Norman Lip woke with a bad feeling. He’d got to sleep late after filing his ‘Primed Suspect’ piece for Betsy and the lawyer to check. He’d worked miracles turning that miserable bully Jenkins into a victim.
John Jenkins understands life as a battler. His widowed father is confined to a wheelchair in a nursing home in Albany. Ravaged by a stroke after many years of service to the community, the retired police officer is a continuing source of pride and inspiration to his son.
‘My old man taught me the difference between right and wrong and it’s something I carry with me every day.’
As a Community Safety Officer in Fremantle, Jenkins is at the sharp end of the homelessness crisis besetting the port city, and understands all too well the vulnerability of people who have slipped through society’s safety net.
‘We’re failing as a society if we can’t look after and protect those most in need.’
But now he finds himself the subject of baseless allegations manufactured by investigators from Task Force Hermes, principally Detective Sergeant Philip Kwong. Jenkins is shocked and hurt to have been named as a suspect in the horrific serial killings.
‘It’s outrageous. It’s like there’s a personal vendetta against me and all I want is to try and do the best job I can.’
But this isn’t the first time that Sergeant Kwong has been connected with manufacturing evidence against innocent citizens …
Betsy had loved the backstory on the cop, kicked into Stock Squad for framing some poor bastard ten years ago. She’d sent Norman a text at 3.00 a.m.
Ripper, mate. Beauty!
She must be doing an Ocker Conversation class at TAFE. Anyway it would be going live later today once Carmen the Lawyer had okayed it. So why the bad feeling? Despite several attempts to chat on Tinder, Jacqui was ignoring him. The quid pro quo just wasn’t happening. All take, no give. Norman decided it was time to start playing hardball.
Hey J, time we got together
Nothing.
A boy can only be patient for so long :(
Zip.
Sigh, looks like I’ll have to find someone who really appreciates me :(
Dots. Jacqui typing a reply. Thought u were my BFF?
QPQ
????
What do I get?
Whole lotta love xxx
Not enough, need facetime
I’m shy
Norman rolled his eyes. Time & place or I swipe left
The dots again. Thinking time. Did Norman imagine it or did those thinking dots seem angry?
Give me your address
Norman had the feeling Jacqui already knew where he lived but, for the purposes of a possibly monitored conversation, he gave it again. Look 4wd to it, what time?
Don’t fret bad boy, L8r :)
Norman felt better. He’d taken the initiative, turned the game around and made it his. Time for a shower, coffee and a kick-arse day.
Driving past Monument Hill onto High Street, Cato took a call on his mobile. The number was vaguely familiar and the voice even more so. They agreed to meet ten minutes hence at the Roasting Warehouse on South Terrace. The forecourt of the former petrol station turned coffee barn was full with dogs and Freo folk basking in the sun. Cato recognised a few faces and exchanged some waves and nods. His assignation had secured a table and had the coffees waiting. Cato stretched out a hand.
‘John. How’s things?’
‘As well as.’ They shook. Farmer John, so-called by Cato because of his stocky farmboy build and demeanour, operated in the shadowy twilight zone of police undercover operations. He was a consummate corporate politician and devotee of the dark arts. He was also de facto widower to Cato’s erstwhile colleague, Lara Sumich, stabbed to death in the departure hall at Shanghai airport. These days he seemed incomplete, a little wasted, probably using work to try and bury his stubborn grief.
‘You rang?’ said Cato.
‘What’s your interest in Swan Lake?’
‘Well, once you’ve heard the overture, you pretty much get the drift; after that it’s all feathers.’
‘Very funny.’
‘Maybe you can explain while I enjoy my coffee and the vibe,’ Cato said, glad he’d made John smile.
‘It’s a luxury housing and retail development in City West, helmed by Goran Abramovic. The subject of no end of litigation, sabotage, intimidation, you name it. Now the jewel in the crown of a Post-Dullsville Perth.’
‘Ah.’
‘So?’
