‘We need to hand that over to the cops.’ Betsy pushed Norman’s iPad back across the desk with the tip of her polished nail. It was like Ebola had walked into the room.
‘What, two texts, two emails, four photographs? It could be from any nutter out there.’
‘That’s for the police to decide. They can try and trace the mobile, the ISP for the emails, examine the photos. It’s what they do.’
Norman shook his head. ‘They’ll find nothing. He’ll be expecting this, he’ll have left a false trail.’
‘That’s their lookout. It’s our obligation to hand it over. If that fourth photo is of the latest murder site, you’re protecting a killer by not doing so.’
Norman ran his finger along a scar on her desktop. ‘So we’re already in trouble. We’ve been sitting on this for days.’
‘You’re in trouble. You’ve been sitting on it for days.’
‘It’s what you told me to do. Make contact.’ Fucked if he was going to let her chuck him under a bus. ‘And there’s a paper trail to that effect.’
‘Threats don’t help, Norman. I won’t be bullied.’
‘We need to finish what we started. If we hand this over to the cops now we’ll lose him.’ He tried his beseeching face. ‘Two days more?’
‘How do we explain the delay in handing this over to the police?’
Norman shrugged. ‘We thought it was just a crank. We didn’t connect photo four with victim four.’ He tapped a few keys and spun the iPad back round to face her. ‘Look, it could be anywhere.’
‘You’ve cropped out the edge of the terminal silo.’ She snorted. ‘Pathetic. They’ll spot it immediately.’
‘So blame me,’ he said.
‘I will. Count on it.’ A shake of the head. ‘If this goes pear-shaped, it could ruin us, Norman.’
‘Big News plays footsy with the bad guys all the time. You know that. You’ve got to be in it to win it.’
‘But Big News can afford big lawyers.’
‘What if we help trap him? Do the cops’ work for them? We’ll be fucking heroes.’
‘What’s your plan?’
‘Quid pro quo. He obviously wants something from us. But he must know he needs to reciprocate.’
‘Not sure psychos do reciprocation.’
‘All Norman Bates really wanted was to tell people he missed his mum.’
Betsy smiled. ‘Twenty-four hours, we need something of value from him if this is going to work. Hook him and reel him in. And if the shit does hit the fan, you’re the one catching it. No emails, no phone calls between us from now on to suggest any collusion. Deal?’
‘Deal,’ he said.
She flicked her fingers in dismissal.
‘Thanks,’ he said. For nothing.
‘Why are you doing this, Norman? It’s only a story.’
Norman shrugged, suddenly self-conscious. ‘My dad always talked about going the extra yard.’
‘What’d he do for a living?’
‘Journo. Quite well-known in his time. Got a Walkley.’
‘Good for him.’ She opened up her laptop. ‘Tick-tock.’
Norman didn’t know how the hell he would deliver but he knew the key was in the last email he’d received that morning. He’d held it back, the rabbit in his hat.
Cato had a late lunch down the street at Cafe 55. He opted for a beef pho and grabbed an abandoned West while he waited, perching on a stool at the counter along the wall. Somebody had already filched the cryptic — bastards, who’d do a thing like that? The headlines continued to scream impotently about the search for the serial killer and now had the tragic story of Liz and Kelvin to feed on. The mayor was still playing nice, focusing on a range of election issues and not demonising either the homeless or the police. Knight was less circumspect. He needed a bump in the polls if he was to make any headway.
‘You can understand the fear and frustration,’ he was saying. ‘The police are running around in circles. People are sleeping rough on the streets of Fremantle and we have developers queueing up to build more houses but the mayor doesn’t want to know.’ On the inside pages the talk was of nuclear war, with North Korea and USA trading nasty tweets. Meanwhile in Australia, non-essential services like health, housing and education faced more slash-and-burn from the cigar-chomping Budget razor gang. The sense of entitlement had to end, they were saying. No more free lunches and taxpayer handouts unless you were a big polluter or government minister. Cato’s pho arrived, he paid for it — no free lunches on his watch.
‘You finished with that?’ A hipster type with bold specs and sleeve tatts nodded towards the West.
‘Help yourself.’ Cato pushed it towards him.
‘Cheers.’
Cato wound some noodles around his chopsticks.
