Prime Cut (31 page)

‘Haven’t a clue who CK is. Next?’

‘Father, shell-shock, suicide, question mark.’

‘Nope.’

‘Vicki Munro – survivor, DA said he didn’t have a childhood.’

‘She’s a survivor of one of Chapman’s attacks. Lived in Bunbury until she topped herself a couple of years later. Miller must have picked something up from the brother Brian. I’ll follow it up. Next?’

The blizzard of names was confusing Cato. The man he knew as Billy Mather was known as Chapman to some and Arthurs to others. Cato scratched notes to keep track. Next clue from the Miller chronicles.

‘Mother, brother, still alive, question mark, how much did they know?’

Delaney grunted. ‘We did an immigration check. He’d got in to Australia using his little brother’s passport. As to whether it was with his permission or not, we don’t know. Stuart put us in touch with his Pommie police mates. I’ll get them to follow up some of these things and get back to you. As soon as you find this Mather bloke give us a bell, yeah?’

Cato promised he would and they rang off. He looked at the notebook again. CK. Calvin Klein? A missing FU? A girlfriend? A boyfriend? Whatever it all meant these were clues to the man’s past and maybe his state of mind, not to his present whereabouts. He needed to start using up some good old-fashioned shoe leather.

Billy Mather’s Ravy motel room had been locked up and sealed off. Cato collected the key from reception and let himself in. It looked like any other country motel room except maybe more jaded and faded. It was hardly lived in; Mather hadn’t stuck around. A plastic bag of toiletries and some replacement clothes had been supplied by Ravensthorpe Police. Everything of Mather’s had been destroyed in the caravan fire. The bag and clothes lay seemingly untouched on the spare bed. He hadn’t bothered to take them with him when he did his runner. Why? He didn’t need them. Why? Maybe he already had his own stash? Cato had a flashback to the fire scene: the holdall in the back of the jeep. If he was the man he was shaping up to be, a cold-blooded killer who had struck several times and evaded capture for thirty-odd years, then a bit of forward planning was obviously not beyond him.

That got Cato thinking about the theory of the booby-trapped caravan. An open gas tap, matches on the doorjamb, neat and simple. But why not just disappear quietly like he had done so many times before? Why draw attention to yourself with such a melodramatic flourish? That begged a further question: in order to set a trap he had to have prior knowledge of who was coming and when. Maybe Mather had recognised Miller in town and put two and two together. Maybe he set the booby trap because he knew with the cold-case team and Miller closing in, it was time to do his disappearing act again. And hadn’t his previous disappearing acts been signed off with an act of spectacular violence? Maybe if you create a big enough sideshow people get distracted from the main game. It buys time. Cato shuddered at the memory from the newspaper story: the man had killed his wife and kids and left them to rot in the bush. Cato could speculate until the cows came home but it wasn’t going
to help him find Billy Mather.

He checked the cupboards and drawers. Nothing. The bathroom was bare, the towels unused. He checked the phone for messages and previous numbers called. Zilch. The man really seemed to have vanished without a trace. Outside in the courtyard Cato checked for any security cameras. There was one high on a pole by the gravel entrance from the main road. In the motel reception area there was another camera high in the corner behind the counter. He arranged with the bored-looking young woman in charge to view the footage later. Then he went to check on the welfare of Keith Stevenson.

Stevenson was polishing off an evening meal of sausage roll and chips brought to him from the cafe down the road from the lockup. Cato gestured at the almost empty plate.

‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’

Stevenson didn’t. With a malevolent stare he forked up the last three chips and shoved them into his mouth. He clattered the cutlery down onto the plate and shoved it away from him.

‘What do you want?’

‘I need your help.’

‘Fuck off, I’m busy.’

Cato took the newspaper clipping out of his pocket and spread it on the table between them. ‘Do you know him?’

‘No. Didn’t you hear me?’

‘Look at it.’

‘Why the fuck should I?’

‘Because I want him more than I want you.’

Keith Stevenson looked at the photofit and shrugged. ‘Who is he?’