‘I’m more interested in what it was before. When the swan was still an ugly duckling.’ Cato explained about the fire in the abandoned warehouse and the deaths of three homeless people.
‘You think it’s related to your enquiry?’
‘I wouldn’t be checking if I didn’t.’
Farmer John sipped his coffee and cast an eye over the clientele. ‘There’s a lot of work gone into trapping Goran. The Feds, the ACC, us: lot of money, lot of man hours. We’d hate to see it stuffed up.’
‘Are you telling me to get lost?’
‘That development of his is washing a shipload of drug and human trafficking money. It’s our business, not yours.’
‘Am I right to be interested in him for my case? Go nosing around his affairs?’
‘No. Tell you what, how about I chuck you a bone and you go searching elsewhere?’
‘I’m not interested in wasting time. We’ve got a mad axe murderer out there. Media frothing at the mouth. Pollies getting nervous. They’re not interested in your drug pusher and his shelf companies, they’ve got Hannibal Lecter on their doorstep. The public aren’t going to like being sidelined and put in danger by a departmental turf dispute.’
Farmer John appraised him. ‘You’ve toughened up. I’m impressed.’
‘I’m patronised. Where’s this going?’
‘That building and the site it’s on didn’t come into Goran’s portfolio until about three months after the fire. True, he’d shown interest in it before then, but it wasn’t legally his until later.’
‘So?’
‘So you might want to look at the previous owners. The ones who sold him it after they’d cashed in their insurance payout, doubled their money.’ He slid a sheet of paper across the table.
Cato spun it his way and took a look. ‘Barbarossa Nominees?’
Cato set Thornton the task of tracking down the names, the real people behind Barbarossa Nominees. And he filled Pavlou in on developments.
‘Johnny Jenkins isn’t off the hook yet. This links him with the deaths of more homeless people.’
‘Tenuously.’
‘Money still going into his account from the same mob who owned that property. Maybe he’s on a retainer from them to do some social cleansing to sweeten their property speculation.’
‘But he’s got an alibi. Us.’
‘That needs testing. We can’t ignore this, boss.’
She agreed to reallocate some resources back onto Jenkins and his supposed alibi, have the Arson Squad take a look at him too. ‘You sure we’re not being blindsided by the spooks just to keep us out of their hair? Maybe this Goran bloke is worth a look?’
Farmer John was slippery, no doubt, but Cato didn’t see him wasting their time when there was a killer at large. A line had to be drawn somewhere and, since Lara’s death, Cato had faith that John knew which side of it he was on. He said as much.
‘Hope you’re right.’ Pavlou left him to it.
Cato sat at his desk wondering who was next. And when. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the killer knew he was no longer communicating with Norman Lip on that number. That he knew exactly who he was dealing with. And that he was, once again, a few steps ahead of the game. There was a ring-around in progress asking the various agencies dealing with the homeless to be particularly vigilant and to encourage their clients to stay off the streets and/or stay together. It was laughable and very sad and it didn’t take long for the media to get wind of it. Cato’s phone rang. A journo from the local ABC station.
‘Has there been a threat made by the killer? Are you expecting another victim soon?’
‘You should be addressing your questions to Police Media. Do you want their number?’
‘So that’s a yes?’
‘I think heightened vigilance by everybody at the moment is probably a good idea.’
‘Is the killer about to strike again? Yes or no?’
‘We want people to be alert, not alarmed. Sensationalism and speculation don’t help the situation.’
‘I’ll take that as a yes.’
‘Are you recording this?’
Then Norman Lip’s latest article went into circulation. Poor Jackboot Johnny Jenkins the ‘Primed Suspect’ and Cato’s history as a framer of innocent folk. DI Pavlou rang his extension.
‘My office. Now.’ Cato did as he was told. ‘Your career prospects with Major Crime just took a nosedive. Somebody seems to want to do you, slowly.’
‘Yep.’
‘Any ideas who?’
‘Apart from Bill Jenkins, no.’
