The fracas was just across the street outside Culley’s Tea Rooms in the mall. When Cato and Amy arrived, there were already a couple of uniforms on the scene plus Courtney who had rushed ahead to deal with the emergency while Cato and Amy were escorted out of the town hall by a staffer. Somebody was on the ground being attended by a paramedic team. There was a ranger there, standing with his head back, dabbing at a bloody nose with a handkerchief. It was Jackboot John and Courtney was talking to him.
‘What happened?’ said Cato to a police uniform. His name badge said Oliver, they’d nodded a few times passing in the corridors of the cop shop.
‘The ranger had a run in with a dero. Asked him to move on. Bit of push and shove apparently, then the bloke punched him.’
‘The bloke on the ground?’
‘Yeah.’
‘And how did he end up there?’
‘The ranger punched him back, harder.’
‘Witnesses?’
‘Heaps. The main one is the guy who runs the souvenir shop. He’d apparently made the original complaint to the ranger. There’s also the woman from the travel agent, the busker over there and half-a-dozen punters having their lunch outside Culley’s.’ Smart phones were raised for selfies while sausage rolls cooled. Oliver squinted at his crackling radio piece. ‘Wouldn’t have thought something like this would interest you? We’re happy to deal with it.’
‘Just passing,’ said Cato. He directed Amy to talk to the souvenir shop man.
At that moment the ambulance officers parted as they helped their patient to a sitting position. It was Barry, shaking his head groggily. ‘Fucking bastards.’
Cato crouched down for a chat. ‘You okay there, Barry?’
‘Sergeant Kwong!’ He no longer had his Big Issue magazines or his seller’s uniform and ID. He was back in civvies: thongs, cargo pants and an NWA T-shirt. His IGA shopping bag lay a few metres away. Barry pointed at Jackboot John. ‘Arrest that man.’
Courtney joined them. ‘Barry, mate. You okay?’
‘What’s it to you?’
She repeated the question to the ambos who seemed to think there was no major damage but they’d take him across to Fiona Stanley A&E for a check-up.
She gave Barry a smile. ‘You landed a corker on John there. You can look after yourself, can’t you?’
Barry lifted his chin proudly. ‘Fucking right.’
‘Fucking right,’ she agreed. ‘Look, I’ve had a word with John and he’s happy to not press charges. Just call it quits. What do you reckon?’
‘He started it.’
Another smile. ‘And you finished it, didn’t you, champ?’
Not exactly true but Barry was open to flattery. ‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘So?’
Barry gave it some thought. ‘Just keep him away from me, that’s all.’
Courtney looked at Cato. ‘What do you reckon? Save us all a bit of paperwork?’
He thumbed over his shoulder at the uniforms. ‘Their call, they’re the attending officers.’
After some discussion it was agreed to issue both combatants with a caution and leave it at that. Cato and Amy left them to it. But not before he noticed a wink pass between John and the souvenir shop owner, and relief ghost across Courtney’s face.
‘Why Fremantle?’
Cato was ruminating on the meeting with Courtney the Boss Ranger and her comments on ‘pro beggars’ moving from suburb to suburb, donor shopping.
‘What?’ said Amy Trimboli, emerging from Subway with a big sandwich.
‘If our killer is carrying a grudge or wanting to send a message about the homeless, why Freo? Why not Perth or somewhere else?’
‘Familiar territory? He lives or works here or has some connection with it?’
It was a good, if obvious, point and Cato acknowledged it with a nod. ‘If Perth is cracking down maybe he wants to discourage the refugees heading to Freo.’
‘Stop the Tramps?’ said Amy.
‘Be nice.’
As they headed back to the cop shop, Cato put in a call to set up a meeting with the mayor. The PA promised to get back to him asap. Cato thanked her and pocketed his phone. All around them old Fremantle landmarks, some ugly and some not, were being demolished to make way for the vision of a new, more vibrant glass and steel Freo. The billboards called it ‘Freo 2020’. Cato wondered how many marketing and policy strategies out there were tied in to that year and the notion that everything would become clearer by then. The 2020 vision looked to Cato like the same high-rise high-density model that had dissolved what heart and soul there had been in other Perth suburbs and turned them into anywheresville. Would such developments offer any relief to the homeless? If so, Cato suspected it would be a very slow and very small trickle down. Then again, housing and caring for the homeless was primarily the remit of the state and federal governments. Councils empty bins, police pets and strays, create development opportunities, oil the cogs of commerce and community. Set off fireworks on Australia Day — or decide that Australia Day should not, in fact, be celebrated. Yes, more than that. A council, a good one, tapped into what it believed was the soul of a city. Was that what the killer also believed he was doing? Tapping into the dark heart?
Amy seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Chicken or egg? Is he responding to a mood out there, or aiming to shape it?’
‘Or are we crediting him with more depth than he warrants?’
‘Prob’ly.’
They crossed at the Market Street lights, dodging a cyclist running the red, and headed along High Street past the refurbished National Hotel. Cato remembered it as a dingy, old man’s pub before economics and arson left it a neglected shell for many years. Now it was back, boasting black-suited bouncers with headsets, boutique beers and a clientele with a healthy disposable income. The National was a microcosm of the transition from old Fremantle to new. Those old blokes with their working clothes and middies wouldn’t last two minutes in there.
They swiped themselves through the cop shop security doors and climbed the stairs. The question still floated in front of Cato, unanswered. Why Fremantle? In the office Amy unwrapped her sandwich and Cato dug a tupperware box of leftovers out of the fridge.
‘So what did the souvenir shop man have to say?’ he said, picking through last night’s chicken stir-fry.
‘Neil Foster. He doesn’t think much of the council, or the mayor, he’s sick of the beggars and he thinks the buskers are crap.’
‘What did he have to say about this particular incident?’
Amy finished chewing on a section of her demi-sub. ‘He said the beggar, the bloke the ranger decked …’
‘Barry.’
‘Right. Him. He was hanging around the shop doorway and swearing at customers. The ranger was called and the fight led from that.’
‘Was the ranger nearby or did Mr Foster call the council?’
‘I’ll check.’
Cato thought about the wink that passed between the men. ‘I think Foster and Jackboot John might be acquainted. I wouldn’t be surprised if they have each other’s mobiles.’
‘Jackboot John?’
‘Barry’s name for him.’ Cato explained the recent history.
‘Sounds like he warrants closer attention,’ agreed Amy. ‘As does Foster.’
Chris Thornton stuck his head around the door. ‘Sarge? DI Hutchens reckoned I should bring this to you.’
‘Yep?’
‘The nerds examined Wayne Bradley’s GPS from his car.’
Wayne and Scottie the Rottie already seemed so long ago. ‘And?’
‘His account of visiting the brothel on the night of victim three’s murder stacks up. ‘Shanelle’ from Maddington gave him an alibi. Plus the GPS shows his car was where he says it was at the time and the only stops he made were the car park outside Little Creatures, Ada Street round the corner from the knocking shop, and home.’
‘So we can eliminate him from our enquiries?’
A sly grin materialised. ‘But on the night of victim two, Maureen Bryant, the car makes a stop for six minutes just fifty metres from where she was found and within an hour of the likely time of death according to the P-M report.’
‘That’s the night he failed to account for properly.’
‘Another chat?’ asked Thornton.
Cato still didn’t see Bradley as being physically capable of stomping Chris White to death but the question needed an answer if only for due diligence. Besides, he might have seen something useful. Either way, the man was already milking his victim status on a handful of news outlets and they couldn’t afford another PR disaster. ‘Send it through to DI Pavlou,’ said Cato. ‘That decision’s above my pay grade.’
Jackboot John’s real name turned out to be John Jason Jenkins.
‘Triple J,’ said Amy. ‘Cool.’
They’d been given a meeting room at the town hall and Courtney, less friendly and a lot more wary since that morning’s biff, had offered to sit in.
‘I think we’ll manage fine, thanks,’ said Cato.
John Jenkins dabbed a tissue at his nose. It was red and swollen and he still looked mightily pissed off. Whether that was from the runin with Barry, or from a chastening chat with his boss, Cato wasn’t sure. Jenkins was thirty-two and had joined the rangers department nine months earlier.
‘What does your job entail?’ asked Cato.
‘This and that. Until about six months ago I’d run around in the van, telling people off for letting their dogs go where they shouldn’t, or pay a call on somebody with a yapper and ask them nicely to do something about it. Rock and a hard place in Freo, they’re nuts about their dogs here and won’t have a word said against them.’
‘What about enforcing the council’s policy on beggars?’
‘That’s the main gig now. Much easier to deal with than dogs and their owners.’
‘So have you heard or seen anything unusual over the last couple of months in that aspect of your job?’
‘Like what?’
