Once it became evident that Norman Lip was indeed in contact with the murderer, or at least someone who claimed he was, it was game on. Norman’s phone, laptop and iPad went to the top of the queue and the techos tore them apart over the weekend, following whatever trail existed. Predictably, the ISP of the suspect email account was an obscure one in Romania and the SIM for the text was a pre-paid purchased using false identification. Thus began the long slog of tracking them down to an end user but the likelihood of a result was remote. It made Cato think of those trains grinding into the dark Swan View tunnel and those crews choking in the blackness. But the contact also revealed a number of things about this man who claimed he was the killer. First, he wanted to engage in a game, he was an egotist and a trickster, hence his calling card — the Knave. Not unusual in a sociopath but often the cause of their downfall as ego eventually outweighed caution — for only by being caught could the world know just how brilliant they’d been. Second, he’d targeted Cato. He’d steered Norman Lip towards him with a specific request for a photo. Was Cato his randomly chosen victim? Or was it something more personal? That was what energised him that Monday morning.
Norman was staying silent. All they’d gathered so far was gleaned from the emails and texts. DI Pavlou had summoned Norman’s employer, Betsy Spencer, for a severe dressing down and a bit of arm-twisting. If Norman didn’t start cooperating, New WAve was going to be hung out to dry for playing with people’s lives and cosying up to a murderer. Cato suspected, from the lawyer’s demeanour, that they’d already thought this through before deciding to publish, and that both Betsy and Norman were made of sterner stuff than Pavlou anticipated. But he’d be happy to be proved wrong.
So why did the killer have a thing about Cato? The answer to that was, hopefully, the key to the killer’s identity. How many toes had Cato trodden on during the course of his career? Find a football stadium and fill it. How many of those were potentially homicidal? Maybe half. So Cato came up with an alternative idea.
‘I could try talking to him, direct. I could be Norman for a while.’
Pavlou liked it. Cato’s first text on Norman’s phone read: Like the story?
No reply. That had been on Saturday evening. And still nothing for the rest of the weekend. In the meantime there’d been an analysis of whatever cell site information they could gather. Predictably the killer was using the number sparingly, for less than a minute at a time, then removing the SIM and battery until the next occasion. And it hadn’t been used at all before that first SMS to Norman Lip. They’d managed to pinpoint his location when he’d made that first contact. He must have been sitting right outside Norman’s place at the time. Since then there’d been a blip in the area of Monument Hill in central Fremantle and down at Fisherman’s Wharf.
Sunday had passed in a blur. Cato had snatched a couple of hours in the afternoon to clear out the granny flat and help Jake move in. It hadn’t been the big father–son bonding exercise that Cato hoped and it was his own fault. He’d been distracted, head in the enquiry, and conversation was stilted at best.
‘You and Sharon still okay with this?’ Jake had asked at one point, face steeled for rejection.
‘Absolutely.’
‘It’s not permanent. Just some breathing space from Mum and Simon. A few months maybe. Or even just weeks. Whatever.’
‘Not an issue, mate. You’re always welcome. This is your home, right?’
‘Right.’ A tentative smile. ‘Really appreciate this, Dad.’
‘My pleasure.’ An incoming buzz on Cato’s phone. ‘Might need to head back into the office this evening. Few developments on the case.’
‘No probs, I’ll cook something up, give you and Sharon a break.’
‘Thanks, mate.’ Cato had tamped down his anxiety about yet again being a crap dad. It was just really bad timing. The new lead and everything.
Sharon was bright and breezy around Jake, but sending Cato daggers as he headed back into the cop shop. ‘Hurry home, sweetie. We miss you already.’
And thus the weekend had slipped away.
On Monday morning, DI Hutchens strolled past Cato’s desk and hooked a beckoning finger in the air without breaking stride. ‘Come, come.’
Cato followed. ‘What?’
‘Fancy a cappuccino or something?’
Code for let’s get out of here.
