Bad Seed (17 page)

‘Can we shoot it?' whispered Thornton.

‘Not yet.'

There was a groan. Low, animalistic. It wasn't the dog.

Cato took the last few steps quickly and followed the blood trail into the bedroom. Lily was on the floor, kimono askew. She'd been badly beaten, punched and kicked. But she was alive and there were no signs of any other weapon being used. Her face was pulpy, hair matted with blood, some teeth were missing. Cato could see them on the carpet. Thornton was on his mobile summoning assistance.

‘Who was it, Lily? Who did this?'

She reached a hand up to him, a varnished nail had split and torn away from the finger. Tears mingled with the blood on her face.

‘Did Matt do this to you?'

No answer. The hand dropped back to the carpet. Cato put an alert out for Matt anyway as an ambulance siren wailed in the distance.

DI Pavlou wasn't best pleased by the turn of events. If nothing else, it took the shine off her Thomas Li theory which had been building nicely. Now it was reverting back to a sordid little domestic starring Matthew Tan – Bad Seed.

‘So where is the little shit?'

‘Don't know. We've got people out chasing him down. We're checking known associates, usual hangouts, et cetera. The geeks are monitoring his phone and bank cards. The airports have been alerted. Every mobile patrol will be looking for him. Short of that…' Cato shrugged.

‘Media?'

‘Along the hall, waiting for your word. Hannah's ready to brief you.'

She stood up and grabbed her phone and specs from the desk. ‘Next time you get a juicy little lead I want to know first, not last. Right now I'm still tossing up whether or not to have you suspended.'

‘The lead only came to light late this morning through Chris Thornton's diligence,' said Cato. ‘You had made it clear that I was responsible for the Matthew Tan side of the inquiry. You've shown little interest in anything except Thomas Li.'

Pavlou was half out of her door. She stopped, came back, closed it. ‘Pull your head in, Kwong.' She let out a ragged breath, gathering her thoughts. ‘You know there's a bit of a pattern developing in your behaviour: sabotaging Lara's work, undermining mine. I thought you were better than that, Philip.'

‘Boss?'

A curl of the lip. ‘Blokes in the workplace. Over the years I've found they come in all shapes and sizes – buffoons, cavemen, gimps.' A locking of eyes with Cato. ‘And passive-aggressives. They come. They go.' She opened her office door again. ‘I'll let you front the media today, mate. Take one for the team.'

Hutchens heard the news on the radio as he drove to his rendezvous with David Mundine. He allowed himself a grim smile. So it
looked like it was the Tan boy all along. It was sunny with a cold gusty wind shaking the trees and a harsh brightness to the winter daylight. Mundine wanted to meet him at J. B. O'Reilly's pub in West Leederville. Mid-afternoon, and the place was dark and dead. A couple of diehards grimaced into their pints. Mundine was sitting in a corner under a wall of Disneyfied Irish paraphernalia: street signs, shamrocks, sepia photos of rebels, diddle-eye fucking oh.

Mundine shook his nearly empty glass at Hutchens. ‘Guinness.'

Hutchens ordered one and a Kilkenny for himself and returned to the table. ‘You can't do that shit, mate.'

‘What's that?'

‘Phone my home and swear at my wife.'

‘Sensitive is she? Well brought up?'

Hutchens looked around the room, measured up some consequences. ‘If I killed Sinclair what's to stop me going that one step further?'

‘Are you threatening me, Mr Hutchens?'

‘You're a useless junkie waste of space. A fuck-up. No wonder Sinclair took you as a girlfriend. Some people are born victims.'

‘That right?'

‘You know it is. Now piss off and leave me and my family alone before you get badly hurt.'

Mundine flicked through his iPhone, found what he was looking for, a photo of Hutchens' oldest daughter. ‘Melanie, isn't it? Lovely girl. Just moved into that nice place in Subiaco.'

‘I'm going to kill you.'

‘That bloke of hers goes away a lot doesn't he? Filmmaker or something. Always out …' his fingers curled in air quotes, ‘on location.'

Hutchens leaned across the table and grabbed Mundine's throat. Glasses went flying. The barman, an Irish backpacker, wanted them to cut it out. ‘Fuck off,' Hutchens said to him over his shoulder. He was about to draw back his fist for a punch when he felt a prick of pain in his left side, level with his heart. He looked down. A long blade was poised to enter his rib cage. A trickle of blood spreading on his shirt.

‘You're right, Mr Hutchens,' Mundine rasped. ‘Some people are
born victims.' Hutchens released his grip on Mundine's throat. The blade stayed there. ‘You've just been owned by a junkie fuck-up, Mr H. What does that make you?' Mundine felt around for Hutchens' wallet. Found it, emptied it, kept the money and the family snapshots. ‘My price just went up. You'll be hearing from me.'

And he was gone.

The barman put some more diddle-eye music on the CD and asked Hutchens if he wanted another drink while they waited for the police to arrive. ‘On the house, sir.'