‘He’s Derek Chapman, Billy Mather, David Arthurs. Take your pick.’

Cato told Stevenson what the man in the photo had done to his wife and kids in Adelaide, and a few years before that to another wife and kid in the UK, and what he was suspected of doing to Jim Buckley.

Stevenson listened impassively and shrugged again. ‘Croweaters, Poms, and cops, who cares?’

Cato held his temper. ‘Not you obviously, but all you do need to care about is the fact that I want him badly enough to help you with your problem.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I’m prepared to speak on your behalf in court, help mitigate whatever is coming your way.’

‘Big deal. The kind of lawyers I can afford, I’m expecting to walk anyway.’

It was worth a try. ‘Sorry to waste your precious time, Mr Stevenson.’

‘Yeah, no worries.’ But still he couldn’t contain his curiosity. ‘How am I supposed to help anyway?’

Cato couldn’t tell if this was a wind-up. ‘You’re connected, old contacts from your glory days, new ones now that you’re a pillar of the community. I want him found. Quickly.’

Stevenson sat for a while staring at the smudge of tomato sauce on his dinner plate.

‘Okay, get me a phone.’

Cato frowned, not sure he’d heard right. ‘Why?’

‘So I can make a phone call, dickhead.’

‘I mean why are you helping if I’m not offering anything?’

Stevenson gave him a thin smile. ‘Because I can, because I’m not necessarily what you think I am and because then you’ll owe me. Now get me the phone.’

‘The mother’s dead but little brother is still kicking.’

Tim Delaney had heard from Northumbria Police. They’d gone back and asked the questions that should have been asked thirtyfive years ago. They’d always known whodunnit but they’d never caught him and, without a trial, had never felt the need to pursue ‘whyhedunnit’. Delaney’s call came through as Cato was in transit from Ravy to Hopey. He had left Keith Stevenson to his devices and headed back to the prospect of a lonely dinner and an early night.
The crappy weather had settled in.

Apparently, according to the little brother Andy, young Davey Arthurs had taken his father’s suicide very hard. The old man had been a basket case since he came back from the war. He had a crater in the side of his head the size of a fist, it was a wonder he was alive at all. They’d found an easy job for him in the shipyards but he hadn’t even been able to do that properly. The homecoming hero thing didn’t last very long. Workmates started taking the piss, playing practical jokes. Eventually he’d quit and topped himself not long after. Davey started acting up and became a handful, fighting, truanting, stealing, smashing stuff up. They were all scared of him. His mother, unable to cope, had him committed to the local mental hospital. The standard treatment in those days was electroconvulsive therapy: shock treatment.

‘Only in those days they didn’t use anaesthetic or muscle relaxants. Not nice. Apparently one time he jerked so much it broke his arm.’ Delaney had clearly done his homework. ‘Plenty of clues in there about the MO then,’ he observed redundantly.

Cato had to concur, it wasn’t rocket science: electrocution and ECT, bludgeoning and the father’s fist-sized brain injury, mothers and children as the target group – it was mum who signed him up for it and little brother who got away scot-free.

Delaney was on a roll. ‘It also ties in with Vicki Munro’s comments about Davey saying he never had a childhood. ECT really fucks with the memory.’

‘So the family never thought to mention all this at the time?’

‘Nobody asked them, according to little brother. Northumbria Police reckon he’s being a bit cute. He probably did know about the passport and big brother’s propensity for violence but wasn’t about to give the cops a free kick. I can see his point, he’s not going to do their jobs for them.’

‘Fucking hell.’ Cato couldn’t think of anything cleverer to say.

‘Nicely put,’ said Delaney.

‘What about CK? Anyone know who she or he was?’

‘No, maybe when you find him you can ask him.’

Cato squinted absent-mindedly at a spot on the wall. ‘Will do.’

He rang off. So they knew whodunit, maybe even why. All he needed to do now was find the bastard. As was so often the case, Davey Arthurs career as a psycho was rooted in a disturbed childhood, a sprinkling of unlucky genes, and a propensity for mayhem. Cato had a mental image of Jai Stevenson sucking his Chup-a-Chup.

