from the worksite. Cato snorted. The rickety ancient caravans were the accommodation, Travis Grant and his minibus were the travel expenses, SaS agency commission, et cetera, et cetera. He began to see where Keith Stevenson was taking his substantial slice. Then there was Guan’s mention of Chen taking his weekly cut of fifty dollars per man. How much cash in hand did that leave them? The official deductions, taxes and such, would account for the drop from eight hundred to five. The SaS deductions would reduce it even further. But Guan believed he was getting five hundred in his hand. Is that what happened? Did he find out he wasn’t getting what he expected and blame Chen?

Cato dug out an envelope from Hai Chen’s belongings. He had a similar contract to Guan except that as gangmaster his rate of pay was higher, nearer to fifty thousand per annum. He was also paid a one-off lump sum commission from SaS Personnel for organising the Chinese end of the recruitment. Five thousand dollars from SaS, plus his weekly rake-off of fifty dollars per man; seven colleagues in Paddy’s Field plus another eight dossing in a donga at Barren Pastures. Fifteen lots of fifty per week over the course of up to two years. In terms of the la-la land currency floating around mining towns these days it was mere loose change but, relatively speaking, Chen was definitely doing all right.

Hai Chen’s bank statements told a very different story: there were direct weekly credits of just over four thousand five hundred dollars. He was receiving the pay for himself and all of his colleagues into his account – no doubt an administrative convenience for all concerned. Maybe his mates believed he was holding their money in trust for them. In fact he was creaming off a further hundred bucks per week per man with weekly transfers of around one thousand five hundred to another account in his name. They were paying Chen a ‘commission’ of around a hundred and fifty dollars a
week, not fifty; that made it thirty per cent instead of ten per cent. Chen’s current balance on the linked account was just under sixtyfive thousand dollars. He was well and truly cashed-up. Cato flicked through the rest of the papers in Chen’s collection. Nothing else jumped out. But if Guan Yu somehow got wind of this rip-off then it was obviously a motive for murder. Men had certainly died for much less.

He checked another envelope: Chen’s personal effects. Letters home, photos of kids, wife, a family wedding. Nothing. Cato looked again. Something had caught his eye in one of the wedding photos. It was a big team shot: Hai Chen and his bride in the centre surrounded by parents, grandparents, in-laws, everyone. He’d noticed the photo in his first brief trawl through the belongings out at Paddy’s Field and not paid too much attention to the detail, but now he could see it. Over to one side, dressed to the nines in Chen’s wedding album, wearing a bow tie and a big cheesy. Guan Yu.