‘What day was this?’ He showed her the picture. ‘Any idea?’
Under any other circumstances this could have been a nice family Saturday morning. The house was theirs again. The painters had pretty much finished: a couple of window frames needed touching up but there was no need to get them back in for that. Even the parting had been more or less back on even keel. Nat returned to his charming and helpful self, cleaned up some of his handiwork, and Steve knocked two hundred bucks off the bill for the unfinished windows plus a further ten per cent discount for cash payment. The black economy, backbone of the nation. Ella had slept through all night. Phil’s recent long days and absences had made Sharon’s heart grow fonder. They’d even had a delicious early morning bonk. A slow, sensuous, tender affair. Phil looming over her, a softness in his eyes. At first she’d mistaken it for fear. But that had dissolved. Until she woke this morning and realised she hadn’t been mistaken at all.
She studied the photo. It had been taken through a car window across the road and a little way down the street from where they lived. ‘Recent, I think.’ She prodded the picture. ‘I only got that top about a fortnight ago.’ She gave it further thought. ‘Last week, I reckon. Tuesday.’ They both squinted at the calendar on the kitchen wall. ‘The nineteenth.’ Ella gave a squeal of delight. She was bouncing in her Jolly Jumper in the kitchen doorway.
‘Same day I got my head kicked in by the graffiti guy.’
‘Connected, you think?’
‘Who knows?’ He shrugged. ‘Don’t suppose you got a car description and rego?’
‘Sure, I log all comings and goings in the area as a matter of course.’ She shook her head. ‘Any busybodies in the street who might have?’
‘The bloke a few doors up is a saddo curtain-twitcher. I’ll ask him.’
‘Getting Ella out of the house is a major military campaign. Nothing would have happened before at least nine-thirty.’
‘And it looks like you’re going, rather than coming, so definitely early rather than late.’
Sharon found herself enjoying the exchange. Shared cop stuff. Pity it related to a probable threat on their lives. ‘So where to from here? Do I need to be an American Mom and start packin’?’
‘Wouldn’t hurt.’ He reached his hand out, folded it over hers. ‘Or you could go away for a while until we’ve caught the bastard.’
‘How long? A week? A month? What if you don’t find him?’
‘He’ll come looking for us by the sound of things.’
Ella seemed to be tiring of the Jolly Jumper. Sharon lifted her to freedom. ‘It’s settled then.’
Cato was at work by 8.30 a.m. On his way he’d knocked on the door of the curtain-twitcher, but there had been no answer. He’d catch him later. Overnight there had been some progress: a wakeful resident in the townhouses over the road from Missy Moos had looked out of her window and seen a car parked behind the burger joint in the early hours. A dark sedan. No signs of people or movement though. Earlier in the evening, around 8.30, a dog walker had seen two blokes, arms around each other’s shoulders, stumbling across Wilson Park heading south-east towards the South Fremantle McMansions. One bloke big and well-built, the other was shorter, stocky, podgy even. Drunk, he assumed. They were chatting amiably enough.
‘Barry knew his killer?’ Cato wondered aloud.
‘Or he’ll gas with anybody who seems friendly,’ suggested Pavlou. ‘Or it wasn’t even them.’
‘But if it was, and Barry was killed in the park, then where was the car and what happened between then and dumping the body at Missy Moos some four or five hours later?’
‘He drove around with Barry in the boot. Or parked up somewhere for a while.’
‘Murder tends to be.’
Finally a glimpse on CCTV outside a South Terrace bike shop — a dark sedan leaving the area, turning left into Douro Road and heading east. The tow bar cushioned by a fluoro green tennis ball and the rego plate obscured. The time was 1.16 a.m.
‘Chris Thornton is chasing more CCTV along any variations on the route from there.’ Pavlou was twitchy, she needed a cigarette. ‘Join me outside?’
Cato skipped across the road and brought them both back a coffee while Pavlou took her nicotine fix. She looked worried. ‘How’s the family?’
