Norman Lip could see it all turning to shit. The morning news about the body was bad enough — all the channels, all the news sites, social media, all going ape. But now he’d just put the phone down on Betsy.
‘I made the wrong call on this, Norman. I trusted you and I was wrong. It was a regrettable lapse of judgement. I’m going to have to let you go.’
It was like she was reading a statement prepared by Carmen the Lawyer. Regrettable lapse of judgement? Well, yeah. Obviously the cops had sent in the heavies from HQ to turn the screws. By the sounds of it, a few side calls had also been made to advertisers. A pincer movement. He checked his watch. It wasn’t even ten o’clock and his day looked like a write-off. He chucked a pod in the espresso machine and flicked the switch. His phone beeped again. Shit. A message waiting for him on Tinder.
Miss me?
Fuck off.
Oooh, spanky spanky.
Norman closed his phone and chucked it on the kitchen table. The coffee machine hissed at him. He filled a cup and went out to his balcony. Wind whipped from the south-west, carrying with it the tang of the aluminium refinery down at Rockingham. The smell in his nostrils was bitter, the coffee was bitter, his whole damn life. The phone again.
You need to find a way to release all that anger.
This guy was a serious nut job but he didn’t want to let Norman go. Why?
The realisation hit him like a faceful of ice-cold, citrus fairy dust. Jacqui needed him for something. He hadn’t finished yet.
You. Only you xxx
Pricktease, you say you’ll meet me but you never do. Now YOU need to prove yourself to ME.
So masterful. A pause, some thinking dots. Would he know by now that this too was being monitored? Somewhere romantic. How about the Big Wheel in Esplanade Park?
No worries, thought Norman. Tonight. 8pm.
It’s a date xxx
Either Jacqui wasn’t aware that the Tinder account was being monitored, or he was one cool, crazy bastard. Either way Norman was buzzing once again.
It was the last thing Cato needed. A call from Jake’s school to come and attend a meeting with the principal. Like now.
‘Is this really that urgent?’
‘It’s you or the police,’ the deputy principal had said, without a trace of irony.
Apparently Jane had her phone switched off and Simon didn’t want to know. And why should he? Cato breathed deeply as he pulled up in the car park at John Curtin Senior High. What now?
When Cato was shown into the principal’s office he found a dishevelled and red-faced Jake, eyes blazing. Beside him the phys ed teacher in a Springboks rugby top and a name badge, Pieter de Voss: calm, alert, perhaps a little amused.
‘What’s going on?’ Cato addressed the question to Jake.
No answer.
‘Take a seat, Mr Kwong.’ The principal reminded him of DI Pavlou, another Velvet Hammer. ‘Sorry to have called you away from your job,’ a glance towards Jake, ‘but sometimes necessity prevails.’
‘No problem.’ Cato took the seat offered, it was on the other side of Mr de Voss, whose job seemed to be to hem Jake in to a corner. So there they sat: Jake by the wall, de Voss, then Cato. Across the desk the principal straightened her stapler and pens. ‘What’s he done?’ The number of times Cato must have heard that from the parent of some recidivist ratbag.
‘Assaulted a fellow student and a teacher.’
Cato turned to Jake. ‘What’s this all about?’
Nothing. No reply.
‘There was some kind of argument during recess, a fight started, and when Mr de Voss intervened, he too was assaulted.’
Mr de Voss rolled up a leg of his tracky pants and showed everyone the blossoming bruise and split skin on his shin. ‘Stings a bit, by crikey.’
‘Jake and the other student have refused to explain what the argument was about but, whatever the reason, it’s no excuse for violence, Mr Kwong.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Cato.
‘Jacob will have to stay away from school. It’s an automatic suspension for two weeks.’
‘Right.’
‘And once we’ve had time to consider the matter further, we’ll be in touch.’
‘Sure. And the other kid?’
‘Same. His parents have already collected him.’
‘Hurt?’
‘A bloody nose. His parents are lawyers so they might want to pursue the matter.’
Jake was sent to collect his bag and Cato shook hands with the principal and Mr de Voss and apologised for his son’s behaviour.
‘Worse things happen on the rugby field,’ shrugged de Voss. ‘But he’s usually a good kid, at least until this academic year, anyway. Funny, they usually grow out of that year nine stuff in year nine. By year eleven they settle down.’ A rueful smile. ‘Late developer, eh?’
In the car Cato couldn’t get a word out of Jake. ‘I thought you’d turned a corner. What happened?’
Nothing again.
‘Jake?’
‘You really want to know?’
‘Yes, of course I do.’
‘Some dick read about you in the papers, being useless, being corrupt, not caring about the homeless murders. Started giving me shit about it.’
