Bad Seed (2 page)

Lara Sumich was hunched over the toilet bowl, naked and spewing. It felt wonderful.

‘You did this to me, you bastard,' she said to the man brushing his teeth behind her.

His reflection grinned in the bathroom mirror. ‘Love you,' he said, through a mouthful of froth.

Lara wiped her face with the back of her hand and stood up. She nudged him aside from the washbasin and gargled some water. Then she pressed her lips to his broad back and wrapped her arms around his front, hands rippling over the belly hair, creeping lower.

‘How about John?' she said.

He spat some toothpaste into the sink and rinsed. ‘Terrible name. He'll end up working in a library, or a ballet dancer or something; overcompensating. Tyson, I reckon.'

She felt him growing under her touch. ‘Is that what you're doing?' she murmured. ‘Overcompensating?'

‘Always.'

Her mobile trilled. ‘Fuck.'

‘Leave it.'

But she couldn't. It was her boss from Major Crime, DI Pavlou. ‘Put him down, dearie, and get yourself into the office, quick sharp.'

‘Something up?' said Lara giving John a last regretful tug.

‘A nice juicy murder, back in your old patch. The name's triggered all sorts of bells and whistles in the system.'

‘Be right in, boss.' She terminated the call and quickly threw some clothes on.

John was flushed and still proudly erect. ‘And what am I supposed to do with this?'

Lara gave him a chaste kiss on the cheek. ‘Later, sweetie.'

‘What if it turns out to be a girl?' he said, wrapping a towel around himself and patting her tummy. ‘A little you, running around the place.'

‘Heaven forbid,' said Lara, closing the door behind her.

‘So how come you know so much about them?'

DI Hutchens was on his way out of the office. There was a whiff of aftershave and a sharp trim to his greying forward comb. He was dressed to impress and seemed to have shed a couple of kilos in preparation for his summons before the court of public opinion. Cato had hoped the hostel inquiry would keep his boss distracted for quite a few more weeks but was reminded, once again, never to underestimate the man's ability to concentrate when you least expected it.

‘I went to school and uni with Francis Tan. We were mates back then.'

Hutchens nodded. He liked proving himself right. ‘And the wife, face all bashed in, but you still knew it was her.'

‘Yes.'

‘Stayed in touch, did you, after school and that?'

‘Off and on.'

‘Okay.' Hutchens checked his watch. ‘Fill me in later. Found the son yet?'

‘No.'

‘You happy to front the hyenas?'

‘Police Media have got their golden girl doing the honours. I'll be standing next to her looking serious and capable.'

‘Okay, keep me posted. Squad meet at five.'

And Hutchens was gone.

‘Sarge?'

Cato sat at his desk and logged on.

‘Sarge?'

Cato realised somebody was talking to him. He was still getting used to the new rank, he'd only had it a week. To be precise he was still only Acting Detective Sergeant Kwong; it all depended on whether his predecessor, DS Meldrum, returned from his triple bypass operation. It seemed unlikely. ‘Yep?'

It was DC Chris Thornton, a Sydneysider with ambitions beyond his abilities but, his saving grace, a keen eye for detail and order when pressed. He'd make a really good warehouse manager one day. ‘Call for you on line two. Some woman.'

‘Name?'

‘Didn't give one. Said it was … personal.' The last word accompanied by finger quotes and the kind of smirk that invites a headbutt.

Cato picked up the phone. After a few seconds he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. This was the last thing he needed right now.

‘So, over the course of nearly two years at Hillsview, during nineteen ninety-six and nineteen ninety-seven, you were regularly sexually abused by the warden Peter Sinclair?'

Counsel Assisting the Inquiry, Andrew Burke QC, looked like he rowed for Guildford Grammar old boys. Fit, lean, grey and rich. And a chip on his shoulder – probably bullied at school. Hutchens had his phone on silent: he checked for any messages. Lots.

‘Yes.' The witness was David Mundine, a nervous pudgy man in his late twenties who, judging by his yellowed fingers and twitches, was itching for a cigarette break. Hutchens glanced at the rap sheet in his file: drink, drug, property damage and burglary convictions and a restraining order taken out by the de facto. A gust from outside seemed to sway the whole building. Horizontal rain flayed the windows.

‘Did you tell anyone what was going on during that time, David?'

‘Yes, I told the police.'

Burke QC raised an eyebrow in apparent surprise. ‘You told the police?'

‘Yes.'

‘Can you remember the name of the officer you spoke to?'

‘Yeah, Michael Hutchens, like the bloke from INXS.' He pointed in the general direction. ‘Him over there.'

Just about everybody in the bland overcrowded room on the fourteenth floor of the St Georges Terrace tower block turned to get a good look at the man sitting three rows back. Hutchens ignored them and played Zen. So it was his turn to be the dancing bear in this seedy little sideshow. The judicial inquiry into sexual and physical abuse at state-run institutions was the gift that kept on giving for the tabloid media: lurid allegations, sex and violence, dastardly villains, and pitiful victims. Hutchens had already worked out that it was his role to prance across the stage in a humiliating costume while they prodded him with spears. Fine. All he had to do was get to the other side in one piece.

