‘Johnny, Maureen and the Jack of Hearts?’ Betsy looked perplexed. ‘I don’t get it.’
‘It’s a play on a Bob Dylan song title.’
‘Ah,’ she said. ‘Retro irony. Right. But maybe a bit obscure?’ She shook her head. ‘Is that what they teach at Edith Cowan?’
‘You want me to change it?’ Norman really didn’t give a fuck. Let her score her snobby points. It was the story that mattered. His story. ‘How about “The Killer Speaks”?’
‘Now you’re talking.’
He’d spent the rest of Friday on it and into the early hours of this morning. The gist, he explained to Betsy who, for a news editor, seemed remarkably averse to reading, was that the killer had left his signature, the jack, on all of the victims and that the police should have known they were dealing with a serial killer as early as victim two: Maureen Bryant. Further, they had a prime suspect in their sights, a council employee with a violent history whose job brought him into daily contact with the homeless. But this man, Johnny Jenkins, was still in his job and still at liberty. Finally, Detective Sergeant Philip Kwong, a key figure in the investigation, was way out of his depth: leading botched raids on disabled battlers, overseeing the reckless slaughter of beloved family pets by trigger-happy paramilitaries and allowing the prime suspect to continue roaming the streets. Meanwhile those running for mayor were pussyfooting around the subject. Not prepared to show any leadership or ask the hard questions. What were they scared of?
‘Fabulous,’ purred Betsy.
Norman cleared his throat. ‘The shit will hit the fan. The advertisers might get jumpy.’
‘Are you kidding? This is classic public interest.’ Betsy beamed. ‘Besides, our demographic is mainly Gen Y know-it-alls and their rich, guilty Boomer parents. They like a ringside seat at a good shitfight. Gives them something to retweet about.’
‘Run it, then?’
‘Sure, darling. Just pass it in front of Carmen first.’
Carmen the Lawyer. Fuck. ‘Sure,’ said Norman, pasting on a smile.
He didn’t have time to argue. He needed to get over to River View to keep his weekly appointment with Naomi. Today it felt like one of those ‘shoulds’. She was the only person, the only thing, that ever made him feel guilty, responsible. She tried not to, he knew. Abusing him, taking the piss, acting like she didn’t need him. Acting tough. But sometimes backing out of her room he saw that light go out of her eyes and knew it was his doing.
As he walked into her room, he saw that same look now and offered her his good-to-see-you grin.
‘Took your time.’
‘Yeah, sorry.’ A pause. ‘Hang on, no I’m not. I don’t usually get here until the afternoon. I’m early.’
‘I’m blessed. Fitting me in before something more interesting?’
‘Fuck, you’re in a bad mood. What’s up?’
‘I’m a thirty-four-year-old cripple in a home full of demented eighty-year-olds. Sometimes it gets to me.’ She grabbed her ciggies and lighter from the bedside table. ‘Let’s go. Anyway, where you been?’
‘Had a meeting with Betsy.’
‘I read your piece. Nice one. You’re improving with age.’
‘Duck off.’
‘No really. No dangling participles. Terse, pacy, feisty. Dad would have been proud.’
‘Ease up, sis.’
Once again, they found themselves down at the riverside cafe, a breeze blowing off the water.
‘The usual?’ Norman said.
‘May as well.’ She lit up while he rearranged the furniture like he did every Saturday and went to order the drinks. ‘Did it work?’ she asked on his return.
‘What?’
‘The vampire. Did he get in touch?’
Norman couldn’t hide his smile of satisfaction. ‘Yep. We’re in contact.’
‘Wow.’ She looked impressed and horrified at the same time. ‘And?’
‘It’s definitely him. He knows stuff the cops haven’t released.’
‘Sure it’s not the cops toying with you?’
A frown. He hadn’t thought of that. ‘No, I’m pretty sure it’s him.’
‘So what does he want from you?’
‘Nothing. Yet.’
‘What’s your price?’
‘Price?’
An impatient suck on the straw. ‘What do you want from him and how much are you prepared to pay?’
‘I don’t have the money to pay him.’
‘I’m speaking metaphorically, Normie.’
‘Oh.’
‘So? How far are you prepared to go for your Devil’s Walkley?’
‘Fuck, sis. Why do you always have to take a dump in my dinner?’
She smiled. ‘You haven’t really thought this through, have you?’
‘Easy to criticise; you doing any writing?’ It was intended to wound, to stop her probing, finding fault. And he could tell by the hardening of her mouth that it worked. He immediately felt like shit.
‘It’d take forever, two fingers of one good hand? Yeah, right.’