‘I don’t think we’ve been introduced but I’ve seen you around.’ The hipster handed him a business card. ‘Norman Lip. Investigative journalist. New WAve.’
So this was the jerk who wrote the anti-police article. Cato decided not to give him the pleasure of recognition. ‘Didn’t punk rock die out a few decades ago?’
‘New WAve is an online news and opinion magazine,’ said Lip. ‘We’ve been running for about eighteen months. We’ve already got over three thousand likes on Facebook and eight thousand following us on Twitter.’
‘Good on you,’ said Cato, chasing a sliver of beef through the spicy broth.
‘You’re working on the rough-sleeper murders.’ He squinted at some notes on his smartphone. ‘Sergeant Kwong, isn’t it?’
‘I’m on my lunchbreak, mate.’ Cato picked up the business card and handed it back. ‘Try talking to Police Media up in headquarters in Perth.’ He nodded towards Lip’s phone. ‘You can google the number.’
‘I hear you’ve got a prime suspect.’ Lip checked his phone again. ‘John Jenkins, a council ranger. Jackboot John they call him.’
‘You hear wrong, buddy. That kind of stuff can get you sued.’
‘So you won’t be giving me a quote, sergeant?’
‘Like I said, Police Media, Perth. They can help you get your facts straight.’
Lip saluted a farewell and left Cato to his soup.
Absorbed in his noodles, Cato didn’t notice the young man pause on the way out to take a picture of him on the smartphone.
Back at the station, Amy had some news.
‘We’ve picked up CCTV of the sedan heading south from the beach car park and turning at the corner of Weld Street. Some rich bloke along there has a camera covering his driveway. Then a woman calling her cat in the front yard on Kent Street, one street back and parallel, saw him heading south and turning left on to Victoria, heading east. Thought he was going a bit fast and she doesn’t like that sort of thing.’
‘Rego? Any further description?’ A shake of the head. ‘Anything else?’
‘Not yet. Hassan was looking for you.’
Cato paid her a visit. ‘Deb?’
She was chewing a Snickers bar, a can of Mother on her desk. ‘Midafternoon slump,’ she explained. ‘It’s getting earlier every day. It’ll be the death of me.’
‘Keep the receipts. Might be tax-deductible.’
‘Something from the doorknock. We’re starting to track down hotel guests from the Esplanade. A bloke down from Geraldton for some pharmacy convention says he got talking to Chris White earlier that day at the Carriage. Turns out they had the army in common.’
‘How’d they get talking?’
‘The guy’s from Geraldton. They’ll talk to anyone.’ Bit sweeping, thought Cato. ‘Reckons he offered our man a bed and a feed if he ever headed north. Felt sorry for him.’
‘So White told this bloke his story?’
‘Yep, abridged anyway. War hero, PTSD, divorce, life on the streets.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Jim from Geraldton was worried about him. He said White seemed to be on the verge of a crack-up, even the fact he was spilling his guts seemed to be a giveaway.’ She consulted her notes. ‘Men don’t do that shit, not men like him. Unquote.’
It sounded like a line from the Mike and Pete Show down at the Buffalo Club.
‘He reckons he gave White one of his cards and wrote a mobile number on the back for if ever he found himself in Geraldton. Gave him twenty bucks as well.’
‘Neither of which were found on the body.’
‘Right. White might have spent the twenty. Pathology reckons there was the remains of a curry in him.’
‘I can’t imagine him blowing the lot though. You can get a takeaway for ten bucks from the food hall.’
She shrugged. ‘So our killer pockets the change. Not very nice but we had our suspicions about his character already.’
‘And no sign of the business card on him or nearby?’
‘No, I checked with Duncan. Nothing logged in the forensic haul.’
‘So did White have a mobile that we don’t know about? Why did Jim assume he had the means to call? Is it something else the killer pocketed?’
‘I’ll do some checking.’
‘Okay, thanks Deb.’
‘Not finished, yet. Jim got a funny text the following day. Didn’t think anything of it until later, assumed it was a wrong number.’
‘Yes?’
‘He deleted it but it was words to the effect of “your mate missed the last post”. Then a smiley face. It was only later that he got to thinking about the military connotation of the Last Post.’
The killer taunting, playing games. ‘Did you organise to get his phone?’
‘Yep, Geraldton plods are picking it up now. They’ll send it straight down.’
