Crocodile tears, p.8
Crocodile Tears, page 8
On my way see you in 15
Ella decided she wanted to make porridge in the pans so Cato poured oats and water and got stirring. The table was set and a fresh pot of coffee awaited Sharon as she came through the door. She looked troubled.
‘Big night?’
‘Quiet for most of it. Then just before I was due to come off duty we got a call from Freo police.’
‘Fremantle?’
She took a long appreciative slurp of coffee. Ella was busy drawing honey swirls on the table top with her fingers. ‘The guy off the Darwin flight the day before?’ Cato nodded. ‘Found hanging under the railway bridge in the early hours.’
‘I thought he was at Fiona Stanley Hospital?’
‘Once he’d dried out, they assessed him as fit for release.’
Cato spooned some porridge into Ella. ‘Suicide?’
‘Seems it.’
‘So why the troubled look? Just another day in the Job, right?’
‘He had a slip of paper in his pocket with your name and number on it. Being Freo cops, they recognised it.’
‘But they called you instead of me?’
‘Weird, huh?’
Cato dropped by Freo cop shop on his way to work. He’d called ahead to check the responding officers from the bridge suicide were still on duty. It felt strange wandering the corridors of his old workplace. There were nods of recognition and the odd handshake along the way. He found who he was looking for in the canteen rec room.
‘Interesting night I hear?’
The more senior of the two gestured for him to pull up a seat. Her name badge said Jennings; vaguely familiar as a passing face in the hallways over the years. She had a boyish haircut and the hint of a tattoo up her left sleeve. ‘I usually answer to Trish.’
Her colleague looked fresh out of the Academy but he would hate anybody to think so. ‘Bryce.’ He shook Cato’s hand.
‘Yeah, big night,’ said Trish. ‘You heard about our swinger then?’
‘He has a name?’
Bryce flipped open his notebook. ‘Paul Reinado. Age thirty-nine. Darwin resident, according to his driver’s licence.’
‘Married? Job?’
‘Yes to both,’ said Trish. ‘Got a six-year-old son. Shame, eh? Employed as an electrician. Subcontractor. Does a fair bit of fly-in fly-out.’
‘And he had my name and number?’
‘That’s right,’ said Trish.
‘But you phoned Agent Wang from the AFP instead?’
‘Yeah, her name was on the file from the airport arrest the previous day.’
Sharon had kept her own name after their marriage, maybe they didn’t know the connection. ‘Do you have the bit of paper?’
Trish shook her head. ‘It’s in an evidence bag in the system by now. Handed it over to the techs.’
‘Anything you noticed about the scene?’
‘Lonely, cold and sad.’ Bryce drained his cuppa. ‘Poor bastard.’
‘Who found him?’
‘Nobody,’ said Trish. ‘Anonymous call from a public booth beside the town hall.’
‘That’s a couple of kilometres away.’
She shrugged. ‘People today don’t want to get involved. Some don’t even bother making the call. Just go home and let somebody else find him.’
Cato left them his card. ‘If anything comes to mind, give me a bell.’
Trish spun it on the table top with her fingers. ‘You’re not the investigating officer. You’re Major Crime now. It’s probably down to the local team to look at why he had your name.’ A pause. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘Fair enough,’ said Cato. ‘Thanks for your time.’
‘No worries,’ said Trish. ‘Regards to your wife.’
So far, so good. They hadn’t been slaughtered in their beds yet. A good night’s sleep had done them all the world of good. Even Brian seemed chirpier this morning. Driscoll left them to their toast, cereal and coffee and did a circuit of the property on the lookout for any signs of overnight intrusion or for a secreted mobile phone. The sun was yet to breach the top of the trees and there was a chill in the air. In the gloomier pockets of the perimeter, where the sun rarely shone, vivid green moss clung to the tree trunks. There was a damp rich smell like a bag of ageing mushrooms; a grey wallaby peeking from behind a bush, and wattle birds darting around. It was peaceful here, like his place over near Warrnambool. Seclusion had come surprisingly easy to him. After all those years in the bland concrete of Canberra, the steaming metropoles of Asia, the deceptive desert island idylls, he’d wondered if he would be able to stand it in the back blocks. The answer was yes and yes again.