‘Sorry, sis. I’m a jerk.’
She sniffed. ‘The only jerk I’ve got.’
Naomi was the smarter of the two and the one with the real writing talent. The one who should have been the star. Norman conceded he didn’t know where to start or when to quit. ‘You should do it anyway. Write that book. Dictate it to someone.’ He paused, a nervous, hopeful shine in his eyes. ‘Or we could collaborate?’
Naomi drained her Coke. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ She stubbed out her cigarette and lifted her chin defiantly. Neither of them was in a hurry to rescue the mood.
He looked out on the wind-whipped river. ‘You don’t think much of me, do you?’
‘What do you think I haven’t thought through?’
‘Dad played peek-a-boo with the premier for his scoop and people understand that, they get it, they forgive it. This guy you’re dealing with — I don’t know, it’s a line I wouldn’t cross.’
‘Neither would I.’
‘But you are. He’s using you, and you’re letting yourself be used.’
‘Take after Mum, then, don’t I? They reckon co-dependence takes a few generations to get flushed out.’
‘Sounds like you won’t take advice from anyone.’
‘I know what I’m doing, sis. Don’t worry.’
Her lighter clicked on the end of another ciggie. ‘Take me back to Happy Valley.’
Cato had woken to a kiss and a cuppa from Sharon. After a tense and monosyllabic previous evening they’d gone to bed. They’d lain awake, spooned together, lost in their own thoughts and Cato had finally drifted to sleep. Coaxed awake in the middle of the night, Sharon had ridden him with a hunger and urgency he hadn’t experienced since … since Ella was born.
It was Saturday and, with the loss of momentum on the case, there was no real need to head into work. Emergency calls aside, the weekend was his. ‘What do you want to do today?’
‘What? Anything? You’re not working?’
‘Nah.’
They agreed a family picnic would be nice. Cato wanted to show her a favourite spot from when Jake was little. It was up in the hills, in John Forrest National Park. While Sharon readied Ella and assembled the monumental logistical supplies that go with an eight-month-old, Cato put together a Greek salad and slipped a bottle of red into the basket. They’d pick up a roast chook along the way. Sharon looked happy, like her old self, as they loaded the Volvo and Ella gurgled her approval. Cato glanced at the ‘Y’ on the gable wall, remembering something about painters coming soon.
‘Monday,’ confirmed Sharon.
On arrival they spread a rug out on a flat expanse of rock overlooking Hovea Falls, Cato dimly aware that a couple of years ago a body from DI Hutchens’ past was dug up not far from here. Such was the life of a cop: where others saw a nice picnic spot, he saw a notorious dump site. There were splashes of colour as kangaroo paw and cornflowers poked their heads through the foliage. While Ella rolled around on the rug, fascinated by a group of kids nearby playing in the shallow brook, Cato and Sharon nibbled on dolmades and sipped shiraz.
‘Are you happy?’ she asked him.
He leaned over and kissed her. ‘Blissfully.’
‘Really? Why?’
A simple enough question but it threw him. Cato sensed a trap. He gestured at the space between them. ‘You. Me. Us.’ He caressed baby Ella’s tummy. ‘Everything.’
‘What is it about all of this that makes you so happy?’
A cloud scudded across the sun. The breeze picked up, snatching at the edge of the rug. ‘My life feels whole, complete. I love you. I love Ella. I’d be lost without you.’
‘Would you?’ Her face still wore the hint of a smile. Open. Honest. But there was a challenge behind the words all the same.
‘How about you?’ said Cato. ‘Are you happy?’
‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Usually.’ She sipped her wine, pulled a face. ‘I’d better leave this. Ella will give me hell for it later.’
‘What’s missing?’ said Cato.
Sharon shrugged. ‘Maybe I need to do a course at TAFE or something. How to be a Housewife and Mother.’
‘I could go part-time, take some leave, share the load.’
She shook her head and smiled. Drained her wine glass anyway. ‘Ignore me. I’m just tired. The moon’s in the wrong place. It’ll pass.’
‘Felt like this for long?’ It sounded accusatory and he tried to hide it behind a smile. ‘I never knew.’
‘And you the detective.’ She leaned over and snogged him. It felt like he was being silenced. ‘Fancy a walk?’
They wound their way along to the disused Swan View railway tunnel. Sharon was keen to walk through it. They pushed Ella’s stroller over the uneven ground and the darkness enveloped them.
‘Spooky,’ said Sharon, her voice dropping to a whisper. ‘Cool.’