Sharon finally got Ella off to sleep at around three. She had been awake since four that morning, having only had a couple of hours before that. She was stuffed. The baby exhausted her, being bright and positive for Phil exhausted her. She caught a glimpse of herself as she passed a mirror: her shoulders sagged, her feet dragged, it was like she was heading backwards through the evolutionary chart. The graceful, lithe Sharon Wang who practised tai chi daily in the parks in China seemed like another woman — an ancestor maybe. The sex-bomb who had bewitched Philip Kwong into her bed had gone AWOL. Come home and fuck me, she’d said to him. This misshapen lump with bags under her eyes and a forced smile.
Why was she putting on a brave face for him? So he didn’t want this marriage to fail like the last. Who would? I’m carrying his baggage, she thought. How many times had she done that for the men in her life? Too many. How many times had she resolved to stop? Too many. She lay down on the bed, tensed for Ella waking up again. Tight from trying not to hate her. Was this what post-natal depression was? Or was she just tired and bored?
Sharon knew she was the head-over-heels type. All or nothing. She’d done it with her arsehole first husband until he ran off with one of his students while she was on duty in the Solomons. She’d once considered dumping her career and having babies with him too. Now here she was again, in at the deep end. All or nothing.
But what if this turned out to be nothing again?
Yet Phil did seem different. Less self-obsessed than most. Getting up at night, quarantining his weekends, as far as was possible, and trying really hard. Too hard? Sometimes he seemed almost needy. Staying away last night in Albany: apologetic, guarded and really, really sorry. For a moment she’d despised him for it. But maybe that was just because she was so, so tired.
Sharon started to drift finally to sleep. She gave in, embraced it. She knew she’d feel better when she woke. All these doubts and fears and resentments would be gone.
You did well.
Cheers.
They were on chat on Facebook. That morning’s email had sought proof Norman could get close to the cops. The killer obviously wanted to keep one step ahead. So Norman had sent off the sneak photo he’d taken of the Chinese detective eating his noodles, plus an offer to dig into the bloke’s past, stir him up. Now he wanted something in return. He was in St John’s Square, where the council provided free wi-fi alfresco. The killer had made up a Facebook identity and operated with a photo of Kenny from South Park.
Is it safe?
Ha-ha, typed Norman. Yes it is, I’ve not handed you over. Yet.
Good. What do you want?
Something only you would know. And a reason to believe.
Norman studied the screen. The flashing cursor. The reply box stayed blank. The bastard had left him. Then it came through.
Playing cards. They’ve known since day one.
It didn’t make sense. Playing cards?
Jacks. The first was the Jack of Hearts. The last was Diamonds.
Meaning?
Look it up, you’re a journo.
Norman gave the screen the finger. He tried a new tack. Why do you kill these people in particular? What’s your point?
Again the excruciating pause. Was Kenny teasing or just thinking?
I’m saving them from themselves.
How?
Zzzzzzzzzzz
A ping-pong ball from the outdoor table bounced at his feet. A backpacker babe said thank you with a delicious accent and gave him a nice smile. Norman wondered if she was on Tinder. ‘What’s your name?’ he smouldered.
‘Enculez.’ She returned to the table and made a wanking gesture with her hand. Her friend laughed.
Norman pretended it wasn’t about him.
Why the Chinese cop? What’s he to you?
Later. Maybe you can do me another favour.
No, thought Norman. Not good enough. He thinks you are the community ranger. Is he right?
OMG, they killed Kenny… :(
Jake was straight down to the gym. He’d wagged last period, some jerk wanting to motivate them about setting goals and reaching their full potential. Easy. Just get a job on the fucking mines and piss all your wages against a wall in the Pilbara. Maybe buy a jetski.
Lance was there as usual, chatting to the hottie behind the counter.
Jake leaned in and murmured into the bullish neck, ‘Do you ever work?’
Lance gave him a grin. ‘You can talk, schoolboy.’ He flicked a farewell wave to Cheyenne and followed Jake to the weights.
‘Reckon you’re in with a chance with her?’
‘Always, Jakey-boy.’
‘Seen her boyfriend? Big bastard. I mean really big.’
‘So am I.’ He got Jake in a headlock. Squeezed until Jake’s face went red. ‘Haven’t you noticed?’ He rubbed his knuckles on Jake’s skull and let go.
