Cato was shaken awake by Sharon. It must be his turn again. He opened his eyes to darkness and readied himself to go and fetch the baby. But something wasn’t right. It was silent. Ella wasn’t crying.
‘There’s somebody down the side path,’ Sharon whispered.
Then he heard it too. The soft scrape of shoes on the concrete paving slabs. And another noise. A hiss: intermittent, irregular. Rattling, like peas in a tin. A spray can. ‘Little bastards.’ Cato threw back the covers, pulled on some daks and headed for the front door.
‘Leave it, Phil. You don’t know how many are out there. Call it in.’
She was right but he was pissed off and sleep deprived and somebody had to pay. He flicked on the porch light and unlatched the security door. Listened again. No running footsteps, the light hadn’t scared them off. The hissing still there. They were still spray-painting.
‘Hey!’ he called, stepping out on to the verandah.
A chuckle. Low. Relaxed. Unafraid.
Cato went down the few steps into the front yard and edged towards the side path. Clouds scudded across a half moon and wind blew through the gum trees. Somewhere a dog barked. He shivered, looked around for something to defend himself with. Saw only an old teapot with a geranium cutting in it. He bent to pick it up. The quality of the air and light around him changed a second before he felt the blow. A kick to the side of his head. Then another and another. He rolled himself tight, bracing for more. A hawking sound and a gob of phlegm on his face, then the sound of retreating running steps.
When he opened his eyes again, it was quiet and still as if it had never happened.
‘You can’t do shit like that now, sweetie.’
Sharon dabbed at his grazes with a Betadine-soaked cotton ball. The two kicks and a stomp had left him sore yet remarkably bloodfree. On balance it could have been a lot worse. Maybe he shouldn’t have washed the spit off his face, saved it for DNA testing. No, too disgusting to contemplate.
‘Yeah, sorry.’
He had been stupid, venturing out in the middle of the night clad only in his daks and with a geranium-filled teapot for a weapon. He’d been easily overcome and, it didn’t bear thinking about, he had left his wife and child vulnerable. They should have kept everything locked and called the cops as she suggested.
Sharon finished dabbing a scrape on his cheek and pressed her lips to it. ‘There, there. All better.’ She chucked the cotton ball in the bin. ‘We’ll check the vandalism in the morning. It’ll wait.’
On cue Ella woke ready for a feed. ‘No rest for the wicked,’ said Cato.
Sharon mustered a semi-vixen look. ‘Too stuffed to be wicked right now. Maybe later?’
Cato climbed back into bed, thinking about how close he’d possibly come to putting his loved ones in danger. He chastised himself to sleep.
Mayor Steve Pinder favoured a tweedy jacket and autumnal colours, and his hair was neatly parted around an angular goatee-bearded face. If he came to your door you’d be forgiven for thinking uni lecturer or self-published poet. He slid a mug towards Cato. ‘Strong flat white, no froth.’
The cafe was full of locals supercharging their day ahead. Pinder acknowledged passing nods and greetings. ‘Thanks for taking the time to meet me,’ said Cato, handing him a business card.
‘My pleasure.’ A look of concern at Cato’s injuries. ‘Been in the wars?’
‘Nothing serious.’ He sipped some coffee. ‘How’s the election going?’
‘Early days.’
‘Confident?’
‘Hopeful. I try not to take anything for granted.’
‘You’re aware, of course, of these recent homeless killings.’
‘Yes. Terrible. Any progress?’
‘Early days.’
The mayor’s ham and cheese croissant arrived. He took a bite and brushed the crumbs off his chest. ‘I’m still not sure what this is about?’ He gestured at the space between them. ‘Why the meeting?’
Cato wasn’t so sure himself. ‘My boss wants reassurance that these killings won’t become an election issue. She fears external pressures would distract us from our primary aim.’
Pinder frowned. ‘I’m sure she’s right and I wouldn’t dream of adding to your burden. That would be an appalling thing to do.’
Cato nodded. ‘Much appreciated.’
‘I’m almost offended that you felt the need to bring it up with me.’
A shrug. ‘Only obeying orders.’
‘Yes. Right. Of course.’ Another bite of croissant. ‘How does your boss see this as a potential election issue?’ A smile. ‘Not looking for tips or anything. Just out of interest.’