‘Good.’
‘Do you want me to make arrangements for accommodation somewhere? Bali maybe?’
‘Not practical. We’re staying put.’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’
Cato shrugged. ‘As Sharon said, this could drag on and on. We might never catch him.’
‘What do you think?’
‘If he’s really fixated on us for whatever reason then he’s going to come and find us.’
‘I like your commitment and work ethic, but there’s really no need to use your own family as bait for a serial killer.’
‘That’s pretty much what I said to Sharon.’ Cato drained his coffee. ‘Feel free to have a marked car parked outside as a deterrence. Otherwise, unless you have a specific task in mind I’m going to devote my day to working out who this killer might be.’
So who did hate him this much? Cato left his computer closed and sat there with a biro and note pad. Names, any names, just make a start. So far he had Jenkins father and son, recent converts to the ‘Get Cato’ club and both carried murderous spite in their veins. Who else? He’d shot a man once, turned him quadriplegic, a gangster with connections and a vengeful brother in prison. Cato added them both to the list. Brothers and fathers and sons, the age-old story. Ever since the Old Testament, revenge — a game the whole family can play. Who else? He’d helped frame a man once, putting him away for ten years for something he didn’t do. That would quicken the blood. Another name on the list. Who else? There were so many he’d put away for shorter sentences or hadn’t physically harmed or fitted up. It wasn’t inconceivable that someone could develop a lethal grudge over a twelve-month stretch for selling drugs or king-hitting a stranger or stealing a truckload of power tools. If so, then the list would be longer than the Doomsday Book. No, this had to be somebody whose life he had substantially altered, whose dreams he had shattered. But who?
Cato checked the time: nearly half-eleven. He opened up his computer and logged into the case database. If Barry’s death and dumping behind Missy Moos was a direct message to Cato, was there something about the other deaths he was missing? He trawled through the lists and photos from the crime scenes. There was the usual detritus but what about those strange items that didn’t immediately fit, that you wouldn’t normally expect? Like an empty mustard jar near Maureen Bryant. Cato brought up the photo: Dijonnaise, it said on the label. He was none the wiser. The wharf where Dean Pearson was found: bottles, cans, cigarette ends, a used condom. It bore no traces of Dean, inside or out, according to the labs. What else? The noodle packet, Master Kong Spicy Beef, Chinese style. Traces of said noodles had been found in Dean’s stomach contents so it explained the packet crumpled up under his makeshift pillow of spare clothes crammed into a shopping bag. Nothing of consequence from the Rockingham car park. If there were any messages in any of this, they were more cryptic than those crosswords Cato tackled most days.
Meanwhile Chris Thornton was building a picture of where the dark sedan went after it left South Fremantle in the early hours. Another CCTV camera at a fast-food outlet had picked it up on Rockingham Road at the junction with Phoenix Road, turning left and heading further east and south. Nothing after that. Thornton was now following up on the rego plates of other cars picked up not far behind the sedan, tracing the owners to see what they remembered about where it went. The car was already out there on the police Twitter and Facebook feeds from Thornton’s earlier work — #HaveYouSeenThisCar: a nondescript dark sedan with a fluoro tennis ball on the tow bar. A remarkable number of people claimed they had. That would be followed up, filtering out the genuine from the mistaken, mad and malicious. Maybe the killer was parked outside Cato’s home right now, sharpening his axe for Sharon and Ella. He gave her a call.
‘Everything okay?’
‘Yep, the washing’s on, Ella’s just filled her nappy and I’ve sent the toyboy home after fucking his brains out. You?’
Cato smiled. ‘Just wondering if you need me to get anything on the way home. Milk? Bread? A Glock and a box of bullets?’
‘Some more nappies would be good. When are you due home?’
‘Mid-arvo maybe? Everything is kind of in hand here, the wheels are turning well enough without me.’
‘So why are you there?’
