Bad Seed (49 page)

On his way back to the office Cato grabbed some late lunch at the cafe over the road. He opted for a chicken salad roll and an apple juice and slid into a spare booth just inside the door. It was still raining and the sky, gunmetal grey, held the promise of plenty more to come. Next door, Roy Orbison drifted out of The Record Finder – ‘Love Hurts'. Zac Harvey, the broken-hearted troll. Sixteen year old Emily and the Shanghai gangster Yu Guangming? Cato didn't want to believe it. Emily had once been like a niece to him. His main memory of her was of a four-year-old in pink, another Suzuki-trained piano prodigy bashing out tunes for him on their baby grand in the Preston Point mansion. But it wouldn't be the first time such an inter-generational matching came to pass. Yu had the looks and the predatory skills that could be mistaken for charm. If there was a history of communication between them then it would have been in his interests to take her phone with him. Her phone records hadn't been examined as thoroughly as her parents' and her older brother, Matt's. The focus had been Francis and his business connections, and then Matt and his history of bad behaviour. But what of it? Whether the motive was business-related or a crime of passion the result was the same. Yu had slaughtered the Tan family. Maybe DI Pavlou was right, maybe it really was time to bury the matter and move on. Several birds, one stone. If he stopped digging then probably the threats to him and his family would also recede.

In the office DI Spittle wanted a word. His role as acting boss had been extended indefinitely, he told Cato. And he had some good news: Cato's acting sergeant's position had been confirmed as
permanent, he'd find the details in his inbox. Something in Spittle's manner gave Cato the distinct impression that the powers-that-be saw the attack on Hutchens as a blessing in disguise. The adverse publicity he'd generated at the Inquiry, added to his colourful history, could now be put to rest with a tragic yet heroic retirement and invalid pension. And if Hutchens died that would make things even easier. Spittle had brought his own family photos in – him and his lovely wife somewhere tropical plus another of his son collecting a footy trophy. He was settling in.

‘How's Mick?' asked Spittle.

‘Half-dead,' said Cato. ‘That holiday you mentioned?'

‘Yes?'

‘How does two weeks from Monday work for you?'

A flicker of the eyelids, a hint of insult. He'd been the bearer of what he believed was good news. ‘I'm sure we'll manage.'

‘Cheers,' said Cato.

Loose ends. He called Driscoll.

‘Pass the word along. I'm giving up on the Chinese connection. I'll even sign their “cease and desist” letter. Just tell them to piss off home and leave me and my family alone.'

‘What's happened?'

‘A dose of common sense.'

‘That's not like you.'

‘The times they are a changing. It's a new world order come Monday. Survival of the fittest.'

‘Jeez, you are in a bad mood aren't you?' A pause. ‘So I don't suppose I can appeal to your strong moral compass and sense of justice one last time?'

‘Alright then,' muttered Cato, shoulders slumping. ‘Let's hear it.'

Driscoll outlined his plan. ‘Go on,' he said at the end. ‘You know you want to.'

Driscoll was right. Cato did want in. He left instructions for Chris Thornton and Deb Hassan to review the Tan family phone records and, in particular, to look at those other family members who had
previously received only cursory attention.

‘I'm after any connections with Yu Guangming or any other such persons of interest.'

‘Why?' said Thornton.

‘Deb will brief you. It's about confirming a witness story – or not, as the case may be.'

‘Fair enough. Did you get a chance to look at that latest Des O'Neill stuff I sent through?'

‘No, give me the gist.'

‘He was the executor of Benjamin's trust fund. Guess who stood to gain when the poor little bugger got run over?'

‘Invite Des in for a chat in the morning. No hurry, no hint of drama. We'll see what he's got to say for himself. Meanwhile keep digging if you get any free time.'

‘You due back any time today, sarge?'

‘Can't say. I'm doing important work for the government.'

‘Good luck with that. They're history after the weekend.'

‘I'd better get my skates on then.'

He'd arranged to meet Driscoll in the lobby of the Duxton. It was late afternoon by the time he got there. Black clouds boiled over the Swan River and wind tore at the surface of the water. St Georges Terrace was clogged. Those who'd started their commute home early already had headlights on. Inside, the Duxton was an oasis of warmth, light and luxury. Driscoll was there with Phoebe Li and Peter Tien.

‘No Feng?' enquired Cato.

‘No,' said Phoebe. She snapped her fingers. ‘Peter, give him the letter.'

The lawyer looked irritated but did as he was told. It was another copy of the cease and desist order. Cato read it through once more, out loud. How he must withdraw the allegation that Phoebe Li was in a business and personal relationship with Yu Guangming and further that she was involved in a conspiracy with said person to defraud her father's company and the Chinese people. And he was
to stop harassing the Li family with his defamatory investigations. Blah, blah, and blah again.

‘Remind me,' said Cato. ‘What do I get in return?'

‘Peace of mind,' said Phoebe.

‘Not enough. My family and I have been threatened.'

