Getting Warmer (23 page)

There was a whoosh and a howl of agony.

Goatee stepped back from the flames and turned to face Lara. ‘Go home. While you can.’

‘Handcuffed?’

The question came from John. Cato noticed he’d smartened himself up, had a shave, lost the farm boy threads and looked a lot more like a career cop. The man was certainly in better shape than Cato, who’d rocked up red-eyed after a sleepless night: a combination of Madge, a knife wound, and spiralling thoughts about Shellie Petkovic and the Wellard brothers.

It was just past sunrise, there was a fresh blue-tinged clarity to the light over Fremantle. The streets were waking up, the coffee shops beginning to hum; magpies chortled and cockies complained. The TRG had already radioed back that Bryn Irskine, Eyebrow Stud, was not at bikie HQ. An alert was out on him but, for now, there were more pressing matters. They had been summoned to DI Hutchens’ office to talk about the burning car and its charred occupant, now confirmed as Colin Graham.

‘Right hand, to the steering wheel,’ said Goldflam.

‘Were the handcuffs police issue?’ said Cato.

‘Yet to be confirmed but it looked like ours.’

‘His?’ said Farmer John.

Goldflam yawned. ‘Maybe.’

Duncan Goldflam was in the middle of providing a bullet-point summary of the forensic first impressions. DS Molly Meldrum looked chuffed to be in the same room as the big kids. Lara Sumich sat in the corner with dark rings under her eyes and a faraway look.

‘Anything else?’ said DI Hutchens.

‘Petrol, lots of it,’ said Goldflam, ‘An empty can a few metres away. No prints. Melted remains of two mobile phones and a laptop: will get more to you on that as soon as I can. Semi-charred wallet with average amount of cash, cards, photos of loved ones.’ Cato noticed
Lara looking bleakly out the window. ‘House keys in left pocket, no car keys in the ignition. In the boot: the remains of a holdall with a few changes of clothes and some toiletries. That’s pretty much it.’

‘Thanks Dunc,’ said Hutchens. ‘Molly?’

Meldrum opened his notebook. ‘A call came in within an hour of the emergency response. A local had heard the sirens and saw the activity. She’d been walking her dog down that way around 8.30p.m. and noticed a car parked in the area. She’d remembered it because when she got further down Capo D’Orlando on her way home, another car, a ute, had gone speeding past and the occupants were, quote, “playing very loud horrible music and shouting expletives”. She’d noticed the occupant of the Laser shaking his head in sympathy with her.’

‘Description or rego on the ute?’ Farmer John, chin resting on knuckle.

Meldrum scanned his notes. ‘Black, one of those modern city-type utes apparently. She didn’t catch the rego. We’ll be reinterviewing her this morning, we’ll show her some pictures of various makes.’

‘Anything else?’ said Hutchens.

‘A boatie, around about the same time as dog woman, also noticed the parked Laser and the ute doing a doughnut before it departed. He reckoned it was a Falcon, newish.’

‘So the ute left the scene and isn’t relevant?’ said Farmer John.

‘Possibly not,’ said Meldrum.

Lara took a sip of water.

‘That it?’ said Hutchens to Meldrum.

‘Yes. I’ve got uniforms and DCs ready for a doorknock kicking off in about half-an-hour.’

‘Better let you go then.’ Hutchens smiled encouragingly. ‘Solid work, Molly.’

Meldrum blushed and walked out of the room two centimetres taller. That left Cato, Farmer John, Lara and DI Hutchens. Cato was heartwarmed to see DS Meldrum get his moment in the spotlight but remained bemused by the choice of him on a job like this. The first he’d heard of Colin Graham’s spectacular demise
was a 4.30a.m. phone call from Hutchens. As far as he could tell, Lara was in the same boat. They’d been sidelined: leaving Hutchens, Farmer John, Duncan Goldflam and Molly Meldrum in the know and acting on it since last night. Why?

‘Any thoughts?’ said the DI to no one in particular.

‘Suicide?’ said Farmer John.

‘Please explain,’ said Hutchens.

‘He’s been rumbled, his life has turned to shit, his hired African is locked up and about to dish the dirt. Writing on the wall. Petrol, match, whoosh.’

‘Handcuffs?’ said Cato.

‘Insurance, in case he bottled out and changed his mind. He did it himself and threw away the key.’

Hutchens looked thoughtful. ‘The ute?’

‘Distraction. Red herring.’

‘Nice and simple,’ observed Cato neutrally.

Hutchens nodded, noncommittal. ‘Lara? You’re very quiet.’

Lara’s eyes dulled and she shifted in her seat. ‘I think John’s probably on the money, sir.’

