Ten minutes later Cato was at Shellie’s place. The sun was up and the easterly was still cool. Some dawn strollers headed down Lefroy hill to the beach with their dogs and babies. Shellie was standing at the door when he rolled up: she was wrapped in a dressing gown, her eyes red and puffy. When he walked over she leaned into him and started crying. Her hand uncurled to reveal a small heart, moulded silvery alloy, on a cheap silver chain.
‘It’s her locket. She wore it all the time.’
Cato held out a pen for her to hook it over. Her prints and DNA would already be on it but he aimed to keep his off.
‘How do you know this is Bree’s? You can probably buy these anywhere.’
She shrugged. ‘I just do.’
They went inside the unit and he made her start at the beginning.
‘I woke up early; I don’t sleep well these days. I opened the front door to let the cat out and it was there on the doorstep. A letter.’
‘Show me.’
They walked over to the kitchen table. There was a standard A5 envelope, yellow, her name and address handwritten in block capitals in black ink. No postmark or stamp. ‘There’s something inside, a note, I couldn’t bear to read it.’
This time Cato went to the bother of retrieving a pair of forensic rubber gloves from the car. He snapped them on and fished out the note: plain white paper, A4, folded once. Two words in handwritten block capitals in black ink: FINDERS KEEPERS.
A low groan seeped from Shellie; she slumped onto a chair, head in hands. Cato spoke softly. ‘Wellard’s inside. Obviously he couldn’t have done this himself. You’ve no idea who this could be from?’
She didn’t look up. ‘No.’
‘Would Wellard know your address?’
‘Not from me.’
‘How many people know you live here?’
‘Apart from official places like the welfare or the bank or the power company, nobody.’
‘Nobody?’
She summoned up a bleak, tear-filled smile. ‘Nobody. You, the police. That’s my life.’
He crouched and put a tentative arm around her shoulder and wondered how much torment one person could be put through.
Shellie shook her head. ‘I just want him to stop.’
Cato flipped out his mobile and woke up his boss.
It was just after nine by the time they got access to Gordon Wellard. They were on the freeway and passing Jandakot aerodrome as a Cessna lifted lazily into the cloudless sky. Cato wouldn’t have minded being on it. On Thomas Road there was a garden centre with two shiny fibreglass elephants, one red and one yellow. Hutchens was playing with his new smartphone; he’d discovered the GPS app and couldn’t get enough of it.
‘Right, just after the elephants,’ Hutchens murmured.
‘Cheers.’
Cato had stopped pointing out to his boss that he already knew the way to Casuarina. He’d had this all the way down: left onto South Street, right onto the freeway, left onto Thomas. Right, just after the elephants.
The walls, wire and buildings that comprised WA’s maximum-security corrections facility came into view through the straggly she-oaks after which it was named. They were met at reception by a tall, balding man with glasses. He looked like a chemistry teacher but his badge said Geoffrey Scott, Superintendent. According to Scott, a cell and full body search on Wellard had already been done. Nothing of note.
‘This is turning into a bit of a circus isn’t it?’ Scott pushed his wire-rimmed specs back up to the bridge of his nose. ‘Maybe it’s about time Mr Wellard stopped getting all this attention and we left him to rot in anonymity.’
‘Thanks, Geoff,’ said Hutchens. ‘We all appreciate the great job you guys do here.’
Scott snorted and ushered them into an interview room. ‘We’ll bring him up.’
‘Any chance of a coffee?’ said Hutchens.
‘No,’ said Scott.
Wellard was brought forth in his grey visits overalls. They emphasised his gnomic qualities. What had Shellie Petkovic seen in this man to hook up with him in the first place?
Hutchens led the charge while Cato pretended to study some paperwork. ‘You’ve been bothering Shellie again. What’s going on?’
Wellard ignored Hutchens and looked at Cato. ‘What are you reading?’
‘None of your business,’ said Hutchens. ‘Why are you giving Shellie all this grief?’
‘Don’t know what you’re talking about. My radio got smashed this morning. Who’s going to replace it?’
‘Boo-hoo,’ said Hutchens. ‘I don’t care about your radio. You’ve done this before, Gordo. Just over a year ago you got one of your weird little friends to do the same thing. Same type of envelopes, same silly word games. We got him and you got nine months extra on your sentence.’
‘Concurrent. How is Billy by the way?’
‘Billy overdosed last October. Very sad. You’re a sadistic little prick and you’ve been giving everybody the run-around. We’re getting sick of it, mate.’
Wellard studied his fingernails. They were in need of clipping and they had an unhealthy yellow tinge. ‘Are we? Mick?’ He twisted his head back to Cato. ‘The radio. Can you write that down in your file, son?’
‘Who’ve you been talking to lately, Gordon? Who did you set on Shellie this time?’ said Hutchens.
‘How is Shellie? Keeping well?’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Hutchens. ‘We’ll check your phone records and visitor’s log. Look at people who’ve come out of here recently. You’re not helping yourself with this crap, mate.’