Peter smiled reassuringly. ‘You have our word that any such threat you perceive is henceforth vanquished.'

‘Henceforth vanquished,' said Cato. ‘I like the sound of that. But I also have other concerns. My career is in jeopardy, my financial security.'

Peter and Phoebe exchanged a look. ‘Our understanding is that your career is flourishing.'

‘You're well informed,' conceded Cato.

‘But we do understand the need for financial security,' said Peter, entering the game. ‘What level of jeopardy are we talking about?'

They agreed a level and a method of payment. Cato signed on the dotted line, two copies, one for him to have and hold. ‘Happy now?'

‘Thank you,' said Peter, graciously.

Phoebe was less forgiving. ‘You have caused us a great deal of time and expense, Mr Kwong.'

‘Sorry.'

Peter waved down a waiter and they ordered drinks to seal the moment.

‘So when are you headed back to China?' wondered Cato, sipping a pricey Pinot Noir that carried a perfume redolent of fox piss.

‘When we are ready,' said Phoebe.

‘Checking out the sights?'

‘Unfinished business.'

Cato took a punt, and deviated from Driscoll's script. ‘That would be Des O'Neill?'

‘Who?' said Phoebe.

Driscoll was shaking his head. Trying to warn him off. Cato ignored him. ‘Wongan Holdings. With Yu Guangming out of the way, he's the only one standing between you and the Cambridge Gardens site.'

Peter Tien stood and offered his hand. ‘Well, we have a few
matters to attend to. Thank you for your cooperation Detective
Sergeant
Kwong.'

‘Pity. I was hoping to be able to say a proper goodbye to Mr Feng.'

‘I'll pass your good wishes on to him.'

Phoebe didn't bother with the handshake. She hooked her arm in Peter Tien's and they left.

‘Why couldn't you just stick to the plan?' hissed Driscoll.

‘Another drink? Let's shove it on their tab, I'm sure they won't mind.' Cato resumed his seat. ‘And then you can tell me where Feng is.'

Cato had switched to beer, a boutique IPA from a local brewer. It still tasted not much different to wallop, except for the price.

‘They've been monitoring my work computer too.'

‘How do you know?'

‘They're full bottle on my career trajectory.' Cato explained: Tien's rebuttal that Cato's career was flourishing, his emphasis on Detective
Sergeant
Kwong at the end. ‘All the recent developments on that are on my work emails.'

‘That's it?'

‘It also means they're interested in my musings on O'Neill. All of that stuff was also on my work computer.' Cato took a swig. ‘That's where Feng is now, isn't he? With Des?'

‘Yes.'

‘Does he mean harm to him?'

‘I doubt it. He's probably just making him an offer he can't refuse. Spilling blood in someone else's country is impolite and bad for business.'

‘You knew that's where he'd be. Why no sharesies?'

‘I didn't want to worry you.'

‘Thanks. So did you get what you want?'

‘I did.' Driscoll patted his jacket pocket, where the voice recorder was. ‘Plus the phone on the table for back-up.' He nodded towards a first floor balcony. ‘And pictures courtesy of our AFP colleagues.'

‘Enough?'

‘In an Australian court, probably not. In China, with the authorities ready to make an example of them, it should be more
than adequate. The conviction rate in Chinese courts is ninety-nine point nine three per cent. Impressive, huh?'

‘What about the remaining point zero seven?'

‘I think they might be accounted for by deaths in custody before trial.'

‘And what's to stop you turning all this against me? The corrupt cop, soliciting bribes and agreeing to drop an investigation in return. All signed on the dotted line and recorded on video and MP3 for posterity.'

‘Trust me?'

‘No, not really.'

‘But?'

‘I like living dangerously. So who's behind all this? Your General mate in the PLA?'

Driscoll smiled. ‘I think we're about even now.'

‘What will happen to them?'

‘Show trial and firing squad. Tommy Li, Phoebe, Feng and poor Peter. Six weeks to live, if they're lucky.' Driscoll downed the last of his beer. ‘Feeling guilty?'

Cato thought about Lara Sumich. ‘No.' But he knew his face betrayed him.

‘Maybe just a little, eh?' He patted Cato's shoulder. ‘It's a good result. Believe me.'

Des O'Neill wasn't playing whatever game it was that Feng had in mind.

‘No,' he said.

‘It's a very good offer, Mr O'Neill.'

They were in O'Neill's favourite pub, Clancy's in Freo. It was pissing down outside and the place was rapidly filling with after-work drinkers. The fires were burning and steam rose from those recently caught in the rain. O'Neill had a stout, the Chinaman had a coke.

‘It's less than half the previous offer. And that wasn't enough either. It's an insult, mate.'

Feng looked uncomfortable. They really should have sent somebody with the gift of the gab. This bloke was muscle, nothing more. What were they thinking?

‘It is the last offer, Mr O'Neill. Take it or leave it.'

‘I'll leave it.' He shook his glass at Feng and smiled. ‘Another?'