‘Okay.’ Cato, a man of habit, headed straight over the road but Hutchens wanted to go further afield. They ended up on the Strip at Gino’s.
‘Latte, half-strength, skimmed milk.’ Hutchens’ new heart-care regime.
Cato brought the coffees back to the table. Outside, the denizens were settling into their usual spots. Buses scraped by on South Terrace. People out and about. Kids in strollers, dogs on leads, phones in hands. Coffee and petrol fumes. Another weekday morning in Freo. ‘So?’
‘So I see you got your name in the papers again.’
The mainstream press had picked up Norman’s scurrilous musings and reprinted them wholesale. They’d tutted at Norman’s irresponsible journalism but enjoyed the free ride anyway.
‘You might get me back on the local desk sooner than you expected.’
‘That’s what I thought but it seems the Velvet Hammer is sticking by you. For now.’
‘Must be my aftershave.’
‘So any ideas who’s got it in for you?’
‘None. Could be anyone. Could also be a friend or a relative of anyone. Might be a whole queue of people.’ Something tugged at a synapse and evaporated. ‘Did you have something special in mind or just a catch-up on gossip?’
Hutchens looked around the cafe; he suddenly seemed out of focus. Lost. ‘I’m retiring at the end of next month. Thirty years is up.’ He found a grim smile. ‘You’re the first to know. After Marjorie of course.’
‘Don’t be. I’m just taking care of business, clearing my desk, so to speak.’
Cato felt unexpectedly sad at the idea. ‘So what is it you’re telling me?’
‘Any obligation you’ve felt to stick by me since the heart attack …’
‘And Mundine.’ The avenging angel who took to Hutchens’ head with a cricket bat.
‘Yeah, him as well.’ Hutchens licked the froth off his spoon. ‘I’m saying you’re free. Fly, my pretty. This time, if Pavlou tempts you into Major Crime for the long haul, take it. It’s where you belong.’
‘Do I have any say in this?’
‘Sure, you can dig your heels in and rise through the ranks to end up a tweeting desk jockey like me.’
‘Point taken.’ Cato drank some coffee, wondered if Hutchens’ drink was as tepid as his. At this rate they’d sink them and be out in a minute or two.
‘Paddy McMahon is dead wood. She wants him out of her squad permanently, so the vacancy will be there. It’s only a matter of whether Golly-gosh Amy gets her secondment extended, or whether you get the post.’
‘I’m not the competitive type.’
‘My arse, you’re not. You love being right, admit it.’
‘Never. Then you’d win.’
‘Just do what you’ve always done, and leave the rest to me.’
‘I’ve been down that path before. Usually leads to quicksand.’
‘Trust me.’ Hutchens smiled and pushed his cup away from him. ‘Thanks for the latte. Next one’s my shout.’
Cato clapped a hand on his boss’s shoulder as they passed on to the street. He couldn’t think of any words to accompany it.
‘Save the man-love for the leaving do, mate,’ muttered Hutchens, looking straight ahead.
The painters turned up a little later than they’d promised but it wasn’t as if Sharon had places to go. The boss, Steve, a stocky Pommie bloke in his thirties, had nipped around the previous Friday to check out what needed doing and agree a price: it wasn’t just a blanking out of the ‘Y’ graffiti. With a job cancellation they now had a week-long window during which they could do a quick makeover of the exterior, weather permitting, on the understanding that anything left unfinished during that time would not be their responsibility. Sharon could live with that, the forecast was for clear skies all week.
There were two of them. While the younger one unloaded the ute, Steve finalised details with Sharon. He frowned at the graffiti.
‘Little buggers, eh? I blame the parents.’
Sharon smiled and nodded, bouncing Ella who was beginning to wriggle in her arms.
‘You don’t get this crap in Singapore, do you? Bloody cane, that’s what.’ He checked an incoming text. ‘That’s where you’re from, right?’
‘Bendigo,’ said Sharon.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘I need to go and check another job. The lad here’ll look after you.’