‘I’m making a list of anybody who hates me.’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Mercifully short but maybe I’m deluding myself.’
‘Keep on the right side of me and it will stay short. See you when I see you. Wait … what’s that noise?’ Cato’s heart jumped in his mouth. ‘Just joking,’ said Sharon. ‘Thought it might get you home quicker.’
Norman Lip was idly flipping through his Tinder gallery. Maybe a bit of release was what he needed. There were two messages waiting for him, from Jacqui, but he didn’t want to play. He was aware that even right now his thumb swipes were probably being monitored. It felt strange. Would Big Brother approve or disapprove of his choices? It was like having a heavy breather wanking in your wardrobe with an eye glued to the keyhole. Maybe he could write a piece on it. Oh, yes, that’s right, he was unemployed. Still, the idea of the wanker in the wardrobe strangely titillated him. It added a degree of urgency to his thumb swipes. In the end though, he succumbed. What did Jacqui want now?
Sorry. Forgive me?
He opened the second one.
I don’t want to lose you.
He deleted both and went back to his thumb swipes. He avoided the overly pouty selfies and the arm-squeeze cleavage, fearing a clash of egos with his own. Finally he came across Zoe from Applecross — likes: clubs, good food, cool music, real men, passion.
Do you like jazz? she’d asked.
Fucking hate it actually. Biensur!
What?
Yes.
After a couple more exchanges he had a date that night at Creatures NextDoor. He admired his reflection in the phone screen; he hadn’t lost his touch. His eyes strayed to his notebook: leather-bound, he’d found it in a street market in Surabaya, it was like his own Joseph Conrad moment. It cost him just four bucks to feel like a writer. Except it was a transitory feeling, and the book was barely touched. He was incapable of writing even the first line of the great Australian novel. Or word for that matter. There were no notes of interesting conversations he’d overheard. Why would there be? He was too busy talking over them. Nor were there any musings on the universal condition of the human soul. With the right shirt and kitchen gadget, you could just look like you know that shit. No attempts to lyrically capture that fall of light at a certain time of day on the water or through the trees. He’d already snapped it on his iPhone so job done. He was a fraud. Wait. He suddenly realised he was doing deep self-awareness. That was kinda cool.
But there was something in that notebook, a scribbled note on page one. The night he’d bedded that woman from Adelaide, the woman from Big Pharma over for a conference. That view from her hotel window. The man who would be Jacqui, sitting in a dark car watching the police go about their work. Lip had known this time would come. Half a rear rego plate glimpsed in a weird play of light — it had been covered in that reflective film the hoons liked to use but it had curled and partly peeled away. All he needed to do was hand the information over to the cops and they’d have their man. Yeah, okay, so maybe if he was a good guy he should have passed this over to them straight away, but what would that have meant for him? Big fat nothing. They’d made an offer for him to be part of the action then almost as soon withdrawn it: like it was his fault the dero died. But now he needed to trace this plate, find the killer himself and deliver him up. Wouldn’t that be the mother of all scoops?
While waiting for lunch, pasta at a joint down the street and around the corner on Mouat, Cato brought up Dean’s journal on his iPad. A cold Wednesday in late July and a few days left to live.
Fuck that was a cold night. Shiver shiver shiver + Jenkins piss up my nose. Too many crazies around here + old blokes sobbing or high. One shouting sorry, sorry, sorry over + over. Some war he was in some family he killed. No angel to tuck him in say night night my love sweet dreams
More Pokémon-style drawings. A winged dragon breathing fire. A man with a sad face and tears.
Over this shit. Maybe I could make it up with Dad + go to uni + be a good boy. Thing is I could be perfect + he still wont want me around. That bloke reading the paper at the cafe over the road. No hurries no worries. What a life.
