Bad Seed (27 page)

‘So,' said Pavlou. ‘Li?'

‘Like I said in my report, I really don't think he's behind it. He's too big for that stuff. The losses incurred by Francis Tan were small change to him.'

‘Yu Guangming?'

‘He said not but I don't believe him. He admitted to being on the scene, on the day.'

‘So if it was him, he's dead. Case closed?'

‘It would wrap things up pretty neatly,' agreed Cato, aware that any talk of Des O'Neill and the Wongan connection would be snuffed out unless and until he could offer more concrete supporting evidence.

‘But?' said Pavlou.

‘There's Matthew Tan's mystery stowaway. I take it we haven't found Matt or his passenger yet?'

‘Nah,' said Hutchens.

‘How's Lily?' said Cato.

‘Recovering. Mum and Dad cut short their holiday in Mauritius to come back and look after her.'

‘Let's make Matthew a priority then, shall we?' said Pavlou. ‘His attack on Lily was probably just a domestic. And if he can explain the stowaway, or even just deny all knowledge, then we might be able to pin the Tan murders on Yu Guangming and file it away.'

Hutchens bristled. ‘Finding Matthew Tan has never
not
been a priority, Sandra.'

A reassuring pat on the hand. ‘Sure, Mick. But it would be good to
give the Commissioner some good news ahead of Lara's funeral, eh?'

‘Absolutely,' said Hutchens, playing nice.

Sandra. Mick. If the entente got any more cordiale Cato thought he might puke.

Cato had other thoughts. He was happy enough to see Yu Guangming in the frame for the murders but there were other people who had some explaining to do. Here and in China. He opened up his laptop and summoned Francis Tan's financial records from the investigation database. The folder included the Tan family's individual and business bank and credit card statements, the Tan business balance sheets plus a flowchart and timeline of business deals and associations over the last five years. It looked very thorough. The geeks at the ACC had been busy.

According to the financial profile, things had started to go wrong for Francis Tan between two and three years ago. Before that his star had been on the rise as a result of his lucrative partnerships with Thomas Li in China and Des O'Neill in Australia. Li had a shopping list of property assets he was interested in and O'Neill and Tan between them had a good eye for a bargain and a persuasive manner for unlocking the riches of both urban and rural Western Australia. At his zenith Francis Tan would have had a personal wealth of around twenty million dollars. Then it began slipping through his fingers. A string of bad luck and bad decisions that commenced about three years earlier sent his business into a tailspin. But was it really just bad luck or did somebody have a hand in his downfall?

In Thames Town, that confected English ghost city on the outskirts of Shanghai, Thomas Li had drawn his attention to a sign advertising the bland Cambridge Gardens sub-development. One of the partners was Wongan Holdings. Wongan, at first glance, looked like a Chinese company but Cato had seen the name before, in this ACC profile. Wongan, as in Wongan Hills, the birthplace and company name for Des O'Neill's business venture. According to Thomas Li, O'Neill had started spreading his wings about two years earlier, coincidentally the same time Francis Tan started his
run of bad luck, and had taken an interest in property speculation in China. To do so O'Neill would have needed a Chinese partner but, according to Li, neither he nor Tan were involved. Cato had asked, so who then? Li had pointed to another partner on the hoarding, Suzhou Dragon Enterprises. Aka Yu Guangming.

Of course he only had Li's word for that last connection. He needed the ACC or somebody to look into and confirm Yu's connection to Suzhou Dragon. In the meantime Cato scanned the Tan financial profile once again looking for the hand of Des O'Neill and for a possible motive for murder.

Hutchens was sitting in the gloom of J. B. O'Reilly's with a half of Kilkenny and a bulging backpack at his feet, the second instalment of the ten K Mundine had demanded by last Friday. Hutchens had concocted a bullshit story about cash flow to try to limit his risk but he was still three thousand down so far. It was a ‘good faith' investment which he aimed to recoup from the fucker in due course. The seven K balance was once again to be handed over to the middleman, the Irish backpacker barman. His name was Dermot apparently and he had caught Hutchens' eye meaningfully several times since handing over the drink. Once again, mid-afternoon, the place was as quiet as the proverbial. There were only two other patrons, the same two pissheads as last time. Mundine was taking a big risk letting a backpacker mind a bag full of cash for him. He either really trusted Dermot or he was a fucking idiot. So far, more's the pity, the idiot theory hadn't played out. But that made Dermot more interesting and potentially useful. A trawl of the files and public records and some words in the ear of local cops had failed to locate a home address for Mundine. The Inquiry paperwork had him as ‘No Fixed Abode' and they seemed happy to work around that. Either way Hutchens wasn't going to press them for the address of a major witness; it wouldn't look too good. Dermot was the key and he had a shift break due in half an hour.