The lad turned from what he’d been doing and gave her a wave. She recognised him. He came over and offered his hand. ‘Nat.’
‘The walking track down at South Beach?’
‘That’s right. You remembered me?’
‘Yeah,’ said Sharon. Only because I thought you were a bit of a creep. Steve told them he’d be back by about noon and turned to Nat. ‘And remember what I said about keeping the radio down. Not all of us want to listen to that shite. You got me?’
A big grin. ‘Aye, no worries, Steve.’ Nat turned to Sharon and the squirming Ella. ‘I’ll let you get back to it, then.’ He reached up and tickled Ella on the chin. ‘Looks like she needs a feed.’
Sharon left him to it, vaguely rattled, as if she’d just been told what to do.
Chris Thornton was waiting for Cato when he returned.
‘Got something for you.’ He plugged a thumb drive into Cato’s desktop. ‘After the Rockingham murder, I got one of the civvies to review the CCTV for the other incidents with a new focus now on dark sedans.’ He brought a video up on the screen and tapped play.
‘Where and when?’ said Cato.
‘Essex Street, the night of the murder of Chris White in the park. These cameras are on the walls of the Department of Transport building over the road from the Esplanade Hotel.’ A couple of cars were in view, angle-parked. A third one appears, a dark sedan, the driver kills the lights and engine, gets out and heads out of frame, east away from the park. Thornton froze the frame. ‘Hoodie and baseball cap and bowed head. He doesn’t want to be recognised.’
‘You’ve got a suspicious mind,’ said Cato. ‘Rego plate?’
Thornton rewound to the car pulling into the parking bay. Froze. ‘He’s covered it with reflective film — like those sunnies that perverts wear. Popular trick with Boy Racers and Doughnut Kings.’
‘And what time is this?’
‘Eleven that evening. He comes back fifteen minutes later with a takeaway coffee, and leaves.’
‘So we have a dodgy hoon in a hoodie, but he’s well outside the time frame.’
‘That’s what we all thought and it’s probably why he didn’t get the full treatment first time round. But look at this. Four-thirty a.m.’
Same cameras, same parking spots. Nothing happens in the bays covered by the camera. But across the road in the high left corner of the video a car pulls into a space a few bays nearer the park. Only the wheels and lower back edge of the car are visible. Dark colour but the rego plate is out of sight.
‘Could be anybody,’ said Cato.
‘Look at the tow bar.’ There was a fluoro green tennis ball stuck on to it. Thornton rewound to the earlier footage of the sedan reversing out of the bay and leaving several hours earlier. He froze the frame: a tow bar with a fluoro ball on it. ‘They’re not uncommon but I’m loving the coincidence.’ They returned to the later footage recorded in the middle of the night.
‘He’s not getting out,’ said Cato.
‘He stays there for an hour and a quarter and then leaves just before it gets light.’
‘We’re there by then,’ said Cato. ‘The jogger had called it in by just after five-thirty.’
‘The first response crew. Uniforms.’ Thornton froze the frame. ‘You can see the police lights reflected on his windscreen.’
‘Send it to the geeks to see if they can enhance it.’ Cato nudged him. ‘Nice one.’
‘Cheers.’
‘The other scenes, does he return to them too?’
‘We’re looking into it. Keep you posted.’
‘Anything from the bean counters on Barbarossa Nominees?’
‘Nothing yet. But I did speak to the Perth Ds about that factory fire in City West and they’re convinced the deaths were more by accident than design. It was essentially an insurance job. I’ve put it all on the case database for you to look at when you’re ready.’
Thornton excused himself. A picture was building in Cato’s mind of the figure caught on CCTV. An egotist who couldn’t resist being there to see the response to his handiwork, like an actor or writer impatient for their first reviews. Gwenda the deli owner described seeing a set of tight abs and muscled arms like Popeye’s. A narcissist. Aren’t they all, thought Cato. But he was beginning to glimpse an ego that could be the undoing of the killer.