Why walk away? He was still good at his job. There was no shortage of missions to keep on accomplishing. No shortage of dragons to slay, demons to vanquish, even the odd maiden to rescue. Mira came to mind. Did she need rescuing? There was a moment when her vulnerability showed and he felt that old stab of remorse, of responsibility. But if she did need rescuing, he guessed it was more from herself than from anything else. Why walk away? Because he’d lost sight of right and wrong, and which side he was really on. How did that come about? His masters had read the ugly mood of the electorate, had embraced that flag with its sharp cutting stars, its desperate grip on the vestige of Empire, its cold dark ocean of life-sucking blue. Why walk away? Maybe he’d walked away from a mirage. That world he thought he inhabited had never been his. He was part of the team as long as he kept on kicking goals and taking marks. He’d been quietly proud of his ‘Fighting Gunditjmara’ heritage. But lift your shirt to remind them of the colour of your skin? No, they claimed that privilege as exclusively theirs.
Aunty had tried to persuade him to change his mind. To stick the course.
‘These muppets won’t be around forever, Rory. The voters have already had enough. People don’t like being taken for granted. This mob might well feed the national blood lust but they’re too chained to the top end of town, sharing tax avoidance scams in the club while the au pair minds the brats. Ordinary Aussies don’t like that shit.’
‘Drop over any time you like. I’ll take you out in the boat. Catch a few snapper, eh?’
She’d teared up. ‘Rory, if you go we’ll be left with a squad of blond, skinny, monoglossic Hitler Youth sneaking around the tropical fleshpots in designer sunnies, getting us into more trouble than we budgeted for. Please, mate. Don’t do this to me.’
Aunty resigned not long after but she obviously still kept her hand in – the temptation to remain in the Great Game would be too much. Still, the money and lifestyle would have been hard to give away and she’d invested unwisely in some expensive Sydney apartments that were sitting empty and developing cracks in the brickwork. Rory made his way back towards the house. Mira and Mason were out on the balcony having a smoke and another cup of coffee. He came looking for her, she’d said, with the scoop of her career. How did Mason know where to find her? Why her? Any number of high-profile scribes would have chewed his hand off for a story like that and would have had the clout to make sure it saw the light of day. They looked cosy up there on that balcony, the sun now high enough to warm their skin. They made a handsome couple, an advertisement for a romantic autumn break on the Apple Isle; murder and skulduggery banished to the shadows for the moment. Mira caught Driscoll’s eye and gave him a wave. He waved back.
The Freo D’s didn’t take long to follow up on the hanging man. DI Paddy McMahon, Hutchens’ successor, did the honours himself. ‘This Paul Reinado bloke, he a mate of yours?’
Cato resisted the urge to hold the phone away from his ear. McMahon seemed to have a permanent cold and the virus could have been worming its way through the ether. ‘No.’
‘He has your name and number.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘You’re not being very forthcoming, mate.’
‘I don’t know him, Paddy. Haven’t a clue why he has my contact details. What do you know about him?’
‘Not sure I can say right now. Might be a conflict.’ A pause and some rustling. ‘Says here your missus was involved?’
‘Agent Wang assisted at the initial airport incident and as her name was in the system the attending uniforms called her when the body was discovered.’
‘So it’s just a funny coincidence then?’
‘One way of putting it. Look, Paddy, I’ve got nothing to hide. As soon as you know more I’ll be happy to assist.’ A half-grunt, half-sniff in reply. ‘Sharon – Agent Wang mentioned he was in a bit of a state when he came off that plane. Drugs and booze, symptoms of paranoia and delusion. Believed people were after him. That’s as much as I know. The attending officers said he was a fly-in fly-out sparkie. Married with a kid.’
‘Nice.’
‘What?’
‘Pillow talk. I always wondered what AFP liaison officers did.’
‘With respect, Paddy, go fuck yourself.’ Cato closed the call. The hanging man could wait. He sought out Chris Thornton and found him studying the chocolate in the vending machine. ‘You’ll get fat.’
‘I was thinking about one of those healthy muesli energy bars down the bottom but you’ve convinced me now. Mars it is. Want one?’
Cato declined. ‘Busy?’
