Prime Cut (24 page)

The hire car was hardly the most discreet of surveillance vehicles. Powder blue, Hyundai Getz, big rental stickers in side and back windows. A secretary’s car, good lippy mirror though. Tess Maguire checked her reflection. She’d been awake most of the night and hadn’t had time for a shower before the call-out to Starvation Bay. She needed more than a smear of lippy to look presentable.

Esperance, the Bay of Isles – she was looking at them right now. The Getz was angle-parked, pointing out to the Southern Ocean. To her immediate left the long jetty curved out into the sparkling blue bay. Away to her right was the port which serviced the lead and nickel ships, carriers of the poisonous pixie dust that had been sprinkled on the tourist town for the last three or four years. What was it the Buddhists or Taoists or whatever, called it? Yin and Yang? Those beautiful islands out in the bay, once the haunt of pirates, cutthroats and rapists. Greg Fisher had told her stories about the sealers who used to come to the mainland, kidnap Nyungar women and girls, and take them back to their island camps never to be seen again. A vision of beauty masking a scene of horror. Yin and Yang. The young woman strolling along the jetty with her toddler tottering unsteadily beside her. A young mum and her lovely little tacker: wife and child of stompin’ Johnno Djukic; Yin and Yang.

Tess sipped her cappuccino from the Coffee Cat takeaway van, a favourite foreshore drawcard. The coffee was great, Cato would approve. She thought about phoning him, to see how he was going, to see why he hadn’t gone back to his family yet. Cato the mystery man. Cato could wait-o; Tess had work to do. Greg Fisher was now sleeping peacefully, watched over by his distraught mum. Tess had made her excuses and left. She’d made straight for the Bay of Isles car-hire depot and taken what was available. Then she’d parked the
Getz outside the address given for Djukic and waited for something to happen. An hour or so later, something did.

She’d followed mother and child from their compact fibro home a few blocks back from the foreshore. Mrs Djukic had no reason to think the Hyundai behind her rusting white Datsun was in fact following her. She didn’t inhabit that kind of world, very few do. Tess didn’t know why she was doing this; John Djukic was two hundred kilometres away on the mine site. Tess gave it some thought: she figured she wanted to know as much about him as possible. Know thine enemy. This seemed like as good a place to start as any. Mrs Djukic and baby Djukic, both as cute as buttons, Johnno’s pride and joy. Tess decided to have a word.

‘Beautiful day.’

The young woman smiled and nodded in reply, picking up the little kid for a protective cuddle. Shy? Wary of a stranger? Wary of Tess herself, she of the sleepless night, the haggard look, the ungroomed hair? The young mum was Asian, Thai maybe? The little boy was about a year old. Some European features mixed in but no sign of Johnno’s mad black eyes or red hair, yet. He was chuckling away, playing with his mother’s bead necklace. The sea breeze was strengthening. Tess pulled her windcheater jacket closer around her, aware of the weight of her service issue gun in an inside pocket. She looked down from the jetty as the sea lion broke the surface of the water, nodding its whiskered head up at the spectators. It was a beautiful creature with a sleek shiny body and big brown eyes. Tess remembered her swim with the baby seal. The purity and beauty of the moment that had left her laughing and crying at the same time. Yin and Yang? Or just the symptom of an unbalanced mind?

‘I’m Tess.’

Tess smiled, gave the baby a little wave and made a funny face. The young woman nodded and smiled back and clutched her child a little closer.

‘Gorgeous kid.’ Tess gestured casually at the infant.

The woman smiled again, this time in apology. ‘Sorry. English not good.’

Tess nodded and smiled in understanding, lots of nodding and smiling today. She leaned on the top of the guardrail which kept people from falling the five or six metres into the choppy sea.

‘Where you from?’

‘Thailand.’

‘Ah. Holiday?’

‘No, no. Live here.’

‘Tess,’ Tess said again, pointing at herself.

‘Koo. And this one, Johnny,’ she patted the baby on the back gently.

‘Cute.’

‘Thank you.’

Tess sniffed the salt breeze and smiled again. There was nobody within two hundred metres or more. Koo and baby Johnny; she turned and faced them. One shove and they’d be in the drink; Tess was pretty confident the mother couldn’t swim.

‘Husband working?’

‘Yes. Away at the mine.’ She patted the baby again. ‘Johnny miss his dad.’

Tess looked at them both. They were from a different world. They were innocent and had nothing to do with the history between her and Johnno Djukic. History, dead right. Push them in the water and watch them drown. Sure, that would solve everything. Not. Suicidal, beating up on kids and now harbouring homicidal thoughts towards strangers: is this what madness is? What the hell did she think she was doing here? Her daughter’s words came back to her.

I’m meant to be the reckless out of control one around here.

She turned away, wondering what to do to ease the bursting in her chest.

‘Well, must go now. Nice to meet you, Koo.’

‘Okay, bye-bye.’ Koo lifted baby Johnny’s hand and helped him wave at Tess, his face lit up with an uncertain smile.

Tess gave the kid a little wave back and pulled another funny face. ‘Bye-bye.’

It was well and truly time to move on.

‘Who’s your mate, Trav?’

Travis Grant nodded tersely towards his cronies at the bar, winked, and tried his best to look casual. It wasn’t working. Meeting in the Port Hotel in front of all the mates had been Cato Kwong’s idea. No, really, Cato had insisted, his shout. They had retreated to a dark corner near the back door, Travis trying his best to merge into the peeling, scuffed wall behind him. Cato, for his part, making every effort to stand tall and stick out like a big sore Chinese thumb.

‘Cheers.’ Cato lifted his glass: a lurid-green lemon, lime and soda and a straw. He savoured the younger man’s obvious discomfort, clinked Travis’s middy loudly and sucked noisily on his straw. It was late afternoon, Wednesday, only a handful of punters, but they all knew Trav. An afternoon soap was playing on the twin plasmas with sound muted. A game of pool was in progress. Outside, across the road, the Southern Ocean had been whipped up by the afternoon breeze. The Hopetoun main drag looked like a Hollywood scenery backlot for a ghost town. Travis Grant certainly had a haunted look about him.

Cato took a sip from his bright green drink and put it back on the tall table. He sighed loudly and smacked his lips in satisfaction. ‘SaS. Stevenson and Sons, that right?’

‘Yeah, what about it?’

‘Is that Keith and Kane?’

Grant snorted. ‘Way off, mate. Stevenson’s the nanna in the old folk’s home. Keith’s the son.’

Cato nodded like he hadn’t already worked it out for himself. ‘Why’s the nanna down as a company director?’

Grant studied the beer mat. ‘None of my business.’

‘And you’re Keith’s right-hand man, you pretty well run things day to day, that right?’

A slight inflation of the Grant chest: ‘Pretty much, he runs around making the deals and shouting at people and I keep the wheels of industry turning, mate.’

Cato nodded again then made a show of seeming to remember something. ‘But Kane’s out of a job now, the mine sacked him. He’s
the son and heir to the family business. So are you just keeping his seat warm or what?’

Another snort and a shake of the head: ‘Little Lord Liability? Fucking joke. Keith wouldn’t trust him to go to the shops.’

‘No? How come?’

Travis Grant started counting off on his fingers. ‘Can’t keep his mouth shut, can’t keep out of trouble, can’t even hold down a pisseasy, well-paying job at the mine.’

‘No love lost then,’ Cato observed.

‘Fucking idiot,’ confirmed Grant. ‘They made him a Team Leader, extra fifteen grand. All he had to do was shut up and stay out of the way of the blokes who really knew what they were doing. He even fucked that up. Picking a fight with a Maori that could eat two of him for breakfast, for fuck’s sake.’ Grant shook his head in disgust. ‘He thought they really meant the Team Leader thing, started believing in his own publicity. In fact it was all a favour to Daddy – keep Kane out of everybody’s way. Moron.’

Cato had a thought, he followed it for curiosity. ‘What about Junior?’

‘The Incredible Sulk? He’s the runt of the litter. Kerry had him when she was too old. He came out munted.’ Grant curled his top lip upwards Elvis-like and crossed his eyes to illustrate his point. ‘They want to make it up to him by letting him do whatever he wants.’

‘Special is he?’

‘That’s what he reckons and it’s what they keep telling him. He can’t handle the fact that nobody else sees it that way. Keeps chucking tanties. That zapping your police sheila gave him was the best news I’ve had all week. You lot can’t be all bad, eh?’ Grant sipped thoughtfully from his beer and smiled to himself. ‘Pisses Kane off, big time. Dad takes the little runt out shooting most nights: rabbits, roos, emus, cats – never did that with Kane.’

Cato had enough family background, he changed the subject. ‘Friday before last, remember it?’

