They were on the top floor of a short-stay apartment block overlooking the river at North Fremantle. Two uniforms posted outside the door and a vanload more in the car park downstairs. Sun setting through the railway bridge, massive dock cranes in silhouette. Ella was fractious and wouldn’t settle; Cato and Sharon were much the same.
‘How long do we have to do this for?’
Cato chucked a half-eaten slice of delivery pizza back onto the cardboard box. ‘Not long, I hope.’ But he didn’t have a clue and they both knew it.
Nat was just Nat. A cocky creep who kept himself in fairly constant casual painting jobs by doing the odd bit of graffiti, then dropping a business card in his victim’s mailbox, like a volunteer firefighter taking to arson to keep himself busy. The jury was out on whether Steve the Boss was in on the scam or not. In this case, though, Nat insisted, he hadn’t done this particular spray-painting, he’d just noticed it in passing and saw an opportunity. So what was he doing this time on Sharon’s doorstep? He had called round ostensibly to pick up an iPod he’d left behind but it was clear he’d also developed a fixation on Sharon and had fantasies that she might reciprocate. He had a fetish for what he described as ‘bored older housewives’ and claimed a fifty-fifty strike rate.
‘Ugh,’ said Sharon.
True, Nat shared the same gym-honed physique as Samuels but his was not the photo on the driver’s licence. Certain. Fact.
Meanwhile Samuels’ Filipino housemate Ferdinand Navarro had finally been located. He was alive and well. He’d been down south fishing with some compatriots, phone turned off. Detectives were now grilling him to find out as much as they could about David Samuels.
‘Nice guy,’ was the gist of it. ‘Funny. Good at sharing the bills.’
There’d been a brief flurry of excitement when they learned that Samuels and Norman Lip had been in contact in the last few hours operating from yet another in his supply of pay-as-you-go mobiles: a photo of the probable next victim, another poor homeless person with a bag over his head and the revelation that Norman Lip already knew the name of the killer.
Hi Dave, whats your point?
‘We ran a check,’ said Chris Thornton. ‘Somebody else looked him up on the vehicle rego database earlier today: a DC from Bunbury. Not the first time he’s done this kind of thing apparently. He’s getting a good talking to as we speak. Might need to show due cause why he shouldn’t be out on his arse.’
And an assignation had been arranged.
I want to confess … It’s all over … They will have me soon …
‘Norman has gone AWOL,’ confirmed DI Pavlou. ‘We kicked his door in but he’s off chasing his big scoop.’
It didn’t need to be said: Norman Lip was probably a dead man. Nobody seemed overly concerned at the prospect.
David Samuels, once again one step ahead, and playing with them. But who the hell was David Samuels and who was that doomed bloke with a bag over his head? Another photo had been sent to Lip from a different number. No message. It was a picture of a woman in a wheelchair, smiling up at the camera. Chris Thornton had done some homework: apparently it was Lip’s sister looking well and happy. Not apparently germane to the enquiry.
‘If all of this is about you, why does he have to hurt other people?’ Sharon detached Ella, asleep at last, from her nipple. ‘Not that I want him to cut to the chase or anything.’
‘Maybe they’re to keep his furnace burning.’
‘He’s building to his big finish and you’re it.’ She shuddered. ‘He knows you’re watching and listening and he’s laying out the trail.’ Sharon gave him a warning glare. ‘And don’t you even think about following it.’
‘No danger.’ Cato took another bite of cold pizza. His phone thrummed on the carpet. It was Jane, his ex.
‘Is Jake with you?’
Jane tutted. ‘He’s not answering his phone. He does this.’
‘Anything happened in particular?’ said Cato, feeling guilty for neglecting to call and discuss the school incident with her.
An almost audible bristling at the other end of the line. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary. He and Simon had words. It’s a weekly occurrence these days. Stormed out just before lunch.’
‘Did the school contact you?’
‘I had a letter about him not doing his homework and being a disruptive influence.’
‘Nothing about him being suspended? The fight?’
A sigh. ‘No.’
Obviously Jake hadn’t mentioned it either. Cato explained, apologising along the way for his own neglect. ‘I was going to call you, and him. Talk about everything that’s going on. Work out what’s for the best, for him. Us.’
‘I was wondering why he was back home so soon. No word from him, you, anyone.’
‘Been busy, it’s madness here. The enquiry. All that.’
‘Yeah,’ said Jane. She’d heard it all before, Cato’s lame excuses for lax fatherhood. ‘That might explain Jake’s brittleness the last twenty-four hours. He’s been a real pain lately. I just can’t get through.’
‘He’s probably gone to a mate’s for a big whinge and he’ll be back when he’s hungry.’
‘That’s the thing. His mates rang for him, wondered where he was.’
Cato checked the time. Jake had been off the radar for about six or seven hours and it wasn’t the first time he’d done this in his teenagerdom. Still a little early to be getting worried? ‘How about we give it another hour or two?’
‘Okay. You’re probably right.’ A pause, drawing perhaps on her reserves of grace and civility. ‘How’s the family?’
The other one, he thought. The one that’s not you, me and Jake. He wondered if that was also going through her mind. ‘Good. Sleep is a distant memory but I wouldn’t be dead for quids. How about the twins?’
‘Same. But double.’
‘Simon?’
‘Seems to have discovered his inner grumpy old man these last few months. Bit disappointing really.’
‘Chin up,’ said Cato, strangely cheered. ‘Let me know when Jake appears.’
He didn’t have to wait long. Jane phoned back half an hour later. ‘Got a text. He’s sleeping over at a mate’s, guy from the gym.’ She sounded relieved.
‘Great,’ said Cato. ‘We can all sleep easy, then.’
Norman had tried phoning Naomi — no answer. Then he’d phoned the care home.
‘Isn’t she with you?’ they said.
‘I wouldn’t be phoning you otherwise.’
‘David told us you were all catching up for dinner and he’d bring her back after that.’
David. The new volunteer carer. ‘Did you ever check David’s references, you fucking morons?’
He’d found a payphone at his local deli and dialled the most recent mobile number, the one that sent her photo — wearing the same shirt he’d seen her in this morning: I’m with Stupid. The pic had been taken by her new carer mate at River View.
‘Hi, Normie.’
‘How did you find her?’
‘You need to check your rear-view more often.’
‘You don’t need to threaten her. She’s not part of this. Please.’
Watch yourself with this, alright? Have you got an exit strategy?
‘Trust me. She’ll be fine as long as you do what you’re told.’