‘People behaving suspiciously, stuff like that.’ A shake of the head. ‘What about your … clients?’
‘Clients?’
‘The beggars you move on,’ said Amy.
‘What about them?’
‘Have they mentioned anything unusual? Have any of them changed their behaviour recently?’
‘Nah, same as ever.’
‘What was the fight about, Mr Jenkins?’
‘Fight?’
‘This morning with Barry,’ said Cato.
‘I thought that was all settled? Isn’t this about your murder enquiry and whether I’ve seen or heard anything that might help you?’
‘You don’t seem to have anything to offer on that score. How would you describe your relationship with your clients?’
‘Professional.’
‘In what sense?’
‘In every sense. I have a job to do and I do it.’
‘You don’t like them very much, do you?’
‘It’s not in the job description.’
‘We’re trying to stop a murderer, Mr Jenkins. Your help would be appreciated.’
‘We finished here?’
‘For now.’ Cato handed him a business card. ‘If you think of anything, or see or hear anything, call me. My mobile’s on the back.’
Jenkins examined the card for a moment. ‘Sure, mate, no wucks.’
‘Just one more thing,’ said Trimboli. Jenkins turned. ‘What size shoe are you?’
‘Ten. Same as my dick.’
As the door closed behind him, Amy Trimboli took a set of tweezers from her bag, retrieved Jenkins’ bloody tissues from the rubbish bin and dropped them into an evidence bag. ‘Same as your IQ as well.’
‘Naughty,’ said Cato.
‘If we get a match I’ll ask him nicely for an official sample.’
That was fine by Cato. He checked his phone. The mayor’s PA hadn’t been back in touch, so he decided to take the initiative and drop in.
‘We were just passing,’ Cato told the PA as she looked up from her computer screen. He nodded towards her ID lanyard. ‘Jess?’ He introduced himself and Amy.
‘Steven’s still out.’ She tapped her keyboard. ‘He’s available first thing tomorrow. How about meeting him for coffee? He likes Little Lefroy. Eight-thirty okay for you?’
‘Make it eight,’ said Cato. ‘Mine’s a strong flat white. No froth.’
Next a visit to Neil Foster at the souvenir shop over the road. A face pinched and lined from too much frowning. Neil was from somewhere in Wales originally. They had the chat in a cramped back room while Neil’s equally pinched wife kept watch over a shop full of koalas, placemats, tea towels and postcards. The thing was, the more Cato listened to Neil the more he felt for the poor bugger: absentee landlords charging crippling rents, online competition undercutting his meagre profits, ratbags smashing the windows, pissing in the doorway, stealing merchandise, harassing customers. And now the council’s development plans which, during the construction phase, would disrupt business for the next eighteen months or more.
‘And no, I don’t buy the idea that soulless concrete towers can be karmically offset by buskers and murals and an old brickwall facade.’ A man after Cato’s own heart, but he hadn’t finished his rant. ‘Fucking tower blocks in the centre of Freo? Tacky shite.’
That wasn’t entirely fair coming from a man who sold plastic platypus keyrings. Having heard him out, it was time to get to the point. ‘The antisocial behaviour. That’s been a major bugbear for you, hasn’t it?’
‘Scum and deadshit, the lot of them.’
‘The ranger, Jenkins, do you know him?’
‘I think his correct title is Community Safety Officer.’
‘All the same, do you?’
‘Yes, our paths have crossed.’
Amy brought up a spreadsheet on her iPad. ‘An average of three calls a week to the local police for the six months up to last February. After that, nothing. No problems since then?’
‘The cops were useless, overstretched, whatever. Other priorities. The council officers are able to expedite matters.’
Cato had a memory of the municipal security officers in Shanghai, the chengguan, and their ruthless ability to ‘expedite matters’. Breaking spines, chucking people off rooftops. ‘Fair enough, but the council phone log also shows that you stopped calling their hotline sometime in March. Did the problems suddenly go away?’
‘No.’
‘So?’
A sigh. ‘I’ve known Johnny’s family from way back when I lived down in Albany. He gave me his mobile, said he could deal with things quicker that way.’
‘Johnny. Personal service,’ said Amy. ‘Nice.’
‘If you like. What’s this all about, anyway? It was just a scuffle between him and that Big Issue loser. I thought that was all over? Lot of fuss over nothing if you ask me.’
‘Just trying to build a clearer picture,’ said Cato, taking out his business card. ‘Thanks for your time.’