‘She’s been through a lot, that woman.’ Wellard shook his head sadly.
Cato showed him a photocopy of the note. ‘What does this mean: FINDERS KEEPERS?’
‘Dunno. Losers weepers maybe? Are you sniffing around my Shellie?’
Cato felt heat rising in his face. ‘Where is Briony Petkovic?’
‘Shellie likes you. I can tell by the way she looks at you. Like lovers in the park you were, down at Beeliar.’
‘That’s a vivid imagination you have. Where’s Briony Petkovic?’
‘None of your business. Just like my Shellie. She’s not for sharesies. She should know that by now.’
Cato closed the file and stood up. ‘Some things you can’t control, buddy.’
Wellard chewed briefly on one of those yellow nails. ‘Leaving already? No offence meant, mate. Nothing personal.’
Hutchens addressed the guard. ‘He’s all yours.’ He and Cato walked out; Cato taking some comfort in the knowledge that, on the way back to his cell, Wellard faced a probing strip search before getting back into his uniform greens.
The heat bounced off the prison car park. The sky was painfully blue. Cato zapped the locks of the Commodore and they drove off with the air con up to full. The fires were on again: two columns of smoke over the southern hills of the Darling Scarp out Karagullen way, and one close by in bushland near Success. Whoever chose that name for a suburb needed to be strung upside down from a lamppost. Vivid orange Christmas Bush splashed the freeway verges as they sped north. The oncoming lanes were already clogged with the exodus south for what many were planning as an extra long, long weekend because the public holiday fell on Tuesday. Stuck in a forty-degree traffic jam: some holiday.
Cato blew out a breath and ran a finger around his sweaty collar. ‘I feel like taking a shower after a few minutes in the same room with him.’ Hutchens was uncharacteristically quiet; it made Cato nervous. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘What? You and Shellie? Best wait until this is all over, mate. Protocols and that.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Wellard’s a sick fuck.’ A sideways glance. ‘You don’t fancy her do you?’
‘No!’
‘Touchy.’
Cato flicked on the radio. Whoever last used the car had it preset to a frantic babbling pop station. He found Classic FM and some flute music he couldn’t put a name to.
Hutchens stabbed it back into silence. ‘Sounds like fucking Play School. What’s going on here, Cato?’
‘You tell me.’
‘Meaning?’ Less a question, more a warning.
‘Wellard seems to think he’s in charge.’
‘And?’
‘You and him go back a long way. Aren’t you meant to be the one in charge?’
‘You saying I’m not?’
‘Again, you tell me.’
‘I’ll keep you posted, Detective Senior Constable.’ Hutchens mobile beeped. ‘Shit. Another budget meeting at HQ.’
At that point Cato remembered the news he’d forgotten to pass on to Hutchens from DS Colin Graham. ‘Did you hear about Santo Rosetti?’
‘Birdcage Boy? What about him?’
‘He’s one of ours. Intelligence undercover.’
Hutchens did a slow chin-tilt to click a vertebra. ‘Santo’s a dog and you’re only telling me now?’
‘I learned late last night. I slept, woke up, talked to Shellie, came out here with you. Got distracted.’
‘Does Lara know this?’
Cato coughed. ‘Thought it best that you hear it first. Protocols and that.’
‘Good boy. Now call her, she might appreciate an update.’ Hutchens glanced at the clock on the dash. It was still only midmorning. ‘Group hug. Noon. Pass it on.’
Lara Sumich sat outside the Spearwood home of Giuseppe and Sara Rosetti. It was a fairly typical paved Italian palace with European flowers in the front yard, plenty of brick and tile, some columns, and a spotless driveway regularly swept and hosed. Lara hadn’t been able to make any sense of what the Rosettis were on about. It wasn’t just their shocked bereavement, or their age, or their limited grasp of English even after nearly forty years in the country. It was like they were talking about a different Santo.
Lara started the car and headed towards Coogee and the coast. There was a whisper of a sea breeze so she left the air con off and opened the windows. She had known Santo. He was a junkie sleazebag. A parasite. He would sell his mother for the price of a fix. A pathetic low-life loser. Quite a fall from grace then from the Santo described by Mr and Mrs Rosetti, and only barely recognisable from the photo they proudly showed her of a young and clean-cut Santo graduating from the WA Police Academy several years before. So had he gone badly wrong somewhere along the line and dropped out? No, they said, he was still a policeman. They’d already had a visit from some brass from HQ. Apparently they would keep them informed. Lara would have appreciated being in the fucking loop too.
Her phone buzzed – caller ID: Kwong. She let it go through to message bank. Once it beeped she checked to make sure there would be no surprises when they did catch up.
Hi Lara, Cato here. The boss has called a meet for noon. Some news from Gangs about your man Santo: turns out he was one of ours, a UC. Interesting times huh?
The message ended with a self-deprecating chuckle. How long had he known? She chucked her mobile onto the passenger seat and shifted gear.