Cato’s pasta arrived and he dug in. Was the crazy, sobbing army vet Chris White? Was the bloke reading the paper in the cafe stalking Dean? Or were they both nobodies in the legion of passers-by and fellow travellers in Dean’s doomed life? Family again emerging as a theme, Dean not fitting into his. Feeling abandoned by his father. Significant, or just the universal stuff of life? Trying to find clues in this diary seemed as big a task as tracing back through his own history. But the same killer was lurking somewhere in those shared shadows.
Jake felt like punching someone again. Anyone. Simon had made some snide comment about a shitty chore that needed doing. The word ‘freeloader’ was in there somewhere. Jake had told him to get fucked and get a life.
Mum. ‘Tone it down in front of the twins, guys.’
Simon. ‘I’m not the one using profanities. Don’t say “guys” when you mean “Jake”.’
Mum to Jake. ‘Can you do those jobs sometime this morning, love? Keep the peace?’
She was meant to say, ‘Back off Simon, Jake is my son, he’s my family, he lives here as long as he wants.’ But she didn’t. Instead she said, ‘Maybe empty the bins before you go out, sweetie?’
He didn’t.
And he left his bedroom light on.
And the tap dripping in the bathroom.
And squeezed the toothpaste tube at the top.
And didn’t bother picking his towel up off the floor.
Or washing his breakfast dishes.
He hopped off the bus and walked across the car park to the gym entrance. A car pulled up alongside him.
‘Hop in, sexy. We’re goin’ for a drive.’
Jake cheered up just at the sight of Lance’s face. He slung his bag in the back and climbed in. ‘You’ll get fat if you keep piking out on your seshes.’
Lance slapped his tight midriff and dragged Jake’s hand across onto it. ‘I am already. Feel that. Jelly.’
‘Disgusting.’ Jake pulled his hand away, laughing, flushed. ‘Where we going, then?’
‘You’ll see.’ Lance plugged his iPod in and found some tunes. Retro stuff, seventies rock.
‘What’s this crap?’
‘Philistine.’ Lance cranked up the volume. ‘Aussie rock, maaaate! The best.’
Batshit crazy. Jake soaked it up. They were heading east on Leach Highway: fast food, fuel and furnishings. The old guy from way back was singing about how most people he knew thought he was crazy. Yep, that was right up Lance’s street. ‘What you been up to, then?’
‘This and that. How’s life with Daddy?’
‘Shit. They don’t want me around either. Went back home.’
‘Home?’
‘Mum’s. I got suspended from school for decking a dick.’
‘Good work!’ They bumped fists. ‘And how did Mummy take it?’
‘Doesn’t know yet but I know what it’ll be.’ Jake screwed up his face and put on a prissy voice. ‘We’re very disappointed with you, Jacob. What’s going on?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Sex and drugs and rock’n’roll.’ He shuffled his iPod and a song came on with those very same words. Lance made it blast. The song was bad, so bad, but funny as. He reached over and snapped open the glove box. Handed Jake a tin box. ‘Check that out.’
Three fat spliffs.
‘Help yourself,’ said Lance.
Jake lit up. The suburbs slid by and on they drove. Soon they were climbing into the hills. In the wing mirror Jake could see behind him a low blanket of grey-brown smog hovering over the city beneath an explosion of blue sky. He checked the clock on the dashboard.
‘When will we be heading back?’ said Jake.
‘What for?’ said Lance. ‘It’s Saturday. No school. No work. Your parents suck and homework’s a waste of fuckin’ time. Right?’
Jake nodded. Convincing himself. ‘Right.’ He got out his phone. ‘I’ll just text them and let them know I’m out for the day. See me when they see me.’
Lance took the phone out of Jake’s hand and tossed it in the back seat. ‘No need for that. You’re your own man now. Right?’ He turned and gave him a grin. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ said Jake.
While he waited for his contact to get back to him, Norman rushed over to keep his weekly appointment with Naomi. She was in good spirits, hair brushed, and wearing her ‘I’m With Stupid’ T-shirt.
‘Let’s just stay here and get a cuppa from the kitchen.’
