Bad Seed (41 page)

Driscoll returned from the counter with an orange juice for Cato and a bright green drink for himself. ‘Kale smoothie,' he grimaced. ‘The fitness instructor threatened to fail me this morning. He said I was a fat Canberra bastard and past it.'

‘Harsh,' said Cato. They were in some new food dude warehouse in the West End: bricks, pipes, thick old-growth wood, and pierced hipster chefs – all of them with sleeve tatts and big Ned Kelly beards. The prices were daylight robbery too – the Kelly Gang should have just waited one hundred and forty years and opened a bistro in Freo and avoided all that heavy armour.

‘Your focaccia's on its way. I'm having a fucking salad.' Driscoll slurped on his green drink. ‘So what can I do for you?'

Cato told him about the overnight phone call. Driscoll's face betrayed no hint of any prior knowledge. He seemed surprised and concerned. But then he was probably trained in that kind of stuff.

‘They mean business, then.'

‘Who's they? Who precisely pushed you my way?'

‘How do you mean?'

‘You felt obliged to drop a word in my ear. What inspired you?'

Driscoll shrugged. ‘Jungle drums. A friend of a friend of a friend of an enemy. You know how it works.'

‘Phoebe Li?'

‘Phoebe?' The nonchalance was a bit too nonchalant. ‘What makes you think she's involved?'

‘She had Lara killed. She's daddy's little girl and daddy has a lot of money at stake in that development.' Cato's focaccia and Driscoll's salad arrived. Cato took a bite, savouring the grilled eggplant, pesto and activated almonds. He had a Mars bar waiting in his desk drawer as back-up. ‘And she was having it away with Yu Guangming. All in all, I'd say she's an ethically challenged individual.'

‘Yeah,' conceded Driscoll. ‘She's a dangerous bitch, all right.'

‘So?'

‘So you're better informed than I thought and here's me thinking
I was the one and true font. Your mate from yesterday, Guido, is he your new oracle?'

‘Classified.' Cato had wanted to be able to say that to Driscoll.

‘Touché. I did remember him a few hours later. I'd met him at a nightclub in Shanghai some time back. He was on the arm of the lovely Phoebe.'

‘So
is
Phoebe behind all this?'

‘Dunno, mate.' Driscoll prodded his salad despondently. ‘But if you're thinking of rattling anyone's cage, it may as well be hers.'

Cato studied him. The guy would ace it in a poker game.

‘How are you today, David?'

David Mundine kept his eyes closed and pretended he hadn't heard.

‘David?'

His ear throbbed. He hadn't seen it yet, it was covered by a protective gauze. But he had seen the faces of the nurses whenever they changed the dressings. Disgust.

‘David?'

He opened an eye but he already knew who it was. It was the lady detective wanting to know about the collection of bones from John Forrest. She had somebody with her. A young bloke, dark curls and big lashes. Peter's type.

‘Umm?'

‘DI Pavlou, we spoke briefly yesterday.'

He nodded weakly and asked for some water. Adonis did the honours.

‘Are you up to a few more questions today, David?'

He gave them a brave wan smile.

‘This is Detective Constable Fernandez. I'll leave you in his hands.'

‘Sure,' said Mundine.

She left. Fernandez stuck out a hand. ‘Joe.'

‘David,' said David.

Cato wanted to know what it was that he'd done recently that had changed the game. He tried to plot out a timeline. It was only just over a week since his return from China. It seemed so much more. During that time they'd buried Lara Sumich and faced Hutchens' nemesis in the swampy lowlands of East Augusta. What else? On the instructions of DI Pavlou they'd sheeted the Tan murders away to Yu Guangming and archived the case. But Cato had kept digging. He'd dug into Wongan Holdings and Suzhou Dragon. Who knew he had? Driscoll for sure, otherwise it had been internet searches and the ACC profile. ACC. He'd asked Mystery Mike to earn his keep and look into O'Neill and Yu. The bloke hadn't got back to him and, in the distraction of the Mundine business, Cato had let it slide. He picked up the phone and dialled.

‘That you, Michael?'

‘Who's this?'

‘Philip Kwong. Have you had a chance to follow up on that stuff I requested?'

‘No.'

‘Busy?'

‘Not especially.'

‘So?'

‘So I ran it past both Sandra Pavlou and my supervisors and they confirmed that your request wasn't authorised.'

‘No help forthcoming then?'

‘Sorry.'

He ended the call and added Michael to his list of suspects.

He'd also had a visit from Guido Caletti who'd tipped him off about Phoebe Li and Yu Guangming. Almost immediately after that, he'd received the warning from Driscoll. Coincidence?

