at work and be firm with his boss, his colleagues, and particularly himself about keeping to the arrangement. This was the new Cato: promises made were promises kept. Family first, work second. Got it? The best way to keep things simple for the next few hours was to nod and smile and say yes to whatever Hutchens wanted, within reason. Cato swilled the remains of his coffee and headed for the door.
At the police station he nodded good morning to Lara Sumich and Colin Graham, hunched together in a low murmur. DI Hutchens was in his office on the phone. Around the cop shop there was always an air of anticipation on Australia Day: a semi-war footing in anticipation of a busy night locking up drongos. Cato logged on to see what was new. There was nothing on the forensics on Shellie’s pendant and package: it wouldn’t be high on their priority list. Through the partition window, Cato could see Hutchens pacingback and forth, deep in thought. That usually didn’t bode well. Cato tried his best not to catch Hutchens’ eye.
‘Detective Senior Constable Kwong.’
Too late. ‘Boss?’
‘In here.’
Cato wandered in and put on his helpful and obedient face.
Hutchens waved in the general direction of his phone and computer. ‘Another night of stabbings, glassings, and general mayhem. What’s happening with Safer Streets?’
‘I’m onto it, boss. Just collating some local intelligence stats with a view to having a comprehensive status update ready for the first meeting.’
Hutchens seemed taken aback. ‘Good man.’ He reminded Cato of an old half-blind dog that knows you’ve got a ball behind your back. A bit weary, suspicious, yet interested in possible developments. ‘Any forensics on Shellie’s mystery package?’
‘Nothing yet but I’m chasing it. Anything else?’
‘No, but we should have a look at Wellard’s known associates. See who the postman could be.’
‘I’ll get onto it, boss.’
‘You feeling okay? Not crook or anything?’
‘Never better.’
‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know.’
‘Sir?’
‘All this polite, helpful, obedience shit.’
‘Right, boss.’
Cato retreated. Hutchens had obviously given up on chasing the ball, decided to nip an ankle instead.
‘How’s your ankle, Mickey?’ said Lara.
‘Gofuckyerself,’ said Mickey.
‘That’s not very nice, I only asked.’
Mickey Nguyen had a legal aid lawyer, not the smart expensive young man his boss used. The lawyer’s name was Rebecca, she had lots of blonde frizzy hair and tired eyes. ‘Is Mr Nguyen going to be charged with anything, Detective Sumich?’
‘At this stage he’s assisting us with our inquiries.’
‘You brought in the TRG, handcuffed him, assaulted him,’ a frown in Lara’s direction, ‘held him overnight, and he was only “assisting you with inquiries”? What do you do to people you really don’t like?’
‘Sorry,’ said Lara. ‘I didn’t see his foot. Just stumbled, you know?’
‘So he is free to leave at any time?’
‘Of course.’
Mickey started limping towards the door.
‘How’s your old man?’ said DS Colin Graham.
Mickey turned. ‘Fuck you, too.’
Graham opened a file in front of him. ‘Your dad’s very sick but he’s not due for release for eighteen months.’
‘Is there a point to this, Detective?’ said Rebecca. ‘If not then it appears my client would like to go home.’
‘Cancer isn’t it? Days are numbered I hear. Your mum must be heartbroken, Mickey.’
‘Detective?’ An icy warning from the lawyer.
‘If I had my way he’d be released on humanitarian grounds,’ said Graham.
‘This could be viewed as unfair pressure or inducement.’ Rebecca tapped her pen lightly on her legal pad. ‘If the situation is as you describe, then Mr Nguyen’s father is likely to be released on humanitarian grounds anyway.’
Graham shook his head. ‘Minister’s discretion. Organised Crime’s advice has been that he is a serious risk to public safety.
At the police station he nodded good morning to Lara Sumich and Colin Graham, hunched together in a low murmur. DI Hutchens was in his office on the phone. Around the cop shop there was always an air of anticipation on Australia Day: a semi-war footing in anticipation of a busy night locking up drongos. Cato logged on to see what was new. There was nothing on the forensics on Shellie’s pendant and package: it wouldn’t be high on their priority list. Through the partition window, Cato could see Hutchens pacingback and forth, deep in thought. That usually didn’t bode well. Cato tried his best not to catch Hutchens’ eye.
‘Detective Senior Constable Kwong.’
Too late. ‘Boss?’
‘In here.’
Cato wandered in and put on his helpful and obedient face.
Hutchens waved in the general direction of his phone and computer. ‘Another night of stabbings, glassings, and general mayhem. What’s happening with Safer Streets?’
‘I’m onto it, boss. Just collating some local intelligence stats with a view to having a comprehensive status update ready for the first meeting.’
Hutchens seemed taken aback. ‘Good man.’ He reminded Cato of an old half-blind dog that knows you’ve got a ball behind your back. A bit weary, suspicious, yet interested in possible developments. ‘Any forensics on Shellie’s mystery package?’
‘Nothing yet but I’m chasing it. Anything else?’
‘No, but we should have a look at Wellard’s known associates. See who the postman could be.’
‘I’ll get onto it, boss.’
‘You feeling okay? Not crook or anything?’
‘Never better.’
‘You’re not fooling anyone, you know.’
‘Sir?’
‘All this polite, helpful, obedience shit.’
‘Right, boss.’
Cato retreated. Hutchens had obviously given up on chasing the ball, decided to nip an ankle instead.
‘How’s your ankle, Mickey?’ said Lara.
‘Gofuckyerself,’ said Mickey.
‘That’s not very nice, I only asked.’
Mickey Nguyen had a legal aid lawyer, not the smart expensive young man his boss used. The lawyer’s name was Rebecca, she had lots of blonde frizzy hair and tired eyes. ‘Is Mