Getting Warmer (9 page)

She reviewed the Santo case again. His job was stirring the pot and gathering intelligence, according to Graham, but as for who Santo was reporting to and precisely what he was working on; that remained a mystery. She replayed her own dealings with Santo. The last time they’d met was just a week before she found him with his throat slit. They’d had a beer at The Orient down the West End. The bar was full of Notre Dame students and Lara had dressed as if she was one of them, instead of a cop. Santo looked like a low-life pusher
so he also fitted in. No special occasion, just a catch-up to see if there was anything in the offing. After an unusually quiet few weeks over Christmas she was desperate for any intelligence, even from him.

‘Got anything for me, Santo?’

A headshake and that thin reedy voice. ‘Very quiet right now, Lara.’

‘Nothing at all? It’s the holiday season. Somebody’s got to be getting some stock in somewhere?’

‘They took their deliveries pre-Christmas. Those trucks I told you about that were coming in off the Nullarbor in November.’

‘OC were already onto that, Santo, and they showed up empty.’

‘Really?’ A bemused frown.

‘Really. Look, I just want a bit of low-level skinny on the locals to tide me over. Couple of runs on the board to keep my boss happy. Got a performance appraisal coming up soon.’

Santo had smiled at that one. ‘Wish I could help you, Lara.’

‘No January sales for the Australia Day barbies? No year tens looking to make a big impression in term one?’

‘There’s a kid up at the high school you could take a look at. Fancies his chances. He’ll be year eleven by now, Pancho something or other.’

‘Cutting in on your territory is he?’

‘He just needs saving from himself, that’s all: too young to be ruining his life.’

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

They clinked glasses. ‘Cheers,’ said Lara. Her last words to him.

Those trucks that came in empty off the Nullarbor. Did he suspect her of the tip-off? Had it been a plant in the first place to test her? Lara was aware of rumours of an undercover unit whose sole job was to weed out internal corruption. Maybe after Hopetoun she was on a watch list. Colin Graham would know what Santo had been up to. Whatever it was he wanted from her, it seemed she also needed him. Co-dependence, the essence of many a beautiful dysfunctional relationship.

Cato had made a few calls to some old colleagues, now retired. He was about to meet one of them in a Red Rooster out on South Street. It was the kind of place he was unlikely to see any of his current workmates; they favoured McDonald’s. Cato stepped into the bright, air-conditioned fast-food netherworld. He nearly didn’t recognise the old man sitting in a corner booth with a paper cup of cappuccino and a copy of
The West
open on the cryptics page.

‘Great Greek warrior longs to be sick inside.
Eight letters.’ The voice was a low rasp, a rusty file on prison bars.

Cato bought a Fanta and sat down slowly as his knife wound adjusted to the new position. ‘Keeping the Alzheimer’s at bay, Andy?’

‘I’m in better shape than you by the look of things.’ Andy Crouch was already on the verge of retirement when Cato first joined DI Hutchens’ detective squad a lifetime ago, long before Cato’s disgrace and exile to Stock Squad. Crouch would be pushing seventy by now. He looked old: hair as white and thin as a bride’s veil. ‘Read about you in the paper, how’s the gut?’

‘Fair to middling,’ said Cato. ‘How’s retirement?’

‘I’m not a gardener, I hate exercise, and I can’t stand the grandkids. Cryptics and the odd whisky are the only things left to live for.’

‘Cheer up. You haven’t got much longer. Death’s just around the corner.’

He folded the paper. ‘What can I do for you, young Philip?’

Crouch was the only one in the Job who called Cato that. His name. He was also the one who’d given him two bits of advice to live by. One, take up cryptic crosswords: all you need to know about detecting is there. Two, don’t let Hutchens own your soul.

‘DI Hutchens,’ said Cato.

‘Surprise surprise.’

‘You and he were a duet once?’

‘Best thief-takers in Armed Robbery.’

‘It just hasn’t been the same since they brought in that rule about not dangling suspects by their feet from the windows of Curtin House.’

‘Oh, there’s still a few who keep the flame of righteous justice burning.’ The wistful smile faded. ‘What do you want to know?’

‘One of his pet informants, a bloke named Gordon Francis Wellard.’

‘Doing life in Casuarina?’

Cato nodded confirmation.

Crouch coughed something unpleasant into a hankie and examined it. ‘What about him?’