‘What, with all those oldies you hate so much?’
‘You can wheel me out to the Rose Garden where they leave the demented ones. Nobody will believe them if they dob me in for smoking.’
And there they sat for a solid hour and a half, drinking tea made from cheap, weak bags and exchanging a whole bunch of childhood memories that Norman hadn’t realised he’d forgotten. Some were happy, and they cacked themselves. Some, not so.
‘D’you reckon Mum knew about Dad’s affairs?’
‘Course she did, Normie. He didn’t try to hide it.’
‘Arsehole.’
‘She’s well out of it now. Both of them are. No need for us to worry any more.’
‘Pity she took the coward’s way out. You might not have to be in here now.’
‘What? You reckon it was her duty to look after me? You’re a fucking judgemental, Neanderthal prick sometimes, Norman.’
‘Yeah, well.’
‘Yeah, well nothing. I don’t need anyone. Don’t need Mum, don’t need you.’
‘Yes, you do.’ He grinned. ‘You’re useless without me. Admit it.’
‘Right, this one hour a week is all I live for. That tiny window of irreplaceable family warmth you slot between Tinder hook-ups and editorial deadlines. The intellectual stimulation. Speaking of which, what’s with you and Mephisto?’
‘Who?’
‘Google it, you ignoramus. The devil you’re dealing with.’
‘Oh, him. He’s got too big for his boots. Time the tables were turned.’ He’d decided to keep his sacking to himself. No need to burden her with that.
A shadow across her face. ‘Watch yourself with this, alright? Have you got an exit strategy?’
‘Don’t worry, sis. All under control.’ He lifted his chin at her T-shirt. ‘You only wear that when you’ve had a really good day. So tell me,’ he smiled. ‘Who is he?’
Naomi blushed. A rare thing indeed. ‘This new volunteer carer. Wheels us here, there and everywhere. Cups of tea. Chats. He’s spent a lot of time with me this week. Probably ’cause I’m better looking and smarter than everybody else here. And about forty years younger.’
‘Spoken like a true Lip.’
‘He was here this morning pressing his firm tummy against my shoulders while he brushed my hair. I’m hoping to persuade him to change my nappy next time he visits.’
‘Sis!’
A dirty laugh. ‘Got to take your chances when they come, mate.’
Norman’s phone beeped. He checked it. ‘Gotta go, sis.’
She reached up for a goodbye hug. Not like her. But it felt nice anyway.
‘Take care, Normie. You hear?’
People Who Hate Me, Part Two. After lunch Cato returned to his list. He’d trodden on some toes in China — a billionaire and his family put before a firing squad after he helped entrap them on trumped-up corruption charges. Still, they had it coming, they were behind the murder of his colleague. An up-and-coming gangster left floating in a river in Shanghai. Again, not undeservedly. Did those people have friends or relatives with a score to settle? In both cases he was aware of their extraordinarily long reach and resourcefulness but he remained unconvinced.
Nudging four o’clock, he decided to call it a day. He picked up disposable nappies on the way home and dropped by the curtain-twitching neighbour up the street to see if he recalled a serial killer photographing Cato’s house recently. The man was underemployed, too young to retire, too old to be bossed around. He wore a diarrhoeacoloured Neil Young T-shirt and nervously scratched his untidy grey facial fuzz. He wasn’t used to talking to his neighbours, only watching them.
‘Frank.’ The bloke offered a hand for shaking.
‘Phil,’ Cato obliged and then explained himself. ‘So, do you recall seeing anything unusual that day?’
‘Come through,’ said Frank. ‘I’ll just check the calendar.’
Cato was led up a dingy hallway that needed airing, back to a surprisingly bright kitchen and a view on to a well-kept, verdant backyard. ‘Nice place,’ said Cato.