‘Dotting some t’s on Lenny Jacobs for the prosecution brief. There’s been a domestic in the northern suburbs we’ll probably catch, and a suspicious suicide down at Fremantle.’ The chocolate bar dropped into the serving tray.
Cato played dumb. ‘What’s suspicious about it?’
‘According to the local D’s, the height he was dangling from, the dodgy call-in.’ Thornton tore the wrapping and took a bite. ‘And your name and number in his daks.’ A grin. ‘That what you wanted to talk to me about?’
‘No, as a matter of fact. Can you call Nikki Earle in Bunbury and get her to formally link you in to her homicide files down there?’
‘Sure, but I thought we were letting her run it with her team?’
‘Protocol. Tell her I just want to review the case against similar up here.’
‘Can’t you do that anyway? Direct.’
‘Like I said, protocol. Don’t want her to think I’m checking up on her or going behind her back.’
‘Heaven forbid.’
‘I’ll probably be quarantined from the Freo suicide until they work out what’s going on. But feel free to informally give me the odd heads-up around the vending machine now and then.’
‘It’ll cost you.’ Another chomp. ‘A Mars a day.’
Driscoll wondered whether he should just ditch the lot of them and look after number one. He needed to talk to Aunty. She knew more than she was letting on and, though it wasn’t out of character, it was out of order. He’d given the job away and she needed him, not the other way round. And why was any of this Aunty’s business anyway? She was semi-retired and running her tainted celeb consultancy. Aunty didn’t need this shit any more than he did. She should have advised Mira and Brian to take a long holiday overseas ahead of The Hague committee hearing and told Mason where to shove his death list. And she should have left Driscoll in peace to do his fishing and brooding. Instead here he was perched in the shadow of a big, cold, dark hill in Tasmania waiting for death to come visiting, babysitting a neurotic, terrified suburban lawyer, a wannabe journalist playing Mata Hari, and Willie Mason, who surely was big and ugly enough to look after himself.
Driscoll set off on another circuit of the property. This whole thing was bullshit. Mason’s pitch was that Driscoll was the key to their survival – if he got through this they all would. But Driscoll didn’t even know why he was on this supposed death list in the first place.
‘Cuppa?’ Mason was on the deck, holding a mug up in question.
Driscoll nodded. ‘Coffee, thanks. Milk and none. Bring it down to the shed there.’ He intended to have words. Mason needed to show good cause why Driscoll shouldn’t just bugger off out of here. The shed was unlocked. Half the size of his bedroom, it was storage for garden implements, tools, potting mix, spare plant pots, seeds. A moss-coated cracked pane of glass let the weak light in. Driscoll couldn’t stand completely straight in it and was reminded of a Kimberley police lockup he’d once spent the night in as a young bloke. He rummaged around but to no avail.
‘Find it yet?’ Mason handed Driscoll his beverage. ‘The phone?’
‘Nah.’ Driscoll nodded for them to step back outside, he was feeling cooped up.
Mason took a sip. ‘You wanted a word?’
‘What’s the score with you and the journo? You’re thick as thieves.’
‘We get on. That a problem?’
‘Where did you find her?’
‘Through the Timorese expat community in Melbourne.’
‘Why choose her for your big scoop? She’s an online activist, easy to ignore, easy to dismiss. The story you had needed clout: Guardian, ABC, people like that.’
‘Think so?’
Driscoll wasn’t enjoying his coffee. ‘But then a properly trained journalist might ask questions you don’t want to answer. Show some initiative. Was that it?’
Mason grinned. ‘Hole in one.’ He glanced up to where Mira was leaning over the balcony rail, chucking food scraps to the birds and wildlife. ‘And you’ve got to admit she’s easy on the eye.’
‘She won’t be when they’ve finished with her. Whoever they are.’ He drained his coffee, bitter as it was. ‘You’ve put her in harm’s way. She doesn’t realise what she’s got herself into does she?’
‘Sir Galahad. You underestimate her. You don’t grow up under Indonesian occupation and see family and friends raped and slaughtered without getting some idea about what a bad world it can be. Give her some credit.’
‘You could take care of these guys all by yourself. You don’t need me.’
‘All for one?’
‘I’m no Musketeer. I’ll take my chances out on my own. You guys have a story to tell, or to kill, I don’t. I’m not testifying. I don’t know what I’m here for.’