Cato sighed. ‘I’m sorry you’re getting that kind of grief, but violence solves nothing. At school anyway. You know the rules, mate.’
‘Family is family. You do whatever is right.’ Jake turned and looked at his dad. ‘Whatever the cost.’
Cato pulled up outside Jane’s house in East Freo. ‘Why are you dropping me here?’ said Jake. ‘I live with you now, remember?’
Cato sighed. He’d forgotten, and this seemed like the automatic, the right place to come to. ‘We’re under a lot of pressure right now, Sharon and me. This investigation, it’s …’
Jake’s eyes filled. ‘I get it.’
‘It’s just for a few days, mate. Until the dust settles. We’ll work this out, okay?’
‘Sure, Dad.’
‘Jake, is there anything else going on? You seem so … angry.’
He grabbed his bag from the back seat. ‘Don’t worry about it. You’ve got enough on your plate.’
‘Jake …’ Cato’s phone buzzed, he glanced at the screen, an urgent summons. When he looked up again Jake was heading up the front path.
‘Jake, I’ll call you tonight. Okay?’
‘Bye, Dad,’ he said without turning.
Back in the office, IT Imogen showed Cato the Tinder readout. The assignation between Lip and Jacqui: time, place, everything.
‘We’ve got him.’ She studied Cato’s unimpressed face. ‘Haven’t we?’
‘Show it to Pavlou, she’s in charge.’ He mustered a smile. ‘Good work.’
‘But you don’t believe it?’
‘I don’t believe much of anything right now. But it won’t harm for us to be there.’ He thought of something else. ‘I’ll pay Norman a visit. He’ll be expecting our call.’
‘Sure,’ said Imogen.
Cato took off alone. Chris, Deb and Amy would be tied up doing the donkey work on victim five. Victim five: Barry Newman, aged forty-two, born in Coolbellup. Parents both deceased. Younger brother, Bruce, had Down syndrome and lived in special care accommodation in Palmyra. In recent years Barry had worked as a community newspaper deliverer, a shelf-stacker at Woolworths and IGA and, latterly, as a Big Issue seller. The hostel where he lived was only temporary and he would have had to move on once his six months was up. He wasn’t homeless the way most people imagine it — a bundle of rags in a doorway. He just didn’t have anywhere permanent that he could call home. And victim five was well-liked, an eternal optimist with a potty-mouth, and not a bad bone in his body.
Norman answered after the third knock. Cato had rung ahead to check he’d be home.
‘Jeez, mate,’ said Norman. ‘Terrible news.’
Cato ignored him. ‘Jacqui has been in touch. You’ve set up a meeting.’
‘Tonight,’ Norman confirmed. ‘The park.’
‘Does he know we’re on to the Tinder thing?’
‘I don’t think so, I don’t know.’
‘Were you planning to tell us?’
‘S’pose so, but you’re listening in anyway. Right?’
Cato nodded. ‘Why’s he still talking to you?’
An affronted smart as if Cato had slapped him. ‘I’m obviously still of some use to him.’
‘So he’s not finished.’
‘Not by a long chalk.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Well we’re surmising he’s got a thing about you, right?’ Norman offered a coffee from his shiny machine. Cato accepted. ‘Barry brings it closer to home. But until he’s hurt you directly, the job’s not done. Is it?’
Cato couldn’t fault the logic. Sometimes the simplest truths seem the hardest to fathom.
Esplanade Park was crawling with cops. Admittedly, the uniformed ones were out of sight in plain vans: the TRG ninjas, armed to the teeth and waiting for the word. DI Pavlou wanted in too. She was in a car with Schultzy angle-parked opposite Joe’s Fish Shack facing the big ferris wheel, which was lit up with garish purple highlights. Cato and Amy had a table outside Little Creatures. Half of the evening revellers within a hundred metre radius were WA’s finest. Even the sullen young guy with the nose stud collecting the money in the Big Wheel booth was, until this afternoon, a probationary constable wondering when he might get a taste of some proper action. Now he knew. The clip-on nose stud was his idea.
Schultzy had taken Cato aside for a quiet word before they all took up their positions.
‘I did some discreet enquiries on the Jenkins surveillance team.’
‘And?’
‘Car two, out back, they’re an item. Apparently they’re known for snatching quickies whenever they can. Odds on they were too busy sucking each others tonsils to take much notice of what Jenkins might be doing.’
‘Did you front them with it?’
‘He denied everything but she’s married and I know her hubby. He’s in the Job. She fessed up if I promised to keep schtum.’
‘Will you? Pavlou needs to know.’
