For several years the Freo Street Doctor, basically a large and well-equipped van staffed by volunteer medicos, had provided an essential service for Fremantle’s homeless. Parked on the green opposite the railway station, or down at South Beach, it offered a free drop-in service for the treatment of lesser ailments and injuries. In the absence of the now-closed emergency department of Fremantle Hospital, previously a walk-in sanctuary for the needy, it had assumed an even more vital role.
So ended Dr Marilyn King’s introduction. They’d pulled up a couple of plastic chairs on the grass outside while Marilyn’s colleague attended to the trickle of clients.
‘It’ll get busy again soon,’ said Marilyn, checking her watch. ‘I can give you maybe fifteen minutes?’ She prodded her glasses back up her nose and gifted them a crooked smile.
Amy recounted the names of the victims. ‘You said you’d had dealings with them?’
Marilyn nodded. ‘The most recent was Mr White. Chris.’
‘We asked people to come forward several days ago,’ said Amy. ‘Why now?’
‘I’ve just come back off two weeks leave. Ubud. My colleagues mentioned it when I returned. Said you’d announced a link between all three.’
‘Why didn’t they come forward?’ said Amy.
Marilyn frowned. ‘This service is staffed by volunteers, it doesn’t run over the weekends, maybe it fell between the cracks.’ She shifted her attention to Cato. ‘Would you like to hear about Chris, Maureen and Dean?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Cato. ‘Whatever you can tell us would be appreciated.’
‘Theoretically I could probably make you get a court order as this stuff should be confidential but we want to stop this maniac, don’t we?’
They all agreed that was a good idea.
Marilyn had some printouts in a folder on her knee. The breeze was picking up and she needed to steady them with her hand. Some pink-and-greys pecked the grass nearby. A patient clumped down the steps from inside the van with a fresh dressing on his leg. Another took his place, blinking tearily from a half-closed eye. Conjunctivitus, guessed Cato.
‘Chris White dropped by about four weeks ago.’
‘What was his problem?’ said Amy.
A stony look. ‘Society.’
Cato cleared his throat and smiled encouragingly.
Dr Marilyn relented. ‘He was very wound up, his medication had run out, antidepressants. I wrote him a prescription.’
Cato asked for the precise name of the drug and the dosage, and Amy took notes. It was the same stuff Professor Mackenzie found in the corpse.
‘All of the victims, all on some form of medication or other,’ said Cato. ‘Antidepressants, anti-anxiety, sedatives.’
Dr Marilyn studied him. ‘I don’t dish them out like lollies if that’s what you’re getting at. This country is seriously messed-up. Some people need pills to make it through the day. And I’m not just talking the homeless here.’
‘Was that the usual nature of your dealings with him?’ asked Cato.
‘Pretty much. He once came in with a head wound after an altercation down the beach.’
‘When was this?’
‘Last summer. An argument over a sleeping pitch. By the look of him, I guess he won. The other guy had been in earlier the same day in much worse shape.’
‘You didn’t report this?’ said Amy.
‘Report what? A fight between two homeless people? That’s a priority for you, is it?’
‘Did you ever talk to Mr White?’ asked Cato. ‘Get to know him in any depth?’
She shook her head. ‘Not really. I know he was in the army and saw some terrible stuff.’
‘That’s it?’
‘His wife had left him. He had some family down south but they found him hard to handle. Set him adrift.’
That would account for sister Denise’s caginess when they’d spoken. She may have seen him more recently than she admitted but felt guilty about not doing more to help him. And now it was too late.
Marilyn flicked through her printouts. ‘Maureen Bryant. She last came in on Tuesday, twenty-second of August.’
‘The day before her murder,’ said Cato. ‘What did she want to see you about?’
‘There was nothing physical going on, in particular. I think she was just lonely, wanted a chat. Apparently she’d just become a grandmother. She hadn’t even known her daughter was pregnant. Hadn’t seen her in over two years.’ Sadness floated across Dr Marilyn’s face. ‘She was the same age as me. I get to babysit my grandies every other weekend if I want. Maureen was never going to have that. She probably couldn’t have coped anyway; always looking over her shoulder for that vicious husband of hers. Did you know that, statistically, blokes and their violence are the biggest single cause of homelessness? More women than men now access homeless support services.’