They lifted for a while, forearm curls, checking themselves and each other out in the full-length mirrors. Lance mouthed ‘gorgeous’ and blew Jake a kiss and they cacked themselves.
‘So what’d you learn at school today?’
Jake snorted. ‘They sent us a “motivational” speaker.’ He curled his fingers in air quotes around the word motivational. ‘The leaflet said he was an Iraqi who came here on a boat, overcame the odds, got dux of his school, made his first million by thirty and helps out the disadvantaged in his spare time.’
‘Good work. He got a girlfriend?’
‘Will have by the end of today. Half of my year were in his group selfie.’
Lance checked his watch. ‘So why didn’t you go? School’s not finished yet.’
‘Better things to do, but.’
‘What? Hang around the gym with me and Cheyenne?’
‘Yeah,’ said Jake. ‘Why not?’
Lance scanned the room. ‘Look at this place. Me, you, fattie over there, Cheyenne Show-us-your-tits, three walls of mirrors and a truckful of lead weights.’ He jabbed his forefinger into Jake’s temple. ‘You’ve got a brain. Wasting the privileges and opportunities you have, it’s fucking criminal.’
‘You sound like a grumpy old man,’ muttered Jake.
‘Yours?’
‘Nah, mine wouldn’t say it like that. Prefers reason and persuasion. When he’s around.’
‘Yeah? Tell me about him. Is he why you’re angry?’
‘Another time,’ said Jake. ‘How about some bench presses?’
‘No.’ There was steel in Lance’s tone. ‘I want to hear all about you and your old man.’ He ran his finger gently along the scar on Jake’s cheek. Ignored the flinch. ‘Did he do this to you?’
By the end of the day Cato felt like he was treading water. A new serial murder would normally advance a case in some way. Instead this one had receded, eliminating a prime suspect who was shaping up nicely. A call from Hassan to the good Samaritan in Geraldton confirmed that White did indeed have a mobile but, as he wasn’t on any telco records, it would be a bugger chasing down the number to track his movements and his calls. Cato asked instead for a trace on the mobile used to send the text to Geraldton Jim. Meanwhile Thornton’s check of Barbarossa Nominees and the monthly payments into Jenkins’ account had so far come to nothing; the company was hiding somewhere in a labyrinth of offshore tax dodgers. The forensic accountants could follow it up. In the meantime Cato would go home and reconnect with the stuff of life instead of death.
When he walked through the front door he could hear Ella wailing, an indignant needy bellow.
‘Shut the fuck up. Please.’ Sharon. Sharp, angry, exhausted.
He went in to Ella’s room, to Sharon leaning over the cot. ‘Hi.’
She jumped. Turned to him. Her face wore the horror and guilt of discovery. Tears pricked her eyes and she leant into his chest. Her shoulders shook.
‘Bad night?’
She pressed into him. He could feel the damp of her tears through his shirt. ‘Just tired. Sometimes I need to say stuff, let it out. It doesn’t mean …’
‘It’s okay.’
She pushed herself away, looked up. ‘I wasn’t apologising. I was explaining.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ But he wasn’t sure what he did mean. He lifted Ella out of her cot for a cuddle. The crying subsided.
Sharon glared at him and went out to the kitchen. ‘Tea?’ She switched the kettle on, started to clear up the detritus of the day: plastic toys, baby books, half-chewed bread, squashed banana.
‘Sure,’ said Cato.
‘How was Albany? And who did that to your face?’
Safer ground at last: the Job, the business at hand. He told her about it.
‘And the latest victim?’
Cato shook his head. ‘These people have already had a tough run.’ He recounted Kelvin’s story of the downward spiral. ‘But they were hanging it together, just. Looking after each other. The simple life.’ He caught a look in Sharon’s eye. Envy? He felt a surge of spite. ‘Then this bastard snatches it away.’ Cato clicked his fingers. ‘Like that.’
Sharon opened the fridge door and peered in. ‘Eaten?’
‘No.’
‘Eggs do you?’
‘Sure.’ Cato’s phone buzzed.
A text from Jake. Still on for a move this wknd?
Sure, replied Cato. Sunday OK?
Thumbs up and a smiley face.
‘Work?’ said Sharon.
‘Jake,’ said Cato. ‘Moving in on Sunday. That still okay with you?’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘No worries.’