‘Cancel the police,' said Hutchens, mopping his bloody shirt with a paper napkin. ‘Just a misunderstanding.'

It was dark by the time Cato got home. Rain dotted the windows as he defrosted a tub of pesto in the microwave and set some pasta to boil. There was still no sign of Matthew Tan even though his face and description was now on all major news outlets. Cato was just sitting down to his pesto when the front doorbell rang.

It was Jake.

‘Hi. Come in.' Cato tried to hug him but was rebuffed. His son was almost the same height as him now, his voice deeper, and there was an outcrop of acne at the corner of the mouth. It complimented the livid nail gun scar on his cheek. ‘Everything okay?'

The boy slumped at the kitchen table as Cato flicked on the kettle. ‘No.'

‘What's up?'

‘I want to come and live with you.'

This was news. Last week he couldn't even be bothered to come over for a visit at the weekend. ‘Why?'

‘Does there need to be a reason? You're my dad.'

‘What's going on?'

‘Nothing. Just sick of home that's all.'

Cato slid a mug of tea towards his son and plonked a bottle of milk beside it. He waited, not filling the silence.

‘Simon's a dickhead. I hate him.'

‘Why?'

‘He just is. Always on my back. Sticking his nose in.'

‘Jake, just get to the point. What is it that's really pissing you off?'

A glint and the hint of a smile hidden by the tea mug. ‘He doesn't like my mates, wants to stop me seeing them.'

‘Why would he do that?'

‘He reckons they're a bad influence.'

‘Are they?'

‘No. They're just mates.'

‘He must have his reasons.'

A flare in the eyes. ‘Must he? Maybe he's just imagining shit. He just needs to get a life.'

‘Imagining what?'

A shrug. ‘Ask him.'

‘I'm asking you.'

An exasperated sigh. ‘He reckons we're doing drugs and stuff.'

‘Are you?'

‘No.'

This could take all night. ‘I'll have a chat with your mum.'

‘Good luck. She's in babyland, boring everybody with her pregnancy.'

‘Feeling left out?'

‘Yeah, Dad. Nobody's child. So can I move in here with you?'

‘Like I said, I'll have a chat with your mum.'

‘Don't bother.' Jake slurped from his mug and banged it back down on the table. ‘I get the picture.'

DI Hutchens' door opened and Cato was summoned with a wave.

‘How's your passport? Up to date?'

‘Far as I know, yeah.'

‘Nip home and bring it in. Urgent. We need to get you a visa.'

‘Maybe you could start at the beginning?'

‘You're Shanghai-bound my boy. Special invitation.'

‘Li? He's Major Crime's job.'

‘He is indeed but he's only agreed to be interviewed by them if you're along for the ride.' Hutchens allowed himself an evil chuckle. ‘Pissed off Pavlou, no end.'

Cato wasn't aware he'd made much of an impression on Tommy Li that night at the airport. Or was that the point? Li had chosen him because he could; it was a way of putting DI Pavlou in her place. Cato's focus was Matthew Tan, he needed to find him. A pawn in somebody's power game? He didn't need this right now and said as much to his boss.

‘Four or five days they reckon. Home by Tuesday at the latest. I'll keep things ticking over here, I'm not due back at the Inquiry until a week Monday.' Hutchens ushered Cato towards the door. ‘Loosen up, mate. Sit in on the interview. Buy some souvenirs. Come home. Gig of the year.'

Hutchens seemed bright and unflappable. Almost manically so. ‘Everything okay with you, boss?'

‘Never better, mate.'

Cato didn't buy it. Hutchens' face was pink and tight. The voice
was a half-note higher like air escaping from a balloon. ‘You seem, I don't know, a bit wound up?'

Hutchens ushered him through the door. ‘Off you go, now.'

Apparently there was no way out. Cato went home and found his passport. He'd tried a few times to reach Jake but the boy's mobile was turned off. He sent a text:
sorry if I was grumpy last night, lets talk more.
That afternoon, while he waited for compelling leads on Matthew Tan, he googled Shanghai and got the gist – Paris or Whore of the Orient – depending on your point of view. Early Christian missionaries had formed the opinion that if God didn't smite Shanghai then he owed Sodom and Gomorrah an apology. Population twenty-three million – the whole of Australia crammed into one city. In addition it often had smog to die for and sixteen thousand dead pigs had floated down the Huangpu River back in March. Oh, and a new strain of chicken flu had killed around forty people in the last few months. Great. Pollution and calamity on an Old Testament scale.

‘Can't I just sit in on Skype?' he'd whined after handing over his passport and bringing Hutchens up to date.

‘It's all about face, mate, you should know that. And Li wants your face, present, in the room. Look, flu-schmu, you've got more chance of catching mesothelioma with all the devil's dust they've been finding around the old office these last few months. Just stay clear of pork and chook and you'll be right.' A reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Tofu. That's the gear.'