Bad Seed (50 page)

‘No. Thank you.'

‘Fair enough.'

‘We know about the Strickland boy,' said Feng.

Here it comes. ‘Excuse me?' he said, cupping his hand to his ear.

‘The boy. The farmer boy.'

O'Neill shook his head in exasperation and smiled apologetically, an old man, going deaf. ‘This place is too noisy. Let's step outside, continue the conversation there.'

Feng studied the rain through the windows, shrugged and followed O'Neill. Outside O'Neill took a small canvas drawstring bag out of his briefcase and shook free a waterproof jacket, the one he used on his Bibbulmun walks. He zipped it up and raised the hood. They both took the opportunity to have a cigarette. O'Neill leaned in, seeking a light from Feng. ‘Too windy, son. Just over here, there's a bit more shelter.'

They shuffled a few steps into shelter, out of the wind and rain, and out of view of the pub revellers. They bent once again to light the cigarettes. O'Neill drove the knife into Feng's heart then out again and across his throat. Let him slip to the ground, gurgling. He took hold of his ankles and dragged him under some bushes. In this weather the body wouldn't be found until the morning. He took the Chinaman's wallet and phone. Scrolled through the contacts list and sent a text to Peter Tien as he walked to his car.

He says no

A reply came straight back.

30, final

O'Neill sent one more so there'd be no further misunderstanding.

He says 50, final

Then he took the battery and SIM card out, stamped on the phone a few times and dropped the bits and pieces into bins and drains along the way home. Under a streaming downpipe he rinsed
Feng's blood from the waterproof jacket and shoved it into a rubbish bin a few kilometres along Canning Highway. He'd noticed a name in Feng's address list that gave him cause for concern.

Philip Kwong.

So the invitation for a chat in the morning was no coincidence.

Deb Hassan called him out of bed just after 6 a.m.

‘Body in Princess May Park near Clancy's. Stabbing.'

Cato was there by 6.30. The perimeter tape and tent was up and Duncan Goldflam's crew were sifting and filming. It was light but the sun was yet to make its appearance. Either way the forensics crew had erected their own bright daylight over the scene.

‘Any ID or description for me?' he asked Hassan.

‘Male, Chinese, thirties. Medium build.'

Cato was getting a bad feeling. ‘Who found him?'

‘Some woman, a cleaner working at the offices over the road. She parks up behind the Film and TV Institute next door. That's her over there.'

Cato looked at the woman, an African, talking to Chris Thornton.

‘Let's see the body,' he said.

It was Feng.

‘Somebody made a real mess of him,' said Duncan Goldflam. He wasn't wrong. From the neck down Feng was drenched in dark blood. ‘No ID.'

‘His name is Feng,' said Cato. ‘Chinese national. Staying with two associates at the Duxton.' Cato scrolled through his phone. ‘Here's a contact number.'

‘Friend of yours?' asked Goldflam.

‘No.'

He left them to it and wandered over to Thornton. ‘Did you book Des O'Neill in for a chat today?'

‘Nine thirty at the office.'

‘Thanks.'

Cato handed Des O'Neill a coffee and took a seat opposite.

‘How you been then?'

‘Busy,' said Cato. ‘You?'

‘Flat chat.' O'Neill sipped his coffee, a cappuccino from over the road. ‘Nice.' He smacked his lips appreciatively. ‘You wanted a word?'

‘Yeah, thanks for dropping in. I did have a few loose ends to clear up but then something else cropped up overnight.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. Did you hear about the body in the park beside Clancy's?'

‘It was on the radio when I was driving in.'

‘You might know the bloke. A Chinese national named Feng.'

‘Christ, really?' A shocked shake of the head. ‘What happened?'

‘Stabbed.'

‘Jesus.'

‘So you do know him?'

‘Yes, well not really. I had a meeting with him in Clancy's last night. Some business. When I left him he was in fine form.'

Cato interrupted to do the caution and check it was okay to record from here on in. No problem according to O'Neill. Legal advice? Nah, what for? Cato invited Chris Thornton in to join them. Sure, that's cool. How did you know I was acquainted with Feng? I'm a detective, said Cato.

He pressed on. ‘What time was it when you left him?'

‘Eight-ish? It was pissing down.'

‘Did you see anyone hanging around? Anything suspicious?'

‘Not really. Couple of homeless blokes taking shelter in the Point Street Car Park. Poor bastards.' A pause. ‘Shit, you don't think it might have been them, do you?'

‘Describe them,' said Cato.

O'Neill did. One was young, skinny, and Aboriginal. The other was a bit older but otherwise the same.

They went through the story. The meeting with Feng was to
discuss a proposition for a business venture in China but O'Neill wasn't interested in the deal being offered. They stepped outside for a smoke, said their goodbyes and O'Neill went home. It was a wet, slow drive up to Glen Forrest in the Hills but he must have got there by about 9 to 9.30-ish. Joyce was waiting up for him, had some dinner in the oven bless her. Roast chook.