‘You’re on the list.’
‘So you keep saying but I don’t believe you. Maybe it’s mistaken identity.’ Driscoll chucked his dregs onto the hard ground. ‘Maybe you could call them on that hidden mobile of yours and explain.’
‘I don’t have a phone and, to the best of my knowledge, neither has Mira.’
‘Maybe the safest thing for everybody is to split up and look after number one. Then nobody needs to worry about traitors in our midst.’
‘So you’re leaving?’
‘Soon as I’ve packed my bag. I’ll walk into town. You guys keep the car.’
‘Pauline will be disappointed.’
‘Aunty?’ said Driscoll. ‘I’ve been a constant source of disappointment to her since we met.’
The northern suburbs domestic had been given to another team and was already pretty much solved. The husband’s DNA was all over the scene and the victims. He’d shot his wife and their four-year-old son with his legally licensed hunting rifle. All that remained now was to locate the man and bring him and his gun into custody. ‘He never seemed the type,’ said the neighbours. ‘We never thought …’ But evidently he’d made little secret of his intentions on social media and to his workmates. As expected, another team was given the task of looking into the suspicious suicide of Paul Reinado, with Chris Thornton seconded to the enquiry as information manager. Which left Cato temporarily twiddling his thumbs.
‘Maybe we can get you back down to Bunbury.’ DI Pavlou perched on the edge of his desk, arms folded. ‘DSC Earle hasn’t had any dramatic breakthroughs. How’s your childcare situation looking? Reckon you could manage it?’
‘I don’t have a magic wand.’
‘For childcare or the Bunbury murder?’
‘Either. How about I review the case files and liaise with Earle by remote for the time being?’ He headed off Pavlou’s frown. ‘If anything jumps out, or things change, or she’s clearly not up to it, I’ll be down there in a flash.’
‘There’s no substitute for the real thing, Philip. Sometimes our very presence can be inspiring and change the course of an investigation.’
Yes, thought Cato. There were a couple of wrongly imprisoned blokes in Casuarina who’d probably attest to that and were seeking leave to appeal. ‘I’ll get right on to that case review, boss.’
‘Great. Keep me in the loop.’
He called Earle. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Slowly, but you know that already. You’ve been looking over my shoulder, plus you’ve got that colleague of yours checking on me too.’
‘He’s only obeying orders, as am I.’
‘No dramas. If you want to take over, just get on with it. No need for all this skulking around.’
‘It’s looking increasingly likely. For now, though, no news, nothing at all?’
‘Ryan Hodgson’s DNA links to an unsolved pack-rape case from a couple of years ago. That’s what he was worried about.’
‘Good result though?’
‘Not really. It was a dark, drunk, druggy, confusing night. The victim’s memory of precisely what happened is murky. Consent is an idealised notion that the lawyers love to toss around. There’s more than half a chance he’ll walk.’
‘Shame.’
‘Isn’t it just. Otherwise he still has no solid alibi for the Drummond killing, but my expectations are low. Nasty as he is, I just don’t think he’s our boy.’
‘You’ve looked further into Drummond’s life and times?’
‘Yep, it’s on the database, help yourself. You and your buddy Thornton are now official keyholders. Just log in the usual way.’
‘If anything jumps out I’ll give you a buzz. What’s your next move?’
‘Revisit doorknocks and CCTV. Maybe a media appeal in the next twenty-four hours. Drum up the crazies. You never know, we might get lucky.’
‘Stay in touch.’ Cato closed the call and logged on.
Bevan Drummond, aged seventy-two. He worked as a science teacher at the same Catholic college his whole career. Saw principals come and go, colleagues come and go, teaching fads and whiz-bang equipment come and go. Stayed on top of it all and taught three generations of Catholic schoolboys from Bunbury and surrounding districts all he thought they needed to know about science. No disciplinary slurs on his employment record. No hints of scandal. He was well liked and respected. He played golf and swam with a local Polar Bears swimming group, a stalwart of the open-water season. He did good works, was a member of the Rotary Club, and helped maintain a section of the Bibbulmun walk track every now and then. Salt of the earth and pillar of the community. A beacon of goodness. How on earth did this man’s life end in such darkness?