‘I’ve got somebody digging into that. Hopefully we’ll find something to neutralise him. Or arrange for his wheelchair to go over the Gap with the old bastard in it.’
Albany’s Gap wasn’t as well-known as Sydney’s but would fit the same purpose. A couple of hundred metres of sheer cliff ending in rocks, froth and foam. Cato felt like flying back down south to do the deed himself.
‘Maybe you should be less visible for a few days?’
‘I’m trying,’ said Cato. ‘Happy to.’ A few days at home with Sharon and Ella might be timely. Or it could add to the nightmare.
Pavlou tapped her computer screen. ‘This bloke needs a good shake.’
‘Lip? I thought we’d already done that.’
‘I’ve got Police Media applying the heavies to his boss.’
‘Might help,’ said Cato. ‘But I think he thrives on the challenge of him against the world.’ He thought again about Lip’s browsing history and his aspirations. ‘Maybe we should be nice to him, invite him into the fold, corrupt him with kindness.’
Pavlou appraised him. ‘Maybe you’re cut out for Major Crime after all.’
‘Norman? G’day, it’s Philip Kwong here. Fremantle Detectives.’
‘Aren’t you with Major Crime now?’
A short bark of laughter. ‘Right again, I forgot.’
Norman waited for the blast, for the threats, the story was live by now. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more what I might be able to do for you.’
‘Come again?’
‘I think we got off on the wrong foot. Pressure of the job, you begin to develop a siege mentality.’
‘Right.’
‘In the end we’re all on the same side. We all want to stop this mad bastard from hurting anybody else. Right?’
‘Right.’
‘So we’re figuring we need to look at what unites us, rather than divides us. Look at how we might cooperate, for a win-win situation.’
‘Win-win,’ said Norman. ‘Sounds good. What do you have in mind?’
‘How about a catch-up and we can meditate on the possibilities. Maybe I can shout you lunch?’
‘All these offers. Must be my lucky day.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. Let’s make it Mosman’s down by the river. One o’clock, okay?’
‘The old Mead’s? Classy.’
And expensive, thought Norman. This is going to cost you.
All these offers. Must be my lucky day.
Sometimes Normie-boy, you can get a bit too cocky. Cato called Imogen and requested an update on Lip’s telecommunications history. She brought it through ten minutes later.
‘What are you looking for?’
Cato scanned the print-out. ‘No unusual call numbers?’
She ran a glittery fingernail down the list. ‘Only yours. The others are his editor, their lawyer, his sister.’
‘Internet? Emails?’
‘A few emails from his editor discussing deadlines and other issues around the latest article.’ She paused and cast him a sympathetic look. ‘You saw it, I guess?’
‘Yep,’ said Cato.
‘Wanker,’ said Imogen.
‘So no invitations to drinks, or parties, or meetings in the last twenty-four hours or so?’
‘No, why?’
All these offers. Must be my lucky day.
Cato told her.
‘Maybe he’s referring to Tinder. Looks like he’s a bit of a root rat.’ They checked it out. ‘Jacqui seems to be flavour of the month but she’s playing hard to get.’
‘Until this morning,’ Imogen pointed out.
‘He finally got lucky.’ They studied the picture of Jacqui and her profile. ‘Commerce student and fitness instructor. Nice combination.’
‘Big eyes, big everything. Nice combination all over, if you like that sort of thing.’
‘Norman clearly does. He’s practically on bended knee to her.’ Cato scrolled back through the conversations. ‘She has him wrapped around her little finger.’
‘It happens.’
‘But look at his previous conversations with other Tinder partners. He’s bossing them all. Setting the time and place. Why the change in persona?’
‘Maybe she’s special?’
They scanned through the photos of earlier Norman conquests. ‘Can’t see what’s so special. Going off previous form he should have lost patience after the first couple of exchanges and moved on to someone who would play the game his way.’
‘Look at this one,’ said Imogen, referring back to the exchanges with Jacqui.
What do you want?
A token.