‘Go and get some rest, Lara.’

The DI’s office had been cleared. It was just the two of them. ‘Sir?’

‘You’re a wreck. You’re on the verge of cracking up. You need some professional help.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Hutchens closed his laptop and swivelled in his chair to face her. ‘You’ve had to be rescued by TRG, you’ve been attacked in your home by Dieudonne, there’s the Papadakis thing, and you’ve witnessed the death of that dero.’

‘His name was Jeremy Dixon,’ she said.

‘Yeah. And now this.’ Hutchens shook his head. ‘You’re traumatised. You need time out.’

‘I’ll be fine, sir.’

‘I’m not advising you, Lara. I’m directing you. I’ll get Human Resources to contact you with a psych appointment or something.’

‘What about Dieudonne, and Vincent Tran and the nail-gun thing?’

‘We’ll take care of it; you take care of yourself.’

She didn’t have the strength or inclination to argue.

Next it was Cato’s turn in the DI’s office behind closed doors. He watched Lara gather her things and leave. That dark-eyed, hollowed-out look reminded him of Shellie Petkovic. Cato went in and shut the door behind him.

‘Coffee?’ Hutchens thumbed over his shoulder at a tray on top of a filing cabinet: half-filled plunger, cups and milk jug, even a plate of biscuits.

‘Don’t mind if I do.’ Cato grabbed a cup and an Anzac and sat down.

‘Thoughts, maestro?’

‘On Colin Graham?’

‘Anything else happened in the last few hours?’

‘Yeah, right.’ Cato took a sip: it wasn’t half bad. ‘Farmer John seems keen to keep it neat and tidy.’

‘What’s your point?’

Cato shrugged. ‘Bit early to be closing our minds to other possibilities.’

‘Go on.’

‘Murder? Maybe Graham’s associates got round to thinking he was more trouble than he was worth.’

‘Suicide is better PR.’

Cato munched on the biscuit. ‘In what way?’

‘Well the Commissioner’s got the choice of
Rogue Cop Murdered by Bikie Pals
or
Veteran Cop Suicide Tragedy.’

‘Pithy. Ever thought you were in the wrong job, boss?’

‘Never.’

Cato flicked some crumbs off his lap. ‘Your call: PR is above my pay scale. So what now?’

‘As you say, let the spin doctors at HQ come up with the story. We’ll stick to collecting the evidence. Duncan can do his sifting and testing, Molly can do his asking and unless anything to the
contrary comes in, we might let sleeping dogs lie, for now.’

That term again. You couldn’t move around here these days without tripping over sleeping dogs. ‘Okay,’ said Cato.

Hutchens glanced out of the window at nothing in particular. ‘Lara’s got the rest of the day off. Maybe longer.’

‘Good idea, she’s been through a lot lately.’

‘You up to absorbing a few of her jobs?’

‘Like?’

‘Vincent Tran and the nail gun; helping me with ongoing chats with Dieudonne?’

The idea of sitting in a chair opposite the man who’d pushed a knife into him didn’t really appeal. ‘DS Meldrum couldn’t help out there I suppose?’

‘Meldrum has important work to do, not finding any evidence that contradicts the suicide theory.’

Cato swallowed the last of his Anzac and pretended he hadn’t heard that.

Hutchens flipped open his laptop and looked busy. ‘We’ll head out to Hakea in an hour to see Dieudonne. Grab some brekky while you can.’

Lara lay in bed, her window open to the sounds of Fremantle. Her limbs felt dull and heavy: her chest tight from holding back the flood. She wanted to cry, she wanted to die, worst of all she wanted to quit the job. Hutchens and UC John obviously wanted to sweep Colin Graham under the mat as a suicide. It suited them and it kind of suited her too. It explained away the handcuffs she’d snapped on his wrist, closing off his escape and sealing his fate.

Lara had done as instructed by Goatee. She’d walked away with the flames crackling in her ears, the glow flicking her shadow skittishly on the bitumen, the low murmurs of Graham’s killers. And did she also hear, or just imagine, Colin’s groans from within the furnace? They’d passed her on the drive out, in their black low-slung Falcon ute, Goatee encouraging her to get a move on.

‘Fireys’ll be here soon. Don’t want them to catch you in the vicinity do you? Might need to do a bit of explaining.’

‘You can handcuff me any time you like, sweetheart.’ It was ‘Such is’ Dennis from the back seat.

A laugh and they were gone. Lara had crouched behind a wall as the fire engines and the first patrol car raced by. In her state, returning to the hotel was out of the question.