‘Comes as no real surprise,’ said Cato.
The line of patients was growing. Some voices were raised. Marilyn’s colleague poked his head around the door, looking for her, harassed.
‘Sorry,’ said Marilyn. ‘I’d better go.’
‘Just quickly: Dean Pearson. What about him?’
‘That’s the thing,’ said Marilyn. ‘He wasn’t really one of our regulars. But he also called in and, checking the dates with your news stories, that was just a couple of days before he died.’
‘What did he want?’ said Amy.
‘He wanted us to leave him alone.’
‘What did he mean by that?’ said Cato.
‘God knows. He was really uptight. Shouting, threatening. We assumed he was on something.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was scaring our clients and wouldn’t leave. In the end we summoned one of the transit guards from over the road at the train station, and he called the police.’
‘The police took Dean away?’
‘No, one of the council rangers turned up, he dealt with it in the end.’
‘Describe him,’ said Cato. ‘Did he have ID?’
‘Well he was off-duty and out of uniform, but I recognised him. Jenkins, he calls himself. John Jenkins.’
By the end of the day there was quite a case building against Jackboot Johnny Jenkins, albeit circumstantial. DI Pavlou had swung into action after Cato briefed her. Now Jenkins’ phone and internet use would be tapped and scoured. Also the background checks continued apace: his friends, family, colleagues, past and present. The forensics were being reviewed, with the focus now firmly on Jenkins and the DNA samples obtained from his blood-spotted tissues which Amy had swiped from the bin in the council interview room. If anything pinged they’d get an official sample from him later. Last but not least he was being dogged by an undercover team and there was a tracker bug on his car. At the first glimpse of any hard evidence, they’d be on him.
‘Getting that gooch tingle, Philip?’ Pavlou passed him a cuppa from the plunger on her desk. She’d re-established herself in DI Hutchens’ office for the foreseeable future in the hope that this development would be decisive and resolved quickly. Hutchens had been happy to relinquish, casting a good-natured wink and thumbs-up Cato’s way as he sauntered out for an early finish.
There were indeed a few butterflies in Cato’s stomach but he wasn’t sure if it was excitement, or fear of failure. Or maybe he was just plain tired. He lifted his cup. ‘Probably the caffeine.’
‘If there’s anything to find, we’ll find it,’ Pavlou said. ‘Now or later.’ She checked her watch. ‘Maybe you should call it a day.’
Cato was happy to. ‘I’ll keep my phone on.’
McMahon rapped lightly on Pavlou’s open door.
‘Yes, Paddy?’ said Pavlou.
‘It’s him I’m after,’ he said, nodding at Cato. ‘When you’ve got a moment.’ Cato excused himself and followed Paddy down the corridor. ‘We’ve pulled in one of the Hammy Hill Yardies if you want a chat. If you want to smack him about we can turn the cameras off and go and have a sausage roll.’
‘No need,’ said Cato. ‘What’s he in for?’
‘A string of burgs around Beaconsfield and South Freo, vandalism, assault. Usual shit.’
The young guy in the interview room was wearing a Bob Marley T-shirt and looked familiar. Cato checked the name on the paperwork. ‘Tyson Garland. That you?’
No reply.
‘Used to live in Willagee, got a tacker, maybe four years old by now?’
‘Six. Goes to Caralee Primary. Lives with his mum. Who the fuck are you?’
Cato guessed right. Tyson had been caught in the crossfire of a gang feud a few years ago and had his teeth hammered out by some bikies. ‘You’re with the Yardies now?’
Tyson yawned. His new false teeth were dazzling.
McMahon handed some photos to Cato. ‘Tyson’s handiwork.’
Spray-painted Ys around the suburbs. Cato spread them on the table. ‘If the real Yardies knew you were using their name they’d chop you up.’
He shrugged. ‘So what do you want, Ching-Chong?’
‘Where were you about two o’clock this morning?’
‘Asleep probably.’
‘Any witnesses?’
‘Yeah mon, ma bitch.’
‘Name?’
‘Lady Gaga.’
They weren’t getting anywhere with this. ‘If you come around my house again I’ll come looking for you.’ Cato prodded the file in front of him. ‘We know where you live.’
Tyson sniffed. ‘Don’t know what you’re on about but if that’s a threat then it really worked. Look at me now, bro. Shiver.’