‘He’s a nasty piece of work. From what I can see he showed up on record regularly until about the mid-90s, when I assume he came under Hutchens’ wing. Then nothing until the last few years when he was done for murder. During that gap of about ten years I can’t believe he just quit being bad. So did he reform under the guiding hand of Mick Hutchens, or did he keep on doing his nasties with protection from the DI?’

‘That’s quite an allegation, Philip.’

‘I know.’

‘Why the interest?’

‘There’s another case: a missing teenage girl. Wellard’s the prime suspect.’

‘Why?’

‘He’s the stepfather. He’s been bragging about it, winding up the mum. Claims to know where the body is buried.’

‘Sick bastard. But I’m still not sure what you’re getting at. Did the mispers case happen during those intervening years?’

Cato nodded. ‘Towards the end. About two years before the murder arrest.’

‘So why are you digging up ancient history on your boss?’

‘It might lead us to digging up the girl.’

‘How come?’

‘Geez, you can tell you were in the Job. I came here to get information out of you and I’m the one answering all the questions.’

‘Funny that. So, how come?’

‘Two things. Somebody has been sending packages to the girl’s mother. About the missing daughter. Taking the piss.’

‘Charming.’

‘And there’s something about the way Wellard and Hutchens communicate.’

Crouch suddenly seemed more interested. ‘Yeah?’

Cato was on his guard now. Was it some remnant of loyalty towards his boss or was it fear of Crouch dobbing him in? ‘I don’t know. Sometimes Wellard’s the one that acts like he’s in charge, not the DI. Maybe I’m imagining it.’

‘So what do you want from me?’

‘You and the DI were partners. Mates.’

‘Not mates.’ A firm shake of the head. ‘Partners.’

Duly noted. ‘Firstly, do you know of any accomplices from Wellard’s early days who might be helping him out now?’

Crouch’s eyes narrowed behind his bi-focals. ‘Can’t you get all that off the computer at work?’

Cato patted his gut lightly. ‘Sick leave. This is under the radar.’

‘Why?’

‘Why do you think? The DI isn’t going to be happy about me checking up on him.’

‘Trust me not to tell him, do you?’

‘I have to.’ Cato wondered if he was talking his career down the drain. ‘So, accomplices?’

Andy Crouch appeared to give the matter due consideration. ‘Did you look at the family? Bad seeds tend to come from a dodgy pod.’ He put his cup back on the table and wiped the froth from his lip. ‘He had a big brother. Kevin, I think his name was. A real hard case, made Gordy look like a cheap imitation.’

‘What became of him?’

‘Dropped out of sight.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Probably, but damned if I know it.’ Crouch tapped his forehead. ‘Memory not so good these days.’

Cato didn’t believe him but let it go. Crouch was going to make
him work for this. ‘Anyone else?’

‘Nah. If I think of anyone I’ll get back to you.’ Crouch drained and crumpled his coffee cup.

‘So, on the other matter, would Wellard have anything on Hutchens?’ said Cato.

‘Such as?’

‘Haven’t a clue, that’s why I’m asking.’

‘But you’ve been wondering. Go on, try me.’

‘What about turning a blind eye? Letting Wellard get away with stuff in exchange for information?’

Crouch gave this one a bit more thought. ‘Maybe, but I think he’d still keep him on a tight leash. Anything too serious, I doubt he’d have let it go. Mick Hutchens is a tricky bastard but he does know the difference between right and wrong.’

Cato was happy to accept Crouch’s assessment: he wanted to believe it too. ‘Yeah, probably.’

Crouch started to gather his things. ‘What are you getting yourself into here, Philip?’

Cato tried a reassuring grin. ‘Don’t know. I’ll keep you posted.’ He nodded towards the cryptic on the table. ‘Achilles.’

‘What?’ said Crouch.

‘Great Greek warrior longs to be sick inside.
Aches-ill, Ach-ill-es.’

Cato had done a project on him at high school. A man whose name embodied the grief of a nation and whose all-consuming rage over petty slights led to the needless slaughter of thousands. Talk about over-reactions: if anybody needed to learn a bit of tolerance, perspective, and cheek-turning it had to have been Achilles.

‘You wanted to talk to me, old man?’