Cato pulled his legs in so a couple could get by with their pram and three dogs on leads and keep checking their phones at the same time. ‘Homelessness has become more of a problem in Freo the last year or so. I talked to Courtney in the town hall. The new policies, rangers, beggars, all that.’
Pinder didn’t reply. Waited for more.
‘A candidate might use this as an opportunity to, for instance, stir up public fear, or antipathy towards the homeless, or criticise the police?’
‘They’d have to be pretty despicable and desperate.’
‘What about the opposition?’
‘I can’t speak for him.’
‘Aren’t there several people standing?’
‘Yes, but few of them are contenders.’
‘So by “him” you mean …?’ Cato checked notes on his phone.
‘Brian Knight,’ Pinder broke in with a grin. ‘Dark Knight I call him. He’s been a councillor in City Ward since the Stone Age. Now he thinks his time has come.’
‘Do you have a mobile number?’
‘Sure.’ He gave it to Cato. ‘Good luck.’
‘How’s parenthood?’ enquired Hutchens, casting a glance over Cato’s injuries.
‘Hectic but, on balance, a blessing.’
‘Marriage still on track?’
Cato gave in and explained his wounds.
They were in the office kitchen and Hutchens had made himself a tea. ‘Water’s just boiled,’ he said helpfully. ‘Did you report it?’
‘Hardly seems worth it. I’ll live. And the graffiti amounted to a big white letter “Y” on the weatherboards. We were going to get the outside repainted anyway.’
‘A big Y?’
Cato shrugged. It hurt. ‘Maybe they were interrupted writing “you suck”. Maybe it’s a form of existential street art. I’ve seen other “Y” graffiti around the burbs from this year’s bad boys, Yardies they call themselves.’
Hutchens nodded. ‘I did a tweet about them a few weeks ago. Hashtag hardertheycomehardertheyfall. They sometimes hang out down at the “Youth Plaza”.’ Hutchens did finger quotes for the last two words. He was talking about the Esplanade skate park: a few hundred square metres of useless grass concreted over in the name of civic progress. ‘An excellent council initiative,’ said Hutchens. ‘Now we just need to put a fence around it and a couple of guards and we’ll always know where to find the little bastards.’
‘You’re a dark-hearted cynic, sir,’ said Cato, squeezing his teabag out.
‘Either way, intelligence, mate. Every statistic counts.’ He tapped his nose. ‘Hashtag biggerpicturepolicing.’
‘You seem to be growing into the new role.’
‘Old dogs, new tricks. Maybe I can be some kind of viral sensation after I retire.’ Hutchens lifted his mug at Cato. ‘Anyway, zap it through to the local police team so they can file it away.’ A wink. ‘Look after yourself, okay?’
Amy Trimboli was waiting for him in their Major Crime outpost two doors down from the toilets. ‘Ouch, what happened to you?’
Cato explained himself again. It looked like being one of those days.
She tutted in sympathy and passed a spreadsheet his way. ‘Chris Thornton’s update on names of those connected with the homeless industry, cross-referenced with the national crime-tracking system.’ If any names on that list had been in trouble anywhere in Australia it would be available on the national database.
Cato scanned the list: a Perth food-bank volunteer who had a restraining order out against him in Queensland; a Rockingham paramedic who’d spent time in the military had copped a fine for his involvement in a brawl between US and Australian servicemen on exercises in Darwin six years earlier. Maybe he was worth pursuing in case he had any previous connection to victim three, the ex-commando Chris White. Cato put it on the action list for Deb Hassan’s outside enquiries team, along with a general follow-up on all the names, highlighted or not, to see if they’d heard or seen anything of interest lately.
Amy handed him another summary sheet. ‘And these are new calls from the Crimestoppers phone-in, filtered for irrelevance and nutcases.’
Cato took a sip of tea and squinted at the log, a headache squeezing his eyeballs. ‘Any Panadol around?’
‘Coming right up.’ Amy wandered off to organise it.
The phone log, even in filtered form, remained a haven for dobbers and score-settlers and all the lonely people. But one name did stand out.