Travis made a show of thinking back. ‘What about it?’

‘The early morning pick-up at Paddy’s Field, what time do you do that?’

Travis studied the bottom of his drink. ‘Depends on how far away the worksite is on any given day. They can be working one place one day, another place the next.’

‘And that day?’

‘Five-thirty, six-ish.’

‘Still dark was it?’

‘Don’t think so. Sun would have been just about up, it’s usually light enough by then.’

‘Light enough for what?’ Cato cocked his head.

‘To see by, without the headlights.’ Travis Grant was catching on. The conversation had moved back into dangerous territory.

‘See anything that morning?’ said Cato.

‘Couple of caravans, sheep...’ Travis smiled slyly to himself. ‘Some Chinks.’

‘Anything different, unusual, unexpected?’

‘Like what?’ Travis held Cato’s gaze for a second then scanned the room lazily.

‘You tell me.’

‘No. Nothing.’ Travis took a good long pull from the middy and emptied it. ‘We finished?’

Cato shook his head and signalled for another round. The barmaid looked at Travis as if seeking his permission. Grant winked reassuringly.

Cato checked the clock on the wall, 4.30. A news update on the plasmas: by the look of the graphics, today it was the banks and miners that were dragging the stock market down into the murky depths of hell. Nobody gave it a second glance. By now Mark McGowan, with the help of Ravy Sergeant Paul Abbott and Jessica Tan, would have started talking to the other occupants of the two caravans. So far nothing had come back from Duncan Goldflam and the search team in Paddy’s Field.

Cato gestured for Travis to lean closer, share a confidence. ‘Why are you protecting them?’

‘Who?’

Cato thumbed over his shoulder in the general direction of Paddy’s Field, a good twenty-odd kilometres away. ‘The Chinese,
one of them’s already put his hand up for it. What’s it to you? I thought you would have been far more helpful, Travis.’

The drinks arrived. Grant gave the barmaid another wink and smile. More than just friends, Cato surmised.

Travis took a long pull, wiped the froth from his lips with the back of his hand and blessed the room with a gassy belch. ‘I’m not protecting anybody, mate. Do what the fuck you like with them. None of my business.’

‘So there was nothing different about that morning?’

‘Nothing, mate.’

‘What about the fact that one of them didn’t show up for work? Didn’t you wonder where he was?’

A theatrical shrug, ‘Pulled a sickie. Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘And you didn’t look in the caravan, check him out?’

‘What for? No workee, no payee. Not getting me into one of those fleapits, who knows what you’d catch.’

‘Chen’s meant to be your gangmaster and he doesn’t show up for work. You’re telling me you’re not in the least bit curious? Wouldn’t Keith want to know something like that?’

It was only a quick flicker but Cato had seen it. Uncertainty. Fear? Something to probe later; he tried a different angle.

‘Say somebody wants to call in sick, how do they contact you?’

‘What?’

‘I assume you’d want as much notice as possible if anyone is sick, so you can organise replacements?’

‘Maybe.’ Grant gave another sly smile. ‘Or maybe we’d just get the ones who do show up to work harder.’

Cato tried a stab in the dark. ‘Chen, your gangmaster, he had a phone, didn’t he?’

‘Yeah, wouldn’t have worked out there though. No signal.’

And no phone among the collected belongings of Hai Chen, noted Cato.

‘What’s his phone number?’

‘What?’

‘Chen. You’d have him in your address book wouldn’t you?’

Travis nodded, reached into his pocket and scrolled through his
mobile. Cato wrote down the number for record-tracking later.

‘Not much use out there then?’

‘No, but if he walks north about a kilometre, that brings you out near the airstrip. There’s a signal there.’

‘All heart, you guys.’

‘Keeps them fit,’ Travis smirked.

The late afternoon sun had disappeared behind scudding clouds, casting a sudden extra gloom on the bar room tableau. Cato could see that Travis was running out of patience and cooperation: no eye contact, putting on bored, checking the watch.

‘Where were they going to be working that day?’

Travis pretended to be thinking again. ‘Friday before last you say?’

Cato nodded.

‘That team would have been on the desal pipeline. Out Mason Bay Road.’

‘How far is that from where they live?’

‘As the crow flies, maybe thirty k?’

‘And the only way they can get there, or anywhere else for that matter, is if you drive them?’

‘That’s right, just a glorified chauffeur really, that’s me.’