Mundine had slipped off the radar somewhat since last Friday. No more hysterical texts or threats. Maybe the first cash payment
had restocked his medicine cabinet. For a while Hutchens harboured the faint hope that the prick had used the money to buy a bad batch of smack and OD'd in some filthy suburban hovel. No such luck. Just that morning a measured text had come through with a reminder and instructions for the next instalment. Hutchens downed his drink and made his move as per the agreed routine. He took his backpack up to the bar.

‘Can you watch this for a moment, mate, while I take a piss?'

‘No problemo,' said Dermot, hanging it on a hook behind the counter.

Hutchens went to the toilet, locked himself in a cubicle, and checked his Glock.

He came out, winked his farewell to Dermot, jangled his car keys and headed for the exit. Then he drove around the block and parked up just out of sight over and down the road, in the shade of a flowering flame tree dancing with rainbow lorikeets.

Dermot appeared about twenty minutes later with the backpack slung over his shoulder. He headed west down Cambridge Street and turned up a side road in the direction of West Leederville train station. Hutchens allowed some distance then followed in the car. He knew Dermot only had a half hour break so he wouldn't have time to go far. A train to somewhere and back in that time seemed a bit ambitious. Dermot didn't go up to the platform. Instead he headed for the pedestrian underpass. Hutchens cursed and slapped the driving wheel – Surveillance and Tailing 101 and he'd just failed. But Dermot didn't enter the underpass, he stood and waited at the northern end. A yellow moped drew up beside him, the rider took the backpack and rejoined the burgeoning after-school traffic. Hutchens followed.

It turned out Mundine lived in a block of flats in Jolimont. It might have been one of Perth's leafy green western suburbs but there was little sign of affluence in this run-down corner. The walls of the three-storey block were stained by the scum of bore water. There was a car on bricks under a rusting shelter. A grubby torn mattress leaned against a graffitied wall. Garbage skittered in the breeze. It was skanksville. That suited Hutchens because it was the
type of place where neighbours kept their noses out of other people's business. He put in a call to a friend and passed on the address.

By the end of the afternoon Cato's eyes were blurring from a combination of travel fatigue and from reading and re-reading the Tan financial profile. Accountancy wasn't one of his strong points and he couldn't see anything that jumped out as a clear indicator of malfeasance on the part of Des O'Neill. The spreadsheets were as cryptic as any crossword. All that remained was the coincidence of timelines. During the same couple of years that Francis Tan started going downhill, Des O'Neill was heading up. And making friends with Yu Guangming, a violent man who had been at the crime scene on the day of the murders and left his semen inside Genevieve Tan.

It wasn't enough. Cato couldn't even begin to approach O'Neill without some concrete evidence of wrongdoing. First he would send Cato packing, second he would cover his tracks. As things stood, O'Neill may not have any idea that the police were interested in him and Cato intended to maintain that slight advantage. His phone went, it was Chris Thornton.

‘We have a lead on Matthew Tan.'

‘Go on.'

‘His ATM card was used this afternoon in Scarborough.'

‘By him?'

‘No, the CCTV says it was a woman. I saw the print out and I agree. She is.'

‘And?'

‘According to the database he's got a friend, the girl kind, who lives up the road, just north of Trigg.'

‘Doorbusters?'

‘On the way, we'll meet them there. I'll pick you up out front in five.'

‘Have you told Hutchens?'

‘He's out. Phone turned off. I left a message; but Pavlou's in the loop.'

It was dark by the time they got there. Apartment 32 was on the third floor of a five-storey block just back from the beach with a view out over Mettam's Pool and the Marmion Marine Park. Cato, Jane and Jake had come snorkelling here in happier times. It was a calming protective reef just offshore with all variety of fish. Jake had been so excited he'd tried talking through his snorkel and took a big swallow of seawater. Now it was dark and chopped up, froth foaming the surface. A handful of uniforms were waiting, decked out in protective gear and wielding a battering ram. But first they had to get through the downstairs lobby door and the entryphone system. Cato pressed the relevant button and announced himself to the female occupant.

‘What do you want?'

‘Just open the door please, madam, and we can state our business face to face.'

The door buzzed and clicked and they all filed in. The uniforms took the stairs. Cato and Thornton hopped in the lift.

The young woman at the entrance to number 32 was the spitting image of Lily Soong, minus the bruises.

‘Matilda,' she said, peering at Cato's ID and sniffing at the riot squad. ‘Matilda Soong. Lily's sister,' she added, in case anybody hadn't worked it out yet.

‘Is Matt here?' said Cato.

‘Matt who?'

‘Matthew Tan, the bloke who beat your sister up and put her in hospital.'

‘Oh,' she said. ‘Him.' She thumbed over her shoulder. ‘Back bedroom. Help yourself.'

Matthew Tan was out cold. He looked terrible and smelled worse. The room reeked of Jim Beam or some other bogan spirit. One of the riot squad waved a hand across her face in disgust. ‘Nobody light a match.'

‘He's been a bit upset,' said Matilda leaning against the door frame. ‘So how did you know to come here?'

‘You were on the video at the ATM using Matt's card.' Chris
Thornton was finding it hard to tear his eyes away from Matilda's décolletage.