Jake loved this time of day at the gym. He had a double free on Tuesday mornings, not that there was much point going to school anyway. The pre-work crowd had thinned and he could count on a solid hour of space, peace and concentration before the mums and oldies rocked up and ruined it. This was his sanctuary away from the twins, away from bloody Simon and his disapproval, and from Mum and her constant worry and disappointment.
‘Jake, mate, give us a hand?’
It was Lance. Over the past week or two they’d progressed from exchanging nods to sharing jokes at the expense of the weak fatties and helping each other out on the big lifts. Jake still didn’t know much about Lance though, except he came from somewhere out bush and was built like a tank.
‘Early today, but?’ said Jake, sliding another plate onto the bar as Lance settled himself for the bench press.
‘On nights. Can’t fuckin’ sleep when I finish. Too pumped.’ He expelled some air and took the strain. Jake was ready to ease the load if it went wrong. Lance did five lifts, face beetroot red, veins bulging on the forehead and neck, utter focus and concentration. He hissed on the last lift and Jake helped guide the bar back onto the rack. ‘Your turn, Jakey-boy?’
‘No way. That’s forty over my usual.’
A grin. ‘Gotta be in it to win it. Come on, give it a go.’ He sat up and patted the bench beside him. ‘You know you want to.’
Jake caught a look in Lance’s eye. Trust me, it said. I’m with you. He lay down and slid into place. Looked up, seeking reassurance, and found it.
Lance stroked the bar. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got it.’
Jake gripped, flexed his fingers, tested it. This was suicide. He nodded his readiness. And took the weight.
‘Easy now, easy,’ said Lance.
Jake lowered it for the push up. He felt his eyes were going to explode. It was hot. Fucking insane. He felt Lance’s fingertips lightly brush his biceps, a tingle.
‘You’re better than you think, Jakey-boy. You can do this.’
Jake snorted and roared. Pushing. Straining.
‘Show those bastards, Jakey. Use that rage.’
And there was plenty there to draw from. He felt a new power he hadn’t known he possessed. And the bar was moving. He had it. Just the one drop and lift but it was forty over and he’d done it.
The call to the Crimestoppers hotline had been anonymous but once again the name had come up. John Jenkins. Jackboot John. Cato listened to the recording of the call again.
Check out Jackboot John, the council ranger, he’s always bashing them. He’s a fucking hater. Jackboot Johnny Jenkins. Got it?
It was a woman’s voice, so that ruled out a vendetta by Sweary Barry. Unless she was a friend of his. The voice was familiar. ‘Them, not us,’ said Cato.
‘Yeah?’ Amy was organising for a copy of the recording to be downloaded.
‘The caller says he’s always bashing “them” not “us”. So she’s an outsider, of sorts. Not actually a victim herself.’
‘Defender of the weak,’ said Amy, as they replayed it. ‘Sonya Allegretta?’
Cato nodded.
When they arrived at St Mary’s, they were told she was in the canteen. They found Sonya helping out, wiping down tables.
‘G’day,’ she said. ‘You’re back.’ She flicked her dishrag at a stubborn crumb. ‘Give us a moment, had the mayor in here today, and the newspaper. Never been so popular. He wants to reassure everybody that he loves hobos. Must be election time.’
Cato smiled to himself. He and Amy took the cuppas offered and slid into some chairs on the other side of the hall while Sonya finished up. Eventually she joined them, bringing a cup of her own.
‘So what now?’ she said.
‘Perhaps we could go to your office?’ said Cato.
‘Nah, here’s good.’
Cato shrugged and signalled to Amy to press play on her iPad. It was the Crimestoppers recording, volume turned down for discretion but Cato still noticed a few heads turn their way.
‘That’s you, isn’t it?’
A slight flushing. ‘Can you prove that?’
‘If we get the techs in, yes we probably can.’
‘So?’
‘So tell me about Jackboot John.’
‘His name’s Jenkins, he’s a ranger for the council.’
‘Yes,’ said Cato. ‘We know.’
Sonya gave him a grim smile. ‘So he’s already on your radar. That’s good.’
‘Why’s he on yours?’
‘We started getting complaints about six months ago, just when they brought the new policies in.’
‘Go on.’
‘At first it was assumed somebody from outside was doing it. Gear getting nicked, sleeping bags and stuff, or getting trashed, pissed on. Then came the harassment and verbal abuse.’