She’d gone home and showered to remove any odour traces of smoke or petrol and put her clothes and sneakers in the washing machine. She’d sat waiting for the inevitable callout to the scene. It never came and she fell asleep until an early morning summons from Hutchens.

On her way in she’d stopped by the hotel and collected her things. Events were moving too fast for her bodyguard on the door. He’d heard the manhunt was over and was still trying to work out why Lara wasn’t tucked up in her room. She didn’t bother to enlighten him.

Putting Meldrum on the case had been a clever move, ensuring the official version prevailed. Lara was content to play along. She’d seen the look on Cato’s face though; he’d be a different prospect altogether.

Lara knew what had really happened. The Apaches had been Graham’s insurance, or at least that’s what he believed, but they’d turned on him. The question was whether they’d thought of it all by themselves. Goatee had said something early in the encounter, a reference to the handcuffs on Graham.
Nice touch. Maybe we weren’t needed after all.
Both Hutchens and UC John seemed keen to whitewash the affair and that made her think that one or both of them were involved in some way. It had to be John: he was the one in the loop and he’d failed to respond to her emergency summons. Colin had been absolutely confident of the outcome and the chosen location because John, either directly or via the Apaches, had spoon-fed him that confidence. Lara had been offered up to Colin as an apparent sacrifice and that’s why he never saw the double-cross coming. She had been UC John’s tethered goat. How was that for karma?

A crowded interview room at Hakea prison: guards, an African woman, a lawyer with her back turned as she rummaged in a briefcase, and of course Dieudonne. Across the table: Cato and DI Hutchens.

‘You guys have met, haven’t you?’

Hutchens – a laugh a minute. Cato wanted to shove a knife in
his
gut to see how funny it felt. ‘Very amusing, sir.’

‘I meant you and the lawyer.’

The lawyer stopped rummaging, turned and offered a hand. Cato remembered her: Amrita, from Legal Aid; she’d given him grief aplenty in the Great Southern. He stuck out his hand and played professional. ‘Miss Desai, keeping well?’

She shook it. ‘Yes thanks and it’s Mrs Gupta now.’

‘Congratulations.’

‘Thank you, Detective, Kwong wasn’t it?’

‘Still is.’

They took their seats with two corrections officers visible on the other side of the glass door. Dieudonne sat between Amrita Gupta and the large African woman who Cato assumed was the interpreter.

‘Evonne.’ She offered her hand for shaking too.

Dieudonne was in handcuffs and his prison-visit greys, his face alert and interested. The equipment was checked and names, dates, times, and places announced. Amrita Gupta took an early opportunity to record her continuing displeasure at Dieudonne’s handcuffs and DI Hutchens took an early opportunity to remind her that he was a dangerous fucking nutter.

‘Excuse the strong language, Mrs Gupta. It’s an expression of my state of unease.’

Amrita pursed her lips.

Cato felt Dieudonne’s eyes boring into him: there was no particular gloating or psyching going on, just an apparent curiosity.
Do not struggle, my friend. Accept it.

Hutchens ahemmed his intent to proceed. ‘You’ll be glad to know we’ve located Mr Graham, Dieudonne.’

‘Mr Graham?’

‘Yes, he’s dead. Burnt to death in a car last night.’

Dieudonne’s eyes widened for a nanosecond, Amrita breathed sharply. ‘These shock tactics are outrageous and uncalled for.’

‘Sorry.’ Hutchens switched his attention back to Dieudonne. ‘Anyway mate, it looks like you’re on your own now.’

‘Own?’

‘Yes. So there’s nothing to stop you giving us a full statement regarding your involvement in all these matters.’ Hutchens waved a hand across his open file. ‘And it may even work in your favour in sentencing if the court is made aware of your cooperation.’

‘Cooperation.’

Hutchens looked at the interpreter. ‘Is he repeating everything I say because he doesn’t understand or because he’s trying to wind me up?’

‘I’ll ask him if you like,’ said Evonne. There followed a brief exchange. She turned back to face Hutchens. ‘He’s winding you up.’

‘Glad you’re having fun, mate. Are you going to help us out today or are we just going to leave you buried in here and get on with our lives?’ Hutchens flipped his file shut.

‘What do you want to know, Inspector?’ Dieudonne, in clear stentorian tones: like he was giving the valedictory for the Year 12s at Scotch.

‘Lovely.’ Hutchens re-opened his file and picked up a pen. ‘How about you start at the beginning and keep going until the end and we’ll see how we go?’

‘For that we need to go back to the day Commander Peter came to my village and ordered me to kill my mother.’

Hutchens groaned. ‘Fuck’s sake, go on then, let’s hear it.’