‘That’s the spirit, Tysie, keep smiling.’
When Cato checked his phone, there was a message from Brian Knight, the mayor’s rival. He returned the call. Knight could spare thirty minutes and how about a quick beer in the Newport? Like now. Sure, Cato had said. Knight described himself — Pierce Brosnan, only shorter and with a crooked nose.
Cato never felt comfortable in the Newport, like he was always one nudge away from a glassing. Knight was on a stool at the bar and he was pretty much as described. He had a couple of mates with him, young, gymmed-up, looked like they were wanted for questioning. They all shook hands, the mates went to the pool table and Cato ordered a lime soda.
‘You’re kidding,’ said Knight.
‘On duty.’
‘What’s this about then?’
‘The election.’
‘Pinder complaining about the devil’s horns somebody drew on his posters?’
Cato appraised him. ‘You’ll have heard about these recent killings?’
‘Yeah. Dreadful. Poor bastards.’
‘My boss is hoping they don’t become an election issue, we don’t need the distraction.’
‘Fair enough too.’
‘So we can count on you?’
‘Of course.’
Cato nodded towards the pool table. ‘And your young friends?’
‘What about them?’
‘Can we count on them as well?’
One of them noticed the attention. Blew a kiss at Cato, squinted down the length of his cue and potted a ball. Knight laughed. ‘Sure, mate. Good as gold.’ He glugged some beer. ‘You any closer to catching the prick?’
‘Enquiries are progressing.’
‘I’ll take that as a no.’
‘Your prerogative.’
A playful frown. ‘You seem to have made up your mind not to like me. Something I said?’
Cato downed his drink. ‘Not at all. I think we understand each other and I appreciate your cooperation.’
Knight lifted his hand to get the server’s attention for a new round. ‘Another one?’
‘Not for me, thanks. Things to do.’
‘You know the thing about Pinder and his kind is they’re holding on to this idea of a Fremantle that no longer exists.’
‘That right?’ Cato wasn’t really interested. Home beckoned.
‘My mum was one of those Orange people. Sannyasins, whatever. Fucking embarrassing. Took all her money off her, left us with fuck all. Another Rolls for the Bhagwan I guess. Then she goes and dies in agony from some cancer and did they help? Did they fuck.’
‘Sorry to hear that, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘Community. Charity. That’s all for suckers like my mum.’
‘And that’s your vision for Fremantle?’
Knight lifted his new beer in salute. ‘The times they are a-changin’.’
Norman was woken by his phone buzzing. It was a text. A random number, nobody he recognised.
clever clever — polly want a cracker?
He’d been fielding crank calls and texts all day. He hadn’t realised quite how many sad freaks there were out there. ‘Fuck’s sake.’ He chucked the phone back on his bedside table in disgust.
A hand crept between his legs. ‘Who’s that?’
‘Nobody, let’s just sleep.’ The hand didn’t go away. Stroking, teasing. Another Tinder triumph but he really needed some kip. ‘Give it a rest, honey.’
‘Just a quickie? Anyway you like? Go on, please.’
The evidence was there now, he couldn’t deny it.
The phone buzzed again.
Check your email, Polly, I sent you some sexy killer pics xx
It was him, it was fucking him!
The phone didn’t do it justice, screen too small, his eyes still blurry from a night of drink and drugs. Norman scrabbled around for his iPad, it was on the floor under his jeans.
‘Oh!’ she smiled. ‘Playtime.’ She tossed her hair and arranged herself. Made her face sultry. ‘How do you want me?’
He ignored her, bringing up his email. Three photos. He opened the first. A photo of the B-Shed at Freo Port. A slightly blurred moving shot taken through a window. The train, it must be, out of Freo Station. Norman recognised it at once, the site of the first murder, the young bloke. Pictures two and three followed the same pattern, blurred from a moving vehicle, a bus stop by the sailing club and, finally, the Carriage at Esplanade Park. But all of this was common knowledge. Any nutter could have taken these.
She was on all fours nudging her backside against his shoulder. ‘Ready?’
Another email came in, one more photo. Ocean somewhere, from a moving car. The words, Stay tuned.
‘Norman!’
He turned and kissed the offering. ‘Yep. I’m ready.’