‘Yeah,’ said Frank. ‘Thanks.’ He took the calendar down off the wall: Huts of Australia. September was somewhere in Tasmania beside a tarn. ‘What day did you say?’ Cato told him. Frank traced a finger along, tongue poking out between his lips. ‘Tuesday.’
‘Yep.’
‘You had the cops around later in the day. Vandalism. That big “Y” on your gable end.’
‘That’s right.’
Frank nodded, consulted a notebook. ‘A young bloke popped something in your mailbox not long after you went to work, around seven-fifteen.’
‘Description?’
‘Fit. Full of himself.’ His finger traced a line down the page. ‘And there was a car parked just over the road for an hour or so, eight-thirty to nine-forty. Pointing the wrong way.’
‘Colour? Make?’
‘Dark blue. Mazda.’
‘Did you get the rego?’
Frank gave him a sideways glance. ‘Reckon I’m a snooping busybody or something?’
‘Hoping you are,’ said Cato.
‘Nice to be appreciated for a change.’ He gave Cato the rego number.
‘Notice anything about the car or the occupant?’
‘No, not really, he stayed inside, I got the impression of a young’un though.’
‘Why?’
‘He was playing crap music.’
This was getting too good to be true. Cato’s blood quickened. ‘Could it have been the same person as earlier, the one who put something in the mailbox?’
‘Who knows? Maybe.’
‘Anything else? Did he get out of the car?’
‘Nope, he stuck his phone out the window and snapped a couple off, just as your wife was taking the tacker for a stroll. Then he left.’
‘It must have been Nat.’
‘Nat?’
‘The painter boy,’ said Sharon. ‘The description fits. Gym bod, cocky as.’ She rummaged among the detritus on the kitchen counter beside the phone and dug out the business card that had been dropped in the letterbox that day.
Cato phoned through the car rego number for Thornton to check. No mention of any Nat. ‘David Samuels, an address in Yangebup.’ Cato wrote it down. ‘What do you want to do about it, boss?’
They could get the ninjas round there and kick his door in. ‘Give me a sec, I’ll call you back. Meantime send his licence details through to me, his pic, I need to see it.’
He conferred with Sharon. What was her impression? This was a bloke who’d given her the shits while he was working here in their house. She shrugged. ‘Maybe the kid just saw the police activity, saw the graffiti and lined himself up some work.’
Or he did the graffiti himself and was there the following day, first in, best dressed. ‘The photographs?’ said Cato.
‘Evidence for his boss. Get in quick, kind of thing?’
‘But?’
She chewed on her lip. ‘He’s worth a conversation. I’d met him on the beach walking track before that. Again, personal space was not his strong point. He likes to be in control. Put that together with this, and you could interpret it as stalking.’
Cato got on the phone to DI Pavlou and brought her up to date.
‘No record?’
‘Nothing. He’s clean. We’ve been trying to get hold of his employer, bloke called Steve Nichols, but no reply. Neighbour says he often takes the family out on his boat on the weekends.’ An incoming call from Thornton. He asked Pavlou to hold.
Thornton was breathless, excited. ‘David Samuels is on our list of volunteers working for an NGO connected with the homeless.’
‘We’ve already talked to him?’
‘Not yet. He was always out when we called. We left messages on his mobile. He was on the action list for the coming week.’ Thornton felt the need to defend himself. ‘It was a big list, boss. And with no previous he wasn’t high on it.’
Cato got back to Pavlou.
‘Let’s bring him in,’ she said.
It was a plain brick place in Yangebup, a few kilometres inland southeast of Fremantle, with a driveway sloping down from the road: an anywhere suburban house of the 1970s with neglected rosebushes in the front yard and a patchy lawn that needed mowing. Beyond the cordon, the neighbours stood casually interested, battlers for the most part, saving up for a bigger house in a better suburb. They smoked and chatted to each other, lifted their phones to get a selfie with the TRG armoured truck in the background. The driveway was empty and it looked like there was nobody home.