‘In what way?’ said Amy.
‘In what way?’ mimicked Sonya. She really didn’t like Amy very much. ‘Imagine you’ve got two bags full of shopping and you’ve been on your feet all morning and you just fancy a sit-down somewhere for a few minutes. How would you feel if, as soon as you took the weight off your feet, some tosspot gets in your face and orders you to keep moving?’
‘Mmmm,’ said Amy.
‘Mmmm. And he’s holding his nose and looking at you like you stink. Saying things under his breath: loser, scum, slag, bitch. Or worse.’
‘You never filed a complaint?’ asked Cato.
‘I had a word with his boss, Courtney, about three months ago. I asked her to jerk his leash.’
‘And?’
‘He got worse. When he’s on duty, people just steer clear. Fucking RoboCop, he is. But effective at his job, I’ll give him that.’
‘How do you mean?’ said Cato.
‘If it’s social cleansing he’s after, it’s working. There’s some parts of town have become no-go areas. Too dangerous to be in on your own.’
‘You mentioned bashings.’
‘We’ve had three reports in the last month of sly kicks and punches in backstreets when nobody’s around. Threats.’
‘Threats?’ said Cato.
‘If they didn’t leave town he’d come looking for them after hours, with his mates.’
Expediting the matter, as Neil the souvenir shopman might say. ‘I’d like to talk to these people, the ones who’ve been assaulted.’
‘Don’t fancy your chances, they tend to avoid people like you. But I’ll see what I can do.’
‘Why didn’t you mention this at our last meeting? Why the anonymous dob call?’
Sonya snorted. ‘You kidding? His dad’s a cop. Who’s going to touch him?’
‘Why didn’t we know that?’ said DI Pavlou when Cato gave her the update.
‘Why would we? Parentage doesn’t show up on criminal records. The questioning of him so far has been about whether he could help us with our enquiries. “Who’s your daddy?” didn’t come into it.’
‘So what’s your thinking?’
‘I think he warrants a deeper background check.’
‘Another interview?’
Cato shook his head. ‘Not at this stage. The allegations of harassment and violence are, as yet, unproven. I think we need more before we bring him in.’
‘Okay. Do we know who his dad is?’
‘Bill Jenkins, recently retired sergeant down in Albany. Hard man by all accounts.’
‘Don’t know him,’ said Pavlou. ‘Didn’t DI Hutchens spend some time in Albany?’
‘He did. I’ll follow it up.’
Pavlou moved on. ‘What about Rottie Man, Wayne Bradley. The missing six minutes?’
‘Yep, we should check it out.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But low-key this time, a couple of juniors clearing up loose ends. No TRG, no dramas. Put the local team on it.’
‘I’ll send out Thornton and Hassan.’ A nod of approval. ‘And I had a word with the mayor about keeping things nice. He’s on side. Still to talk to his rival though. Left a message.’
‘Great. How are you getting on with Amy?’
‘So far, so good,’ said Cato.
‘And life in Major Crime?’
‘So far, so good.’ Cato said goodbye to Pavlou and paid Hutchens a visit.
‘Bill Jenkins?’ said Hutchens, looking up from his latest tweet. ‘Grumpy bastard, old school, hard as nails.’
‘Keep in touch?’
‘Why would I? He’s a country bumpkin and I’m a city sophisticate. Worlds apart.’
‘Did you ever meet his family; the son?’
A shake of the head. ‘Albany was my two-year penance for alleged misdeeds. Head down, bum up, do my time and don’t get involved with the locals. It served me well.’
‘So you can’t help.’ Cato tried but failed to hide his irritation.
‘Snooty lot in Major Crime, aren’t you?’ said Hutchens. ‘Figure everybody’s at your beck and call.’ He scribbled a number on a post-it. ‘Wendy, the office manager down there, knows everybody’s business and makes it her own. Great voice. Could make a few bucks on one of those chat lines if she wanted.’
Cato thanked him and returned to his outpost to phone Wendy.
‘Mick Hutchens? Gorgeous man, bedroom eyes. Pity about the beer gut.’ She did indeed have a very sultry voice. ‘How’s he going?’