His bags were packed; Cato Kwong was ready to go. The Sea Rescue hut was locked until either Tess Maguire or Greg Fisher returned to work in the hopefully not-too-distant future. Hopetoun was once again temporarily without a police presence but Sergeant Paul Abbott, Mitch Biddulph and the ever-helpful Bernie Tilbrook were just a phone call and thirty minutes’ fast drive away in Ravensthorpe should any emergency crop up.

Cato had paid an early morning call on Tess to say goodbye. She and Melissa were at the kitchen table going through old photographs, laughing, reminiscing, putting some in an album, binning others. He felt unexpectedly envious, and as if he was interrupting something. Tess had protested otherwise but she hadn’t argued too strongly when he made his excuses and left. They’d hugged at the doorway, Melissa peering inquisitively down the hall.

Tess looked up into his eyes, expression completely open. ‘Have you made any big decisions lately?’

‘I’m thinking of chucking the job in,’ he said.

‘Really?’ She didn’t look like she believed him.

‘Really ... probably. Maybe.’

Tess kissed him lightly on the mouth. ‘Well if you fancy being a beach bum, kept man, and occasional sex slave, drop me a line. If I haven’t found Mr Right by then I might still be open to offers.’

‘I might take you up on that.’

A last little wave and that was it.

Rain hadn’t stopped falling since Friday. Hopetoun was eerily quiet, not just because of the wet Sunday morning. It was as if the unsavoury events of the past few weeks had finally taken their
toll on the town itself. The boom had revealed its festering ugly side: greed, exploitation, drugs, sleaze, and brutality. As always, prosperity comes at a price. Mostly this face never showed itself to the good citizens of Hopetoun. Just as well. Hopefully this rain would wash the past few weeks away. Maybe all Hopey needed was a nice cup of sweet tea, a cuddle and a good night’s sleep. Cato fancied a bit of the same himself.

Keith Stevenson had made a couple of calls and Cato arranged for copies of the photofit to be scanned and emailed to Stevenson’s dodgy contacts out in the ether: nothing so far. The Ravensthorpe Motel security footage showed Billy Mather walking out within an hour of being dropped off after the fire. That was it. It looked like the Pommie Pimpernel had evaded capture yet again. Cato had tried to deliver more to DI Hutchens but more didn’t exist. Hutchens could sort out his own – what was that pet term of his? – ‘fucking dog’s breakfast’ in Albany. Cato was out of here. He slung his holdall and briefcase into the back of the Stock Squad Land Cruiser and climbed in. His mobile went. It was Desk Sergeant Bernie Tilbrook.

‘Message for you from Mr Stevenson.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m fine thanks. How’s your day?’

Cato sighed impatiently. Tilbrook, point made, proceeded.

‘BIG 4 Caravan Park, Esperance, under the name of Stuart Miller: Cabin 21.’

Cato thanked him and gunned the engine.

The young woman had just finished strapping her sleeping baby girl into the booster seat, put the shopping bags into the boot and climbed up into the driver’s side of the Nissan Patrol. It wouldn’t start. She gave a tight low scream of frustration. Her husband had said he would sort this out last week. He hadn’t, and now he was away at that bloody mine for another four days. It had rained all weekend and the streets were empty. Out on the bay, the isles of the Recherche Archipelago were either shrouded in low cloud or had disappeared completely. The water was flat and oily black. A few
determined anglers fished disconsolately from the jetty. The baby was starting to stir and grumble. Cold rivulets of rain ran down the back of her neck. It was at least a three-kilometre walk into town but they were out of key supplies, like nappies. So be it. The pram had a hood, the baby would be fine.

She was caught up in her own thoughts and hadn’t noticed the car pull up just ahead of her, a green jeep. The passenger side window was opened from the inside. An old man with a kind face said something she didn’t catch.

‘Sorry?’

‘I said are you havin’ a spot of bother with your car, love?’

