Bad Seed (53 page)

‘Hypothetically it sends a message that you're not finished yet.'

They wrapped up the formalities and turned off the recording equipment. ‘What's going to happen to Joyce?' said Cato.

O'Neill shrugged sadly. ‘God knows.'

Henry Hurley made a point of checking his watch as Cato walked through the door. The man didn't like to be kept waiting. Deb Hassan made all the announcements for the recording. Thornton was busy charging O'Neill with whatever they could, pending further enquiries. So far the main one was a murder conspiracy charge relating to the Tans plus the assault on Cato but they hoped, in time, to link him to Feng's death plus some financial impropriety. Enough to put him inside for a long while, leaving his wife to fade away from that cancer.

Matthew was a different kettle of fish, as they say. According to O'Neill, the boy had no prior knowledge of Yu's intentions to murder the Tans. So what could he be charged with: hindering the investigation by not revealing what he knew, or suspected, after the fact? By the looks on their faces both Matthew and his lawyer had already worked that out for themselves.

‘Is Mr Tan charged, or likely to be charged with anything?' said Hurley.

‘As yet, no. But we're hoping he may be able to help us clear up a few matters in relation to the horrific murders of his family.'

‘Possibly. But he is also free to leave at any time?'

‘Yes.'

‘Then we'll play this by ear, shall we? Mr Tan has indicated to me that he is happy to help in whatever way he can.'

‘Great,' said Cato. ‘So, Matthew you stood to gain a lot if your father could be persuaded to not tell Mr Li what he knew about Des O'Neill?'

‘I don't know what Uncle Des has been saying, nor do I know the details of his business but he did ask me to mediate on a sensitive matter between him and my dad.'

Henry Hurley had coached the lad well, he was a ventriloquist's dummy: a gottle o' geer, a gottle o' geer.

‘Mediate in what way?' said Cato.

‘Primarily by encouraging him to talk to Des about whatever concerns he had.'

‘The phone records indicate that you weren't talking to your father much either. How could you mediate?'

‘Through Mum.'

‘And Mr O'Neill offered you some money in return?'

‘We discussed a mediation consultancy fee, yes.'

‘How much?'

‘A million dollars.'

‘That's a lot of money.'

‘Yes.'

‘Was that dependent on success? Because you failed to change your father's mind.'

‘Best endeavours.'

‘Did you know Yu Guangming?'

‘I'd met him previously. Family functions. I saw him around the house on some occasions.'

‘Yet you've previously been shown a photo of him and denied you knew him.'

‘Did I? Must have been at the height of my grief phase.'

‘What did you know about him?'

‘He worked for some of my father's business associates in China.'

‘Anything else?'

‘Bit of a sleazebag. Mum seemed to like his company. Even Em had a crush on him. Yuk.'

‘Did you know he was in a business partnership with Des O'Neill?'

‘Not until you mentioned it last night.'

‘And you didn't know that he was the one who killed your family?'

‘Not at the time, no.'

‘Later?'

‘When you told me, it came as no huge surprise.'

‘But in the days following the murders you must have had your suspicions, at least about Mr O'Neill. Yet you said nothing?'

‘No.'

‘Why not?'

‘I was grief-stricken. Nothing would bring them back.'

‘And if Des O'Neill was arrested, you wouldn't see your million bucks, right?'

‘That's an outrageous and heartless allegation,' fumed Henry Hurley.

Cato ignored him. ‘Matt?'

‘I can't help it if you want to see the world that way, Uncle Phil. You've never really liked me since I chucked that bocce ball at your son. It was an accident, you know. Not my fault if he can't catch.'

Cato didn't rise to it. ‘But either way, the million is down the dunny.'

Matt shrugged. ‘The house sale, a few other inherited assets, I'll get by. Times like this you don't think about the money, you focus on the stuff of life. Love. Family. All that.'

Cato wrapped things up. He warned them that he would be pursuing a charge of hindering the investigation and he'd be in touch.

On the way out Matt shook Cato's hand like they were friends.

‘Oh, did I mention? Lily's pregnant. I'm going to be a dad!'

It was mid-afternoon by the time Cato had completed the necessary paperwork and could head home for what remained of his weekend. First of all he voted. It was with a heavier heart than usual. There was an ugliness and tightness in the air, a feeling of scores about to be settled, blood about to be let. He'd received a text from Driscoll just after lunch.

Li dynasty in chokey

It was accompanied by a smiley face. Sign of the times. Would the impending apocalypse be texted to us all with a sad emoticon?

He decided to call in on Hutchens at the hospital. He was surprised and mightily relieved to find him awake.

‘G'day,' croaked Hutchens.

Marjorie gave Cato her chair and nipped out for a toilet break and a cuppa. Come to think of it, she said, she should probably go and vote too.

‘Lazarus with a triple bypass. Good to see you on the mend, boss.'

‘So I am still your boss? You didn't go with the Velvet Hammer?'