Schultz broke for a second while a colleague passed close by. ‘I promised I wouldn’t tell, but what you do is your business. My opinion? Jenkins hasn’t got the wherewithal to pull off the stuff this guy is doing. His alibi might be shaky again for number four, maybe he nipped out for a beer just to prove to himself that he’s a smartypants, but I don’t see him being your man. Especially for number five, we were watching him then too and lightning doesn’t strike twice.’
‘Famous last words? He might still have a partner.’
Schultz patted Cato’s shoulder. ‘I’ll leave it with you.’
Approaching zero hour, Cato and Amy downed their drinks and took a leisurely stroll towards the big wheel. The queue was short. They stood back admiring the lights, enjoying the air. It was a balmy spring night, quiet for a Friday, and it was already dark. The genuine punters looked like tourists who perhaps didn’t know any better — money to burn to go up high and see not very much. But it could be romantic if you were in the mood. Did Jacqui really not know the Tinder account was compromised? Would it all really be this simple? There was nowhere to go once you stepped into the gondola. No escape. Was Norman in danger? Possibly. Was anybody unduly concerned? Not really and he’d signed a liability waiver so all good, the lawyers could argue the rest later. Lip had been briefed: act normal and obey all instructions, be they from Jacqui or the TRG. Norman hovered near the booth, he’d had a late Tinder request to pre-buy two tickets. But who in the queue was Jacqui? The decision was made to allow the assignation to proceed. Go too early and jump on the wrong person, and all was lost. Best to be sure — the person who caught Norman’s eye and joined him in the gondola had to be Jacqui. They’d just bring them back down again to a nice warm reception.
Norman was wired for sound so they could tell what was happening in the gondola, and contribute it to the weight of evidence. Lip was encouraged to use his journalistic skills to ask questions that would deliver useful answers. But where was Jacqui? The wheel was slowing to disgorge the previous handful of punters. It was 8.00 p.m. Was this another time-wasting, resource-wasting stunt? The queue shuffled forward, an affluent-looking baby boomer couple in matching sweatshirts. Cato had seen the same shirts around town today, there was a cruise ship in. And a young Japanese or Korean couple, rugged up and immersed in each other. And then there was Norman. The boomer cruisers stepped into their gondola and were swept up a notch to allow the young couple to step into theirs. It was Norman’s turn next. The gondola glided in and he handed over his tickets. Looking around and shrugging his shoulders, Johnny-No-Mates stepped into the gondola. At the last minute a figure emerged from the shadows of the Norfolk pines and ran up, baseball cap and hooded jacket, waving. Cato tensed. He knew everyone else must have too.
A muffled cry. ‘Wait, wait.’
The latecomer skipped into Norman’s gondola and up it went.
Their earpieces were linked to the van monitoring the conversation in the gondola.
There was silence. Some rustling. A polite cough. All the time the car drifting upwards.
‘You must be Norman.’ Slightly breathless, perhaps from the last-minute dash. Or a fey affectation.
‘Jacqui, I presume,’ said Norman. ‘But what’s your real name?’
‘Jacqui will do.’ A sniff. ‘Nice view, eh? I can see my house from here.’
‘That’d be telling.’
‘You’re not what I imagined.’
‘Meaning?’
Norman hmmmed. ‘You don’t seem dangerous.’
A chortle. ‘Yeah, well. You get that.’ A pause. ‘So, here I am. What now?’
‘I want to know why you’re doing this.’
The gondola would be descending soon. They could slow it, stop it, seize it. A crackle through the earpiece to that effect from Pavlou.
‘One more circuit,’ said Cato. ‘Let’s hear him out.’
Pavlou assented.
‘What? Meeting you?’ replied Jacqui.
‘Don’t piss about. The murders. What’s it all about?’
‘Murders? Dude, I don’t know what you mean.’
The thing is, realised Cato, Jacqui sounded fair dinkum. ‘Bring it down,’ he sighed.
The TRG surrounded the gondola as it came to rest. The safest course of action, under the circumstances, was to leave the other punters in theirs until Norman and Jacqui were off the scene. Jacqui was pressed face down onto the ground and handcuffed.
‘Fuck man, what is this?’
DI Pavlou crouched down by his head. ‘Who are you?’
‘Kyle. Kyle Surma. I’m at WAAPA. Third year drama.’ His man bun was coming loose under the stress of the encounter.
‘What are you doing here, Kyle?’
‘This guy put an ad on Gumtree. Paid me two hundred bucks to call myself Jacqui and deliver a message to Norman Lip.’
‘What was the message?’ said Cato.
‘It’s in my pocket. The envelope. I was about to hand it over to him.’
A TRG man extracted it, passed it over. There was a photo inside of Sharon pushing Ella in her pram, right outside their home.