Cato, Pavlou and Thornton were kitted up in Kevlar and ready to go in behind the TRG. Samuels wasn’t answering his phone. Nor was his housemate Ferdinand Navarro, an electrician in Australia on a 457 visa, three months off the plane from Manila. The licence photo of Samuels hadn’t registered with Sharon.
‘Sure?’ asked Cato. ‘That’s not Nat?’
‘Pretty sure.’
‘False ID?’
‘Or different person,’ she’d said.
The TRG gave the all clear and the detectives moved in, fanning out around the house. The kitchen was sparse, fridge all but empty except for basics of milk and marge and a few eggs and vegies, sliced white in the bread box, washing up stacked on the draining rack. In the lounge room, a wide-screen TV and remote, and a three-piece facing it. Basketball and boxing DVDs on a shelf. Navarro’s room had a photo of him and his family on a bedside table: a smiling wife and three daughters. They looked a nice enough bunch. Some clothes hanging in a wardrobe, an empty suitcase pushed under the bed. It felt like a room that hadn’t been lived in for a while. Cato hoped there was nothing sinister behind that. Samuel’s room: queen single, made up, polyester blue and white striped doona. Clothes in drawers and on hangers. Bland casuals, no distinctive character. All to be bagged and tested by forensics. Work boots, size ten Steel Blues. No family photographs, no books or music to give any indication of personality. A blank canvas.
‘Let’s leave the detail to Duncan and his crew,’ said Pavlou.
They retreated from the house. Beyond the cordon, two news crews had materialised and a helicopter hovered overhead. Thornton was dispatched back to the station to collate everything there was on David Samuels. A squad meeting would be held an hour hence. His description, the car’s description and rego were already in circulation.
This man, if it was the same one, had spent the last week or so in Cato’s house with his wife and child. He racked his brains for a memory of the name and what he might have done to incur the man’s wrath. Samuels. Who the hell was this vengeful and dangerous human being who had made threats to Sharon and Ella? And why, given the opportunity, had he not already followed through?
‘He’s twenty-two years old. Works as an odd-jobber, hotel doorman, builder’s labourer, you name it. Volunteers with a religious charity, Street Angels, they help the homeless as long as they’re prepared to endure some fire and brimstone with their cup of soup.’
Thornton had been busy. He’d pinned a copy of the licence photo of David Samuels up on the board. Cato studied it. A young, strong and fresh face, firm jaw, gym neck. Sculpted facial hair and more than a hint of vanity. The gallery of rogues he’d put away was a large one and this face was as vaguely familiar as any of them.
‘No previous,’ said Thornton. ‘Not a peep across all states.’
So how had he crossed paths with Cato? Where did the grudge come from? ‘Family? Associates?’ he said out loud.
‘Parents are dead, according to a form he filled out when he signed up with Street Angels. But they don’t have the manpower to check on their employees or volunteers. Plenty of faith in the Lord though.’
‘School records?’ asked Cato.
‘Nothing. We’re still chasing it.’
‘Birth certificate?’
‘Same. I know what you’re thinking. Is David Samuels even his real name?’
Pavlou stepped up. ‘Thanks Chris, keep digging.’ She actioned Deb Hassan and Amy Trimboli to talk to the painting boss to see if Nat and Samuels were the same man, get a photo of Nat if there was one. She met Cato’s eye, tapped the photo of Samuels. ‘Ring any bells?’
Cato shook his head.
Duncan Goldflam and his team would be scraping the Yangebup house. Thornton and his data wranglers would be looking for traces of Samuels on any records anywhere. IT Imogen was tracking phones and internet accounts linked to David Samuels, aka Jacqui. Doors were being knocked, CCTV collated and mobile patrols were on the lookout. Once again, Cato felt surplus to requirements even though he was central to what all this was about. Pavlou closed the meeting and pulled Cato aside.
‘Samuels has declared his hand. We’re on to him. It’s only a matter of time.’
‘Boss.’