What kind?
A big one. A sacrifice.
Cato grew cold.
Imogen pursed her lips. ‘Want me to look into Jacqui?’
‘Please,’ said Cato. ‘Maybe it’s just a kinky Fifty Shades thing. Or maybe it’s more.’ He pointed out the arrangement for a rendezvous that night at Norman’s. ‘Either way, he’ll be needing a chaperone.’
Cato was glad Pavlou pre-approved expenses on this one. Lip was deliberately ordering the most expensive dishes on the menu. When it came to the wine list, Cato had to put his foot down; Norman’s finger was hovering over a bottle worth Cato’s weekly wage.
‘I’m driving, I’ll stick with water. I can recommend a glass of the Marlborough pinot.’ The warning glance said fourteen bucks is your lot.
‘Sure, sounds great.’ Norman smiled. They had a window table against a backdrop of a shimmering flat river occasionally rippled by a passing gin palace. A pod of dolphins cracked the surface. Shags sunned themselves on the rocks by the shore. At adjoining tables, deals were being done and assignations arranged. There was flirting and loose talk. ‘So tell me about this win-win,’ Norman said.
‘What would be a win for you?’
Norman’s pinot gris arrived with a smile and an iris flare from the waitress. Obviously she went for the style-magazine version of mannered masculinity: groomed yet wild, geeky yet blokey, casually intense, real yet false. She gave Cato his bubbly water as an afterthought. Cato realised he’d reached that age of invisibility in the eyes of a certain generation. It was mildly alarming yet somehow comforting at the same time.
‘The story nobody else can get, the story they all covet.’
‘The killer. All to yourself.’
‘Interview with a vampire.’ Norman sipped his pinot. ‘Not bad.’
Cato wanted to reach across the table and squeeze Norman’s throat and explain that feeding the delusions of the narcissistic prick who was causing all this misery was a shallow and immoral pursuit. But he didn’t. ‘What do you think he’ll tell you? What’s his big revelation about the human condition?’
‘I doubt he has one. But look at Lee Harvey Oswald, Mark Chapman, John Hinckley Jr, they were all boring nobodies. Zapruder was just a guy with a camera in the right place at the right time. But all of them, their names live on.’
‘Is that the kind of immortality you want? Piggybacked on to an atrocity?’
A thoughtful look over the pinot. ‘This is interesting. I never expected you to be so clever, so … deep.’
Supercilious little bastard. ‘Or look at Truman Capote as another example.’ Cato sipped his bubbly water. ‘He wasn’t there by accident. He made the deliberate decision to insinuate himself into a horrific murder investigation and examine it in some depth. And he comes up with the most well-known true crime book out there, perhaps the original and best. It made his name as a bestselling man of letters.’ Still morally compromised, thought Cato, but we won’t go there just now.
‘Whoa. Intellectual overload. You sure you’re a cop?’
The entrees arrived. Seared scallops for Norman, duck for Cato. ‘I read stuff on my days off. And I went to uni.’ Maybe he was going too fast for Norman. Maybe the intellectual and literary aspirations were beyond him and he really was just a shallow pretentious tosser after all. ‘Everything now is about fleeting associations with fame. People crave it and seize it like it’s an entitlement. These days Zapruder would probably miss the president’s assassination because he’d be too busy taking a selfie.’
Norman laughed. ‘Can I use that?’
‘Be my guest.’ It was strange. Cato felt flirtatious. ‘But you look at the issues around these murders in Freo: homelessness, a country run by vindictive class warriors, an increasingly affluent society grappling with its sense of identity and occasionally troubled when reminded of those we’re leaving behind.’ Cato could almost see Norman’s dream click into gear. He was already up there collecting his literary award. ‘Which do you want to be? The loser who got the banal me-me-me interview from the sad sicko? Or the dude who forensically examined what was going on socially and culturally, and completely nailed it?’
Lip put down his glass and steepled his fingers like a deep thinker might do. ‘What do you propose?’