Damp clung to the walls and daylight receded behind them. Cato recalled a school visit here as part of a week-long camp. ‘Apparently the narrow design and the steep approach made it almost lethal for the locomotive crews. They’d slow down to a crawl and the smoke and fumes couldn’t escape. Asphyxiation was a major issue. So they abandoned it.’
‘Choked to death by an uphill slog and confined spaces,’ said Sharon. She hooked her arm into his. ‘Well, there you go.’
Driving back down Greenmount Hill, the distant Perth city skyline was shrouded in haze. Ella was asleep in her capsule in the back seat. Sharon had her hand resting lightly on Cato’s thigh as he drove.
‘We’re going to be okay,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I just voice things. I’m adjusting.’ She squeezed his leg and grinned. ‘From Federal Agent to Supermum wasn’t as smooth as I anticipated.’
‘Is it worth talking to the GP or the clinic?’
She shook her head firmly. ‘I don’t need diagnosing or medicating. Sometimes I get a bit bored and antsy and sick of baby talk and being alone. I’ll get over it.’
‘Your leave finishes in another month. Maybe we shouldn’t extend it again.’
‘Maybe,’ she said.
Cato’s phone went. It was DI Pavlou.
‘We have a problem.’
Norman Lip, the pushy journo, had been at it again. This time it was personal, with Cato being named and shamed as incompetent and out of his depth. ‘Christ.’
Sharon was looking at him. Worried.
‘There’s even a photo of you, eating noodles and reading the newspaper. The caption says “Money Pho Nothing”. He doesn’t like you, does he?’
‘I guess not.’
‘There’s more,’ said Pavlou. ‘He knows about the playing cards.’
‘How would he know that?’
‘Investigations leak. It’s a good excuse to kick the bastard’s door down and find out.’
‘Count me in,’ said Cato.
Norman Lip lived in a two-storey townhouse in South Fremantle on Rockingham Road where it joins the coast road. It was a row of new-builds behind an abandoned pub. From the second-storey back window of Norman’s place you could just glimpse the Indian Ocean if you stood on tiptoe and craned your neck.
‘Nice view,’ said Cato, doing just that.
‘Arsehole,’ said Norman. His voice was muffled because there was a uniformed policeman kneeling on his back and pushing his face into the rug while a colleague handcuffed him.
Cato pointed out a phone, a laptop and an iPad. ‘We’ll need those.’
‘No worries,’ said Chris Thornton. ‘I’ll organise a receipt.’
‘Nazis,’ said Norman.
‘Do you have your house keys, sir?’ Cato waved a hand around the place. ‘We can lock up when we leave. It might be a couple of hours before you get back. Wouldn’t want to leave a nice place like this unsecured.’
There was a muffled grunt from the rug.
‘Beg pardon, sir?’
‘Lawyer.’
‘All in good time, sir.’ He gestured for the uniforms to lift Norman up. ‘Off we go.’
Back at the station, Cato had the phones and computers sent over to IT but given that it was a skeleton weekend roster nothing much was expected to happen before Monday. No hurry, he’d said. DI Pavlou was on her way. As head of the investigation she was most concerned by the allegations in Lip’s article and the apparent disclosure of sensitive information. All this, Cato explained to Norman Lip’s lawyer, a woman called Carmen.
‘This is way over the top, mate.’
Cato liked her, there was a playful spark in her eyes. ‘DI Pavlou should be with us in the next quarter of an hour. Can I get you coffee, tea, water?’ She shook her head. ‘Norman, anything for you?’
‘Mr Lip to you. And the answer’s no.’
‘Of course, sir. My apologies.’
Pavlou walked through the door. Cato did the introductions. Pavlou had a whiff of cigarettes and barely controlled fury about her. ‘Your article in New WAve, Mr Lip. While you have the right to criticise our efforts, we would have appreciated the opportunity to put the record straight before you published.’
‘I asked him …’ a nod towards Cato. ‘And he told me to get lost.’
‘That’s not true, Norman. I advised you to speak to Police Media.’
A staying hand from Pavlou. ‘However, the primary issue of concern for us is the disclosure of sensitive information which could hinder our investigation.’ Pavlou leaned in. ‘Where did you get your information from, Mr Lip?’
‘A confidential source.’
‘Who?’
Carmen put her pen down. ‘My client is a professional journalist, doing his job. He is prepared to cooperate in whatever way he can but disclosure of sources is not one of them.’
Pavlou ignored her. ‘Mr Lip, has this information been supplied to you by a serving police officer or a civilian connected to the enquiry?’
Nothing.
She tried another tack. ‘Are you, then, in contact with the person who may be responsible for the murders of four people?’
A momentary hesitation and an eyelid flicker. The ghost of a smile.
Jesus, he really was.