Burke QC sniffed like he'd become aware of something unpleasant on the soles of his expensive shoes. ‘And what response did you get, David?'

David looked down and took a sip of water. ‘He told me to piss off and stop wasting his time.'

Cue audience boos and hisses.

Cato was on Leach Highway in a pool Commodore driven by DC Deb Hassan. She'd been assigned the job of family liaison. In recent months she'd shown herself adept at prising nuggets of information and evidence from grieving relatives under the guise of being caring and concerned. They were headed to a riverside address in Shelley, a girlfriend of Matthew Tan's. Cato's mobile sounded. It was a voice he recognised: DSC Lara Sumich, one-time colleague now on secondment to Major Crime. They'd had a problematic relationship over the years. A one-night stand, quickly followed by a falling out as Cato stymied her efforts to frame a man for murder. Then a truce of sorts with Lara saving his life two years ago. They'd developed a mutual grudging respect but since her transfer to Major Crime they'd had little contact.

‘How's the job going?' said Cato.

‘Good, mate. Saw you on News 24 this morning next to Headline Hannah. How's the new rank?'

‘Easy come, easy go. I've learnt not to get too attached to these fripperies. What can I do for you?'

‘We're offering our support and expertise to your Tan inquiry.'

Whether we like it or not, thought Cato. ‘Thank you, why so soon?'

Usually it was seventy-two hours before Major Crime stepped in on a murder inquiry, the theory being that most homicides were three-day jobs: domestics and the like, devoid of any subtlety, forethought, or even a compelling motive. If they remained unsolved after three days then the shiny suits might either offer their expertise to the local office as required or even take over the whole show. But sometimes they wanted in from day one.

‘Lots of bodies, looks nasty, they're a well-known family. It's going to be bigger than Ben Hur.'

‘Talked to the boss about this?' said Cato.

‘His phone's turned off. I've been asked to start the ball rolling.'

Cato wasn't surprised by the early move. She was right: it would be big but was it complex yet? Maybe all they had to do was bring in Matthew Tan and it would still be a three-day job. He could see no real harm in Lara attending the squad meeting later that day but he knew that his boss was as territorial as they come. He gave it a moment's thought then invited her to the meeting. At worst he would suffer a bollocking from Hutchens and that wouldn't be the first time.

‘Beauty,' said Lara. ‘We'll see you at five.'

Wind buffeted the car and the windscreen wipers struggled with the deluge. Power lines swayed and bits of trees bounced down the road. Cato's mind returned to the call he'd taken just before he left the office: his sister, in tears, and all Cato could do was to promise he'd really try his best to be there.

Deb Hassan signalled a right off Leach Highway just before Shelley Bridge. A few minutes later they pulled up in front of a Louisiana plantation–style mansion with frontage to a black, storm-whipped Canning River. Cato and his colleague hurried up
the path and rang the doorbell. It was only a few steps but still enough for them to get drenched. There was a yap and the door opened. Both poodle and girl had matching yellow bows. The girl was in a blue silk kimono and had a recently bedded look. According to the file, she was Lily Soong, a family friend, eighteen.

‘Yeah?'

Cato showed his ID. ‘Seen Matthew, Lily?'

She turned her head and yelled. ‘Matt!' A grunt from up the stairs. ‘It's the pigs. For you.'

Cato could recall exactly the moment he no longer wanted to be Matthew Tan's godfather. It was a warm Sunday afternoon in late spring: the Swan River sparkled, boats rounded the spit at Point Walter, and Cato was already acutely aware of the difference in earning power between him and his old school buddy, Francis. They were drinking on the Tans' back deck while the barbecue sizzled and the view dazzled. Jane was sticking to mineral water while six-month-old Jake nuzzled her breast. In those days her smiles and bright eyes were still for Cato. The Tan kids raced around the backyard: four-year-old Emily shepherding the chubby toddler Josh away from the careless exuberance of his big brother.

‘Matthew, darling, careful with your little brother, sweetie.' The mother's words floated past the boy unheard and unacknowledged. Genevieve Tan's gaze had drifted back to the immediate company on the patio, resting briefly on Cato. It was an unsettling nanosecond of intimacy from days of yore. Uni days. A semester of unforgettable sex before Genevieve moved on and found her future husband. Francis, as usual, was in full flow about himself.

‘I was such a lazy bastard at school. If I ever got a mark back saying fifty-one percent I felt dudded, I'd obviously done one percent too much work.' Francis fixed Cato with a sly grin. ‘Phil was the swotty arse; anything less than an A was an epic tragedy. He never went out anywhere.' Francis swung his beam on Jane just as she was detaching the baby from her nipple. ‘Surprised he ever managed to get a girlfriend at all.'

Cato ignored Genevieve Tan's mischievous half-smile while Jane excused herself and took baby Jake out to a shady spot under
a fig tree. She side-footed a couple of steel bocce balls from their earlier game and sat in the cleared space, burping Jake over her shoulder, Matthew and his siblings circling mother and son like injuns around a wagon train.