‘I don't think I'd have lasted long.'

‘I'm stuck with you?'

‘Yeah.'

‘Fuck's sake.' Hutchens studied Cato's latest battle scars. ‘Been in the wars?'

‘Thin blue line, all that stands between decent folk and chaos.'

Hutchens lifted a hand at the spaghetti of tubes and wires keeping him in existence. ‘You and me both.'

‘I'm off on holiday for two weeks, come Monday.'

‘Anywhere nice?'

‘Dunno yet.'

‘I'll see you when you get back. I aim to be out of here by then.'

‘No hurry,' said Cato.

‘Mundine gone yet?'

‘Cremation next week.'

‘Thank Christ for that. Thought I was going to have to buy a crucifix and some fucking garlic.'

‘The Inquiry?'

‘Can say what they like, I don't care. I got a text from that cunt Andy Crouch. Some local publisher wants to print his memoirs. Can you believe that?'

‘You'll be famous.'

‘I'll be rich. I'll sue the fucker.'

They parried and jabbed for a few minutes more but Cato could see the old bugger was tiring. ‘I'd better make tracks. Don't suppose you're voting today, then?'

‘I'm excused, I've got brain damage.'

‘It's not stopping anybody else,' said Cato.

Zhou sat in his wheelchair and gazed out of the window at the sun melting in the smoky western sky. They were on the tenth floor of a twenty-storey apartment block not so far from where they lived before the pigs came floating in. A block with an elevator! The property development company had been true to their word and now he was installed in the skyscraper of his dreams.

From here he could see the muddy twist of river, the scavengers on the banks, the stallholders still scratching an existence, and the earthmovers once again bullying the ground into shape. His wife was downstairs cleaning one of the apartments of their richer neighbours. None of those neighbours spoke to them. Perhaps our clothes are too shabby, he thought, maybe I still have the stink of the communal bins about me. But they now had a living and that was something. The girl had one more year left at school. A better one now, private, also paid for by the property company. She had a good brain and a good future. No more talk of nightclubs and massage parlours. Had Little Zhou's sacrifice been worth it? He'd known that what he was being asked to do was wrong. He'd also known that they would most likely kill him for it. But that look they shared when the boy made his decision. All of that anger seemed to dissolve, like an evil spirit driven out. And so here they were, in the skyscraper of their dreams.

It was a pity about that foreign woman. The Australian. But one life in China? It was the swat of a single mosquito on the long road to a cure for malaria. Zhou wiped away a stray tear and lit himself a Double Happiness.

The election was all over by early evening WA time but the pundits were obliged to drone on until the loser officially capitulated and the incumbent claimed victory. In time he did and the choreography was hardly subtle. The flags, the rapturous triumphant audience, even the family wardrobe choice underlined the new order: White Australia was well and truly back.

Cato's mobile buzzed. He muted the TV.

It was Sharon Wang. ‘Are you watching it?'

‘Yeah,' said Cato. ‘You?'

‘Online. Turn it off and devote all your attention to me.'

Cato was happy to oblige. ‘Where are you?'

‘Beijing. Packing my bags.'

‘The meeting with the bosses didn't go too well?'

‘I'm a disgrace. I'm insubordinate, disobedient and unreliable. Not a team player. Et cetera.'

‘The sack?' said Cato. ‘Far out.'

‘Worse. Demoted and transferred.'

‘Shit. Where to?'

‘Some hick airport at the arse end of the planet: hands up the bums of drug mules, escorting drunks off planes. Crap like that. I'll just get my papers and have a look.' There was a rustle and she was back. ‘Perth? Where the hell's that?'

Cato found himself smiling. ‘God, that sucks.'

‘What am I supposed to do in a place like Perth?' she grumbled.

‘I can think of a few things,' said Cato.

‘Yeah?' she murmured. ‘Tell me.'

All characters appearing this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. While Port Coogee, WA, is an actual location, the defining characteristics of this housing development in this novel are the work of the author's imagination. In fact, some of the author's best friends live there.

I'd like to thank the Asialink Foundation for supporting my two-month residency in Shanghai and enabling me to get a glimpse of daily life in such an amazing city. Thanks to my hosts, the Shanghai Writers Association, for their hospitality, advice, and network of fabulous contacts. Thanks also, as ever, to Dr Isaac Harvey for his ongoing medical expertise and no, he's not really an internet troll and does not have a frullet. Alain Otto is to thank/blame for supplying me with the ‘yesterdie' joke. Thanks also to the team at Fremantle Press for all their support and efforts on behalf of Cato and myself. In particular my editor, Georgia Richter, who continues to keep me grammatically honest and is generous with her editorial wisdom and guidance. Thank you too to my agent Clive Newman for working to ensure Cato has a few more adventures in him yet. Finally my beautiful wife Kath and son Liam who continue to support me in my literary endeavours and put up with those long periods when I stare into space and conjure up terrible things.