What else?

Matthew Tan? Cato still wasn't convinced about the stowaway but, as yet, he could see no link between that and somebody in China wanting to pass on a warning via Driscoll.

In Cato's view it had to be the Yu, Phoebe, and O'Neill nexus.

No further forward.

Reverse angle and rewind. Back to the basic question of the
murder. What could Francis Tan have known, or said, or done, that warranted the slaughter of him and his family?

Cato dragged Francis Tan's phone records out of the database once more.

This part of the investigation had fallen under the remit of Major Crime. The analysis of the phone data had been done by Detective Constable J. Fernandez with supervision from a Detective Sergeant P. MacMahon and sign-off by DI Pavlou. Calls and texts made and received had been itemised by date, time, duration and whether the person at the other end fitted into certain categories such as family, business, friend/associate, personal or other. Any anomalies such as extended duration or unusual times like middle of the night, or patterns such as repeated calls over a short period had been marked for follow up. Thomas Li and Guido Caletti came under the pink highlighter treatment as did Des O'Neill. In time, Guido and Des dropped off as Li became the focus. Email trails had been similarly analysed but these seemed a lot more carefully worded as if in anticipation that someday someone might come looking.

Cato made himself a cuppa and settled in for the afternoon.

Mundine reckoned he had DC Joe Fernandez wrapped around his little finger. He was back to his twitchy victim persona. No, he couldn't remember much of what happened. He was in this house down south with Mr H. and his lovely family and then the lights went out. No, he couldn't explain how he got there or why. He'd taken this blow to the head with a red-hot poker. Lucky to be alive really. A dead cop called Jason? Don't remember that. Peter Sinclair? Yes, he remembered Peter Sinclair, he was the dirty old man who had ruined his life. No, he didn't know anything about John Forrest National Park. Mr H. said that? Really? Paul Morrison's death in the Bassendean house fire? Who? Oh Paulie, Mum's old boyfriend. Really? Shame.

‘So what happens next?'

‘That's up to the boss, mate. But I'd expect some charges might follow and then you'll get your day in court.'

‘Charges?'

‘There's a lot of explaining to do. Mr H. … I mean DI Hutchens and his family didn't get tied up or injured all by themselves, did they?'

‘S'pose not.' Mundine rattled his handcuffed hand. ‘So this stays on, yeah?'

‘Yep.'

‘I should probably get a lawyer, eh?'

‘Might be an idea.'

‘Know any?'

‘Try Legal Aid.' Fernandez gathered his things.

‘Is Mr H. okay?'

‘He will be.'

‘Good. That's good.'

It was in studying the week preceding the murders that Cato picked up on a pattern of calls and corresponding emails that, on paper, were explicable and seemingly innocuous. In hindsight they were anything but. It was late afternoon. Outside the light was dying and punters strode purposefully towards the pubs to launch their weekend. Jake would be dropped off tomorrow and Cato's guts churned a little at the prospect of more domestic angst. But this was parenting, he told himself, the good and the bad. You had to nip this stuff in the bud or … what? Your offspring became the child of Satan, a little Matthew Tan bouncing bocce balls off the heads of innocent babes, a self-absorbed Zac Harvey trolling a dead girlfriend, a vengeful and murderous David Mundine stalking the night, or a vicious Phoebe Li erasing her enemies from existence. Maybe Cato was projecting a little too much here. Jake was a teenage boy who'd tried a bit of dope and bunked off school occasionally. Stop the presses. Anyway, that was tomorrow, this was now.

There were a number of calls on Tuesday 30
^th
July between Francis Tan and Des O'Neill, and between Francis Tan and Thomas Li. It was forty-eight hours before Li and Yu Guangming would
board that same flight to Perth. Just six days before the massacre of the Tan family in Port Coogee. There were four calls between Tan and O'Neill: the first from Tan lasted just over six minutes, the second from O'Neill just under three minutes, the third from O'Neill less than a minute, and the last from O'Neill just fifteen seconds. All within a twenty-minute block commencing at breakfast time that morning. Almost immediately after the last of those calls from O'Neill, Tan had called Thomas Li. There were three calls between them over the remainder of that day, short ones, about the length of a left message. After that last phone message Tan had followed up with a short email to Li.

Looking forward to catching up with you on Monday. We have much to discuss.

And the reply from Li.

Indeed. Your proposal could save us all a lot of money. Onward and upward good friend!

Finally, at day's end, an SMS from Des O'Neill to Tan. Initially erased but since retrieved by the techs.

Good luck, mate, you'll need it