They'd check pub and car park CCTV, traffic cameras along the way, talk to patrons. O'Neill probably knew that and knew they'd back up his story. The best lies contain elements of truth. They'd need the clothes he was wearing last night for forensic testing.

‘You think it was me?'

‘We can't rule you out.'

‘Fair enough.' He'd give Joyce a call and let her know to expect a visit?

No need. They'd all go up there together later.

‘So,' said Cato. ‘Moving right along. Benjamin Strickland. You know him?'

O'Neill's face went all sad. ‘Poor little bugger. Very tragic life.'

‘Tell me about it.'

O'Neill did. The Stricklands were old family friends. He'd gone to boarding school in Perth with Charlie Strickland, been best man at his wedding, and godfather to Benji. It had been a tragedy watching the family farm go into a downward spiral, taking Charlie with it. The man had low resilience and the Black Dog had descended. Des's only regret was that he hadn't stepped in earlier to help. After the tragedy that left Benji orphaned, Des had persuaded Francis Tan and his Chinese backers to buy the place out and the balance, once debts had been repaid, went into Benji's trust fund. Around a million, all told.

‘A guardian angel,' said Cato.

‘Francis was the main mover. He talked up the property to his mainland backers, way up, and even dug into the Tan family savings, mortgaged his place in Bicton, moved into that box in Port Coogee. I told him it wasn't necessary but the man wouldn't listen. Heart of gold, brain of mud.'

‘How do you mean?'

‘Charity begins at home. Get that wrong and you're up shit creek.'

‘The family were unhappy?'

‘Understatement of the year. Matt left home not long after, the girl Emily went off the rails, and the missus started lookin' elsewhere.'

‘How do you know this?'

‘Friend and confidante. Francis had a tendency to over-share after a good bottle of red.'

Cato stored that away. ‘And you were the executor of the boy's trust fund?'

‘Yes.'

‘And then the boy himself died a year or so later. Hit and run.'

‘Eighteen months. Yes. Shit, you learn to count your blessings, don't you?'

‘What happened to the trust fund?'

‘It covered funeral expenses and the remainder was handed over to the boy's auntie who'd been looking after him.'

‘Are the accounts available?'

‘Sure. Why?'

‘Loose ends.'

‘That it, then? Want to go and pick up those clothes?'

‘Why not?' smiled Cato. ‘Oh, one thing. How much did Francis talk the Strickland property up to? How far over its value?'

‘A couple of mill?'

‘And what did his backers say when they found out he'd been bullshitting?'

‘Who knows?' O'Neill shook his head. ‘Not best pleased I would have thought.'

‘Do you know who the backers were?'

‘No, he played his cards pretty close to his chest on that one.'

‘Thomas Li?'

‘Probably. Among others.'

O'Neill's clothes were ready for collection, freshly laundered, ironed, and folded by Joyce. Duncan Goldflam accepted them with a grim smile but took the washing machine draining filter with him too.

O'Neill gave them a copy of the Strickland trust fund accounts on a thumb drive. He was the very soul of cooperation and, with nothing concrete to link him to any wrongdoing, he was free to go about his business.

He and Joyce waved Cato and his team off the pretty Glen Forrest property, arms around each other's waists. In the bushes a willy-wagtail chittered merrily.

‘What do you reckon, sarge?' said Thornton eyeing them in the rear view as he bumped down the gravel driveway.

‘I reckon you've got a whole lot of CCTV to be checking this arvo.'

‘Lovely.'

Cato's phone buzzed. Driscoll.

‘Feng. Didn't see that one coming did we?'

‘Have you talked to Phoebe and Peter yet?'

‘Yeah, they're a bit upset. They aim to hop on this arvo's plane.'

‘That might be a bit difficult. We'll need to talk to them about Feng.'

‘That might be even more difficult. They're having morning tea at the Chinese consulate. I suspect they'll be staying put until the plane leaves.'

‘Can they do that?'

‘I think you'll find there's not much you can do about it. They think they're under the care and protection of the diplomats. In fact there'll be a white van waiting for them on the tarmac at Pudong and it's bye-bye happiness.'

‘And you?'

‘Job done. See you around.'

And he was gone. ‘Who was that masked man?' murmured Cato.

‘What?' said Thornton.

‘Nothing.'

They spent the afternoon rounding up witnesses, mainly fellow patrons and pub staff, and checking CCTV and traffic cameras. O'Neill's story so far checked out: there'd been a reasonably amicable meeting between him and the Chinaman, stepping outside for a
smoke, a parting of ways. The witnesses and pub cameras didn't contradict that, and nor did the car park and street traffic cameras contradict O'Neill's homeward trajectory in his white Toyota Corolla during the time frame he'd offered. There was, however, no sign of any vagrants taking shelter from the rain in the Point Street Car Park. Forensic tests on O'Neill's clothing and shoes would take longer to process and nothing was expected before next week. A cursory glance at the trust fund accounts suggested nothing untoward. Late afternoon, Feng's empty wallet was found in a rubbish bin about two hundred metres from the crime scene. Could it have just been a robbery gone way too far? Attacks and robberies on foreigners were statistically on the increase and the xenophobic election climate wasn't helping.