‘Not so much of a beer gut these days.’ Wendy seemed pleased to hear that. They exchanged more small talk and Cato got to the point.
‘Bill Jenkins?’ she said. ‘What’s your interest?’ Cato explained that his primary interest was the son. ‘Johnny? So he’s up in Perth now is he?’
‘Fremantle to be exact. He’s a ranger with the council.’
‘Is this about those murders that were on the news?’ Cato confirmed as much. ‘And you think Johnny’s involved?’
‘Just making some enquiries.’
‘Have you spoken to Bill about this?’
‘Not yet, but I intend to.’
‘Good luck, he had a stroke. Poor bastard can’t talk very well these days. Not that he was Mr Chatty before that.’
‘So,’ said Cato. ‘Johnny Jenkins?’
‘Chip off the old block,’ said Wendy. ‘Doesn’t suffer fools. Temper on him like you wouldn’t believe. That’s probably why he let the old man down as well.’
‘What?’
‘Everybody thought he’d follow his dad into the Job but he got chucked out of the Academy for losing his rag. Old Bill was spittin’ about it for months.’
Cato dropped by Chris Thornton’s desk to put him on to the Academy follow up. He and Hassan were mapping out the remains of their day. The visit to Wayne Bradley had yielded little. According to Deb Hassan, when challenged about his missing six GPS minutes on the night of victim two’s murder, Bradley had simply shrugged.
‘Musta taken a piss or something.’
‘For six minutes?’ Hassan had pressed.
‘Big bladder.’ An ugly leer. ‘Big everything.’
‘That must be why you’re such a huge success in life,’ yawned Hassan.
‘So that’s your story,’ Thornton had said. ‘Six minutes to take a piss?’
‘Nah, mate, one for the piss, maybe three more for a smoke and the other two to kill that sheila. Just jokin’. You finished?’
‘No,’ said Hassan. ‘Map it out for me, the timeline.’
A shake of the head. ‘Like I said, piss, smoke and on my way. The smoke was a spliff, took a while to roll it ’cause I was a bit pissed. Medicinal, for the disability and that.’
‘Did you see or hear anybody out and about? Anything unusual?’
‘Yeah, there was this axe murderer covered in blood. Asked me for a toke on the J, but I told him to fuck off and take his axe with him.’
‘You’re a laugh a minute, Wayne,’ Hassan had said on her way out.
‘Time to cut him loose, boss?’ Thornton said now.
Cato nodded. ‘Good enough for me, he’s a dropkick and I don’t see him doing this. Let’s not waste any more time on him.’ He now wanted as much background dirt on Jackboot John as possible. ‘Anything from the Academy files, his career history from leaving school in Albany, anything, okay?’
‘Yep.’ Thornton focused on his screen and started tapping away. ‘How’s life in the fast lane?’
‘A riot,’ said Cato.
‘Thinking of staying there?’
‘I’m just focused on the job at hand.’
‘That’s what the pollies and the sport stars say before they jump ship.’
‘Would you miss me?’
‘You’ve got better personal hygiene manners than the new bloke. I swear I know every millimetre of his sinuses by sound alone.’
On cue there was a snort from two partitions down. ‘That you, Kwong?’
‘Paddy, keeping busy?’
‘Found a vets group who know Chris White. Invited me down for a lunchtime beer at the Buffs Club. Wanna come?’
‘How’d you find them?’
‘My wife’s dad was in Vietnam. He knows that scene. Asked around for me.’
‘Cool,’ said Cato. ‘I’m in.’
‘How many Vietnam vets does it take to change a light bulb?’
‘Dunno.’
‘You wouldn’t, man. Because you weren’t there.’ He cacked himself while Cato followed him out the door.
So this is where the old men from the Nash must have gone after the renos, mused Cato. The Buffalo Club was a couple of blocks further down High Street from the cop shop. Resolutely and proudly seventies drab. Or possibly fifties. Thirties? McMahon ordered a pint of Carlton Draught and bought some nuts. Cato would have been happy enough with a lime soda but Paddy shook his head.
‘Need to win their trust, mate.’
Cato settled on a middie of Carlton with a dash of lemonade. ‘If they kick up a fuss, tell them I’m driving.’