The old man’s eyes twinkled, he had a singsong kind of voice. He reminded her of her grandfather back in England. In no time at all he had the Nissan’s bonnet up and his toolbox out and was jabbering away.

‘Pardon?’

‘I said you’ll catch your death of cold out here in this rain. Hop in the Land Rover and you and the bairn can keep dry, I’ll have this fixed soon.’

The baby was now fully awake and beginning to whimper. She hauled her out and folded down the pram, passing it into the back seat of the old jeep.

Cato parked down the street from BIG 4 and walked the last hundred metres. He didn’t announce his presence at reception, instead making directly for Cabin 21. Heaven knew how Stevenson’s network had found Mather, if indeed they had, but it was a society that lived by different rules and they noticed different things about comings and goings. Maybe that old Land Rover gave him away. The cabin looked unoccupied. The vehicle space was vacant but had a few fresh oil stains. Cato wasn’t game to go too close just yet. For all he knew, this place was also booby-trapped. He sneaked up to the back of the cabin and looked through the windows. The curtains were wide open. Nobody home. He went around the front, sniffing. No apparent gas odour. He unclipped his gun. A grey nomad en
route to the toilet block saw the gun and halted mid-shuffle, wideeyed with fright. Cato waved his police ID, mouthing to her to keep quiet. She flapped her hands at him, clutched her cardigan closer into her chest, and disappeared into the toilets.

Cato edged towards the cabin door, glancing in again through a window as he passed: still no sign of life, still no smell of gas. He cut to the chase and reached for the door handle. It was unlocked. He braced himself and yanked it open, wincing involuntarily. There was no explosion and no Billy Mather. Cato holstered his gun and looked around. The bedroom was a curtained-off section of the main cabin, taking up about half of the floor space. The rest was a compact kitchen and dining–living room combined. It was neat as a pin. The fridge was empty except for half a carton of reasonably fresh Hi-Lo milk. The dishes were washed and stacked. The floor swept. The holiday cabin looked the way it might at checkout time.

Cato turned to leave, glancing in the rubbish bin on the way out. It contained the usual: fruit peelings, tea bags, eggshells. Something glittered. Cato looked closer. It was the gold under-stripes of a mobile phone SIM card. He fished it out of the bin, wiped it down, and put it into his own phone. The display, address book, recent call lists, and text messages sent and received all confirmed what he’d already guessed. It was from Stuart Miller’s phone. Cato read the text sent to Jenny Miller.

Sorry about ur husband. Feel like have known him years.

Lovely man. DA

Cato didn’t need any more convincing that Billy Mather and David Arthurs were the same man. Taunting. Cruel. Cocky. Even the cabin booking was in the name of his old nemesis, Stuart Miller. He seemed to think he was untouchable. After thirty-five years it wasn’t surprising.

‘I think Mr Miller has checked out. Can I help you?’

It was the park manager, alerted by the grey nomad that a Chinaman with a gun was at large. He seemed strangely calm. Maybe this was an everyday occurrence at BIG 4 Esperance.

‘Did you notice what vehicle he was driving?’

The park manager nodded. ‘A green Land Rover, 1978, a real classic.’

He had the rego too. How hard would it be to spot something like that in a town the size of Esperance?

‘Found it.’

The call came from Esperance cop shop, Cato had enlisted their help to find the Land Rover. The vehicle in question was in a street about three kilometres from the centre of town. Cato took directions and arranged to meet them there.

The street was deserted; the steady drizzle helped keep it that way. There was nobody at the Land Rover except for two Esperance uniforms. The jeep had been abandoned. Cato, still fearing boobytraps, urged caution in their approach. Having never worked in Belfast, Beirut or Baghdad none of them really knew what to look out for as telltale signs of a booby-trapped car. There didn’t appear to be any loose wires, packages taped to the underside, funny smells, or ticking noises. Cato opened the passenger door and found something that chilled him a whole lot more. The passenger seat was splattered with a few drops of blood and on the rear seat, more blood and a baby’s pram.