Jimmy Tran’s voice sounded extra tinny through the headphones. The surveillance van was a sweatbox and Lara was falling out of love with Colin Graham’s breath in the confined space. They’d shared a takeaway pizza during the wait: the extra anchovies and garlic bread on the side hadn’t been a good idea. They were parked just down the road from Zorba’s restaurant. Two cars full of Gangs Ds nearby. The sun had just set, casting
a sulphurous glow over the rooftops of Northbridge. The neon flickered. The Shanghai food hall was filling up and a pale balding man sauntered as casually as possible out of a sex shop where you could see live shows if you put your money in the slot.

‘Yes, Jimmy.’

‘Mr Tran.’

‘Mr Tran.’ Christos’s voice sounded wheezy but after forty cigarettes a day for the last sixty years, it would. For all that, there was steel in it. This was a man who had had enough.

‘What can I do for you?’ Quiet. Mocking.

‘I can’t afford to keep paying you at this amount, Mr Tran. We have nothing left for ourselves.’

‘We have an agreement, Christos.’

Lara looked at Colin Graham. He hadn’t volunteered anything about his precise whereabouts for the day, just summoned her to Curtin House and said it was on. He and a colleague from Gangs had briefed Christos and wired him up. This was definitely their operation; DI Hutchens wasn’t invited.

‘I set this place up for my family, my children, my grandchildren.’ Christos broke off for a smoker’s cough. ‘At this rate there will be nothing left.’

‘We have an agreement.’ Scraping of chairs, people rising to leave.

‘Mr Rosetti said you would help me.’

A silence. ‘Say that again, old man?’

‘Santo, he...’

‘How do you know him?’

‘He eats here many times.’

Lara noticed a sudden stillness in Colin Graham. That was the information he’d held back from her. He’d learned that Christos knew Santo and he knew that if the old man mentioned that name tonight it would provoke a reaction. He probably hadn’t warned the old man about what kind of reaction.

‘And you talked to him about our business relationship, Christos?’ Jimmy Tran sounded disappointed, and dangerous. ‘That is meant to be confidential.’

Christos didn’t retreat. ‘He said you and he were friends, good friends. He said you were a reasonable man. A fair man.’

‘Good old Santo,’ said Jimmy Tran. ‘Did you know the cocksucker was dead, Christos?’

‘Yes, I knew that, Mr Tran. He came to see me that last night. He ate here.’ A pause. ‘He said he was going to meet you.’

It was like all the air had been sucked out of the surveillance van. Lara felt droplets of sweat run from her temples, down her neck.

‘Do you mean something by that, old man?’

‘I don’t want to end up like him, but I’m sorry, I cannot go on paying.’ Christos’s voice had firmed up.

‘You know, Papa, if I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to provoke me. Why would you want to do that?’

Lara’s sweat turned cold. Graham’s eyes had glazed over. Jimmy Tran’s voice got louder as if he was leaning right in to Christos’s hidden microphone.

‘Santo was right. We
were
very good friends. And I am a reasonable man, I’ll get back to you on your proposal, Christos.’

Lara ripped off her headphones. ‘We need to pull Tran in and get Christos and his family somewhere safe.’

Colin Graham seemed drowsy and distant. ‘Pull him in for what, Lara?’

‘He’s blown us. He knows.’

‘We don’t know that for sure and there’s nothing to arrest him on, yet.’

‘I should never have agreed to this.’

‘Your agreement wasn’t necessary, love.’

‘You fucking patronising bastard.’

Graham lifted a placatory hand. ‘Hold your nerve and keep the faith, Lara. If Tran does come back to get Christos and we’re there waiting, then we really do have him, don’t we?’

‘Have you asked Christos how he feels about being the tethered goat?’

Lara had just come back from her early morning run when her phone buzzed. It was Colin Graham, whispering on his mobile: in the background the sounds of family breakfast and kids getting ready for school. They would be the kids from his previous marriage. Six, eight, and ten – nicely spaced.

‘Christos has gone missing.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t come back from the early morning vegie run.’

Lara closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead. ‘I thought we were meant to be watching him. Protecting him.’

‘Somebody screwed up.’

Understatement of the year. ‘He’s a dead man and you as good as killed him.’

‘We’re
in this together, Lara. I’ll pick you up in half an hour.’

‘Where are we going?’

‘Chateau Tran. I’ve got the ninjas out again.’