‘But we both know that makes him more erratic, unpredictable now. Fair chance he’ll come looking for you. Time to come inside, Philip.’
She was right. They organised for a car to go and fetch Sharon and Ella and they’d all be put up in a secured hotel for the foreseeable.
‘Shit,’ said Sharon when he phoned her with the news. ‘I’d just got Ella down for a sleep.’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re close now, a matter of hours, has to be.’
‘Gives me the creeps knowing he was here all that time.’ A doorbell in the background. ‘That must be the patrol car,’ said Sharon. ‘So who is he? What’s he got to do with us?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Cato.
Norman Lip had tried the number he’d been given: a friend of a friend of a bikie who had a pet cop who did computer searches for a price. He’d used a street payphone to avoid the monitoring. Real Woodward and Bernstein stuff. After a brief exchange, where they agreed an amount, he was provided with a name and address. He’d gone down there on his Vespa, seen the police vehicles and the cordon. He wondered how they’d got their breakthrough. He’d seen the Chinese detective, Cato Kwong, beyond the cordon. Norman felt frustration and shame in equal parts. Each time he thought he was on a win, it was snatched away. He texted to cancel his evening date with Zoe the Jazz Lover as things were getting interesting and he wanted to stay in the game. As soon as he finished, his phone beeped: a message from an unknown number. It was a photo of some bloke, bleeding, a plastic supermarket bag over his head. Norman seized the initiative.
Hi Dave, whats your point?
A pause. I knew you’d get there in the end
I joined the good guys
Oh no!
Norman closed his phone. He wondered, bleakly, who the bloke was in the photo. His phone went again.
I want to confess
Norman ignored him. Enough. This had to stop.
It’s all over They will have me soon This is your last chance
Norman thought about it. Career up the spout and this mad prickteasing fucker was all he had to show for it. And now, clearly, another victim had been lined up.
No more, I’m finished with you, I hope they catch you soon crackpot
A few seconds later another photograph came through from another number. No words this time. But his blood ran cold all the same.
Sharon went to answer the door. The bell rang again and woke Ella who gave a little mewl of complaint.
‘Coming!’
She opened up. It was Nat. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Can I come in?’
She closed the door on him but his foot was in the gap. Sharon pulled it open and slammed it back on his ankle as hard as she could.
‘Ow, fuck! No need for that. I only want to talk.’
She ran down the corridor into Ella’s room and pushed whatever furniture she could find against the door. Ella was bellowing by now. Sharon quick-dialled Cato’s number. ‘He’s here!’
‘Samuels?’
‘Yes, Nat, him. He’s in the house.’ The door handle turned. ‘Oh god.’
Nat’s voice. ‘I just want to talk to you, Sharon …’
‘I’m nearly there,’ said Cato down the phone. Engine noise and sirens in the background. ‘Hold on.’
‘Sharon.’ Nat pushed against the barricade. ‘Don’t be scared. It’s just me.’ Another shove. Stronger, more determined. Sharon struggled to keep the chest of drawers from toppling. ‘There’s no need for this. Really.’
‘The police are on their way. Give yourself up, now,’ she hissed.
‘Police?’
There was loud thumping in the hallway, voices, orders, crashing sounds. After a while a calm voice, female. ‘You can come out now.’
Nat was lying on his stomach, hands cuffed behind his back. The knee of a male constable on his neck. ‘Get them off me!’
‘You put your business card in my mailbox. You did the graffiti. You took photos of me and my child. Who the fuck are you?’
At that moment, Cato came through the door, ready to kill.
The female uniform got in his way. ‘Everything’s under control, sir. We have him.’ She explained that they had received instructions to pick up Sharon and Ella and interrupted what seemed to be a home invasion.
‘Home invasion?’ said Nat, face squashed against the floorboards. ‘This is …’
‘This is going to take some explaining,’ said Sharon, gesturing for the knee hold to be eased. ‘So start now.’