‘It won’t wash, but fingers crossed.’
The men they were meeting were both in their mid forties. Their once square jaws had been softened by beer and there was a milkiness to the eyes. They looked like mushy peas from the same pod except not as green. The tall one was Mike, the shorter one, Pete. They all shook hands and Cato sat back to let McMahon take the running.
‘So you guys knew Chris White, then?’
Sombre shaking of heads and sipping of beers. ‘Top bloke,’ said Pete. ‘Fuckin’ tragedy.’
‘You served together?’
‘Iraq,’ said Pete.
‘Afghanistan,’ said Mike.
‘Hairy, then?’ said McMahon, getting into the Spartan speech rhythm like he was born to it.
Pete’s eyes narrowed. ‘At times.’
Cato wasn’t in the mood for another half hour of Full Metal Jacket. ‘Why did he leave?’
Cutting to the chase? Pete and Mike looked at him like he’d just kicked the regimental mascot. So for that matter did McMahon. ‘Can’t fight forever,’ said Mike. ‘Does your head in.’
‘Was he okay when he left, no PTSD, stuff like that?’
‘Wouldn’t know,’ said Pete, looking like he absolutely did know.
‘Did you see much of him after he left in …’
‘Two thousand and seven,’ chipped in McMahon.
‘A bit,’ said Mike.
Blood from a stone, thought Cato. ‘Was he working? What was he doing? How did he seem?’
‘Yeah. Consultancies. Fine, considering,’ said Mike.
‘What kind of consultancies?’
‘Security.’
‘Back in the war zones?’ A nod. ‘How long did he do that for?’
‘Coupla years, maybe three or four,’ said Mike.
‘Which takes us to …’
McMahon leaned in again. ‘Two thousand and eleven, thereabouts.’
‘When did you last see him?’
‘About three years ago?’ Mike looked to Pete for confirmation.
‘And how was he?’
The two men glanced at each other again. ‘Not the best,’ said Mike. ‘Marriage on the rocks. Out of work. Behind with the mortgage. The doctor had him on some pills that were messing him up. Sad sight, to be honest.’
‘Where’s his wife now?’
‘She and the kids followed her new bloke over to Pommie-land.’ A realisation. ‘She probably doesn’t even know he’s dead.’
‘Fuck,’ said Pete.
Cato couldn’t have put it better himself.
Tragic as it was, it didn’t get them any closer to finding the assailant. Cato made a note to follow up with Chris White’s sister, Denise, to track down some contact details for the wife. He parted ways with McMahon, who was happy to stay at the Buffs to prolong his liquid lunch. Cato grabbed a roll and a coffee on the way back to the office and phoned home in transit.
‘How are you going?’
‘Great!’ said Sharon. ‘I called some painters and they had a cancellation on a job, a bereavement or something, they can start here from Monday.’
And remove the big ‘Y’. Cato was still unsettled by the morning assault. Spitting on him before the retreat? Was that the way of things nowadays? Vandalism and assault were not enough. It needed to be rounded off with a bit of humiliation.
‘No prowlers this morning, then?’ he said, keeping his voice light.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just another day in paradise.’ A wail in the background. ‘I’d better go, duty calls.’
‘Love you,’ he said.
‘Yeah, you too.’
Back at the office Amy was waiting, a bit miffed that he’d gone off with McMahon without telling her. ‘You’ve been drinking.’
‘Shandy. Line of duty. Anything new?’
She handed him a post-it note. ‘Marilyn from the Freo Street Doctor saw the news and wants to talk. She’s had all three victims across her threshold in the last six months. Want me to set up a meeting?’
He did.
DI Pavlou stalked into his work space. ‘Seen this?’ She slid an iPad in front of him.
‘Death and the Detectives. Keystone Cops Ignore Homeless Victims.’ Cato read on. ‘Norman Lip?’
‘Know him?’
‘No.’
‘Find him and kill him,’ snarled Pavlou.
Cato shrugged. ‘Free press. It’s what our forefathers died for.’
‘We’ve already got calls from the West, ABC and a couple of other TV and radio stations looking for comment.’ Pavlou blew out a steadying breath. There was a strong whiff of nicotine in it. ‘I’ll get Police Media on it. Neutralise the little twerp.’