Conversation over. In a daze she turned on the shower and stepped under. Lara had always believed she had the guts to do whatever it took: she’d prided herself on that. She’d grown up with it, listening to her parents’ conversations around the dinner table. Who Daddy had knifed that day to ensure he won: some unsuspecting innocent who was in the way of his ambitions. Mum congratulating him.
Well done, darling.
Colin Graham as an extension of her daddy fixation? How banal. Meanwhile the innocents were still getting slaughtered. She had to find a way of extricating herself from this with minimum damage to her prospects. If that meant doing the right thing then so be it. She just had to work out what the right thing was.

After a restless and sore night, Cato woke late. He sealed the house against another hot day, took his coffee and sat down at his computer to start looking for Gordon Wellard’s brother. Google and Facebook offered up more Kevin Wellards than you could poke a stick at, but nothing to suggest any of them was the right one. Cato had a hunch that Kevin probably wouldn’t be a Facebook kind of guy: he phoned Andy Crouch.

‘When did you say Kevin Wellard dropped out of sight?’

‘Morning Philip. How you feeling? Gut on the mend?’

‘Great Andy, thanks.’

‘I’m good too. It’s looking like another beautiful day.’

Retirees. Cato cleared his throat. ‘Kevin Wellard?’

‘In a hurry, huh? Last I heard of him was maybe mid-1990s. He would have been in his thirties.’

‘Left town? Dead?’

‘Haven’t a clue, mate. Out of sight, out of mind. Anything else?’

‘Did the brothers get on?’

‘Dunno. Blood’s thicker than water though isn’t it? Family’s just like any other institution, a little loyalty can go a long way. Have a good day.’

Thus spake Andy Crouch.

If Kevin Wellard was dead then maybe there was a death notice in
The West
but their online archive only seemed to go back as far as July 2004, ten years too late. The state death registry required official ID and paperwork, even for police investigations. The kind of stuff he was chasing needed either the official apparatus or at least for him to be more mobile. As he was still flying solo he’d just have to go to a library, get on the microfiche, and plough through old newspapers. Today something that simple felt too hard. He’d become reliant on the ready access to information, to technology, to legal and physical backup. Cato was due back at work on Monday, or longer if he needed it. In the meantime he’d do what he could. He decided to toughen up and go to the library.

‘Who?’ said Jimmy Tran, voice muffled because his face was pushed into the gravel by a TRG boot.

‘Christos Papadakis. He runs Zorba’s restaurant in Northbridge.’ Colin Graham was crouched down beside him, sweat beading his forehead.

It was just past nine in the morning and already the temperature had hit thirty-five. Another fire had been lit about two kilometres east of them and the wind was sending it their way. There were media warnings of the need for evacuations in the face of a catastrophic fire risk. They didn’t have time to mess about. ‘You need to tell us where he is, Jimmy.’

‘Can’t help you,’ came the squashed reply. ‘Haven’t a clue.’

Lara looked at the other prone men on the ground. One was conspicuously absent. ‘Where’s Mickey?’ Mickey Nguyen, the man whose ankle she’d stomped on.

A shrug from Jimmy Tran, not easy face down under a ninja boot.

Colin Graham had his gun out, the muzzle prodding the corner of Tran’s eye. ‘Jimmy, if any harm comes to that old man, I’m coming after you.’

‘So, am I under arrest or not?’ Tran giggled. He already knew the answer.

Lara left Colin Graham to his devices: there was an alert out on Mickey Nguyen, and Jimmy and friends had been dusted off and released. Colin Graham’s superiors in Organised Crime had listened to the previous night’s recording and they had concurred: firstly the wire was unauthorised, secondly there was no explicit threat. The old man was simply a missing person, they concluded, one who had only been gone for a few hours. In the absence of compelling evidence of foul play, there was nothing to link his absence to the Trans. Graham had been predictably outraged but Lara just added it to the growing weight of her guilt. The only consolation for her now was that the Tran compound was directly in the line of the bushfire. She hoped the whole place would be razed to the ground. She drove up the freeway to see Mrs Papadakis. Colin Graham had given Lara a funny look as she pulled away: three parts hurt, two parts suspicious. Or was it the other way around?

Zorba’s had a handwritten sign on the door, ‘Closed – private family matter’. Lara knocked and tried to peer into the gloom beyond. The door was opened by a bulky, bearded man in his forties, maybe one of the sons. She showed him her ID.

‘Yes. What do you want?’ A blink of watery eyes. ‘Have you found him?’

‘No. Sorry. Can I come in?’

He opened the door wider and walked away. Lara closed it behind her. Mrs Papadakis was seated at a table at the back of the restaurant, surrounded by her middle-aged children and their spouses and offspring. Some looked fearful that Lara was the bringer of bad news; others glared or ignored her.

‘Why are you here?’ said Mrs Papadakis.

Lara wasn’t sure. She brought no news, had no advice or solace, she had nothing to offer. ‘I came to see how you are.’

Mrs Papadakis fluttered her hands at her children. ‘We want him back. We want you to bring Christos Papadakis back to his family. Do you understand that?’

Lara nodded.

‘My husband brought us here for a better life. He made this restaurant. He worked hard. He paid those animals to leave us alone.’ A despairing shake of the head. ‘And he stood up to them.’ There was a choked male sob in the background.

Lara listened to the words in their past tense. Already it was a eulogy. ‘I’ll bring him back to you.’

She could see they didn’t believe her, or if they did they feared the double meaning.

Cato was upstairs in the State Library scanning microfiche editions of
The West
for any traces of Kevin Wellard during the 1990s. It was a long haul. Allowing for Andy Crouch’s memory, Cato added a few years leeway either side of the timeframe. By the time he’d skated his way through the late 1980s and early 1990s he was an expert on the unfolding disaster of WA Inc. On he went, eyes blurring at the small print, a dull ache radiating from the back of his head. Then he found it: November 1996, a Saturday in the middle of the month.

In memoriam. Kevin Paul Wellard 1959–1996. Beloved son of the late John and Mary. Brother of Gordon. We’ll meet again. Miss you mate. Gordon.

Kevin was dead, at the age of 37. If he was an accomplice to his brother’s misdeeds then his role was over by 1996 – around the same time as his little brother dropped off the criminal records. Kevin couldn’t be the one sending the
FINDERS KEEPERS
letters to Shellie.

Cato had the page printed and left the library. He made for the railway station and a homeward bound train. The CBD was a forest of high cranes and the skeletons of new buildings. Cato spotted the outline of at least one skyscraper he knew to be funded by drug money and several others where the builders and security firms were fronts for bikie and other criminal enterprise. The Perth city motto was ‘Floreat’, Latin for ‘flourish’ or ‘prosper’. It figured. Even some of the more legitimate dwellings were the results of wealth laundered over two centuries from stolen land, wages and minerals. Perth’s skyline might be constantly shifting but underneath the city remained the same: a grubby little fiefdom of robber barons.

Cato bought his train ticket and took the escalator down to the Fremantle Line. His phone beeped: a text from Jake.

can i come over this weekend?

Texting his father, midway through a school day? Cato wondered what was wrong. He texted back:

sure, will talk to mum

and then he rang Jane.

‘Hi.’

‘Hi.’

‘Just had a text from Jake. Wanting to come over this weekend.’

A moment of silence. ‘Really? Are you well enough?’

‘Yeah, fine. Might not be up to shooting any hoops but we’ll work something out.’

‘Okay.’

‘Everything okay?’ said Cato.

‘Yep.’ When she said it like that it meant no.

‘Okay, so when do we do it?’

‘I’ll drop him over on Saturday morning and pick him up same time Sunday?’

‘Sure.’

Jake was upset about something and Cato had been blind to it. Instead he had become obsessed with the twisted world of Gordon friggin’ Wellard. He needed to get his bloody priorities straight.

Senior Fire Officer Bevan Foley still had occasional nightmares about his experiences during the Black Saturday inferno in Victoria. He’d seen enough horror to last a lifetime. This wasn’t as big but it was still a potential killer. It had swept through three Baldivis properties, destroying one and badly damaging another. This third was lucky just to lose a couple of outlying sheds. They’d been at it since daybreak and he was stuffed. All because of some little fuckwit with a box of matches. The wind had finally shifted and the helicopter water-bombers had punched a big enough hole to allow them to get the bastard back on a leash. Foley and his team just needed to damp down these sheds and then another crew would relieve them. Then he could have a shower, a beer, and a sleep. The main shed had partly collapsed inwards: the Colorbond walls buckled and blackened. Through the gaps, thick oily chemical smoke indicated something none too healthy still burning inside. Probably tyres.

Another few minutes and they were able to pull the door back to get a better sense of what they were dealing with. He’d hoped the burning tyre smell was from a pile of old spares but it looked like there was a vehicle in there, a 4WD, probably once worth a bob or two. As the acrid smoke cleared further, he realised there was another smell: like a barbecue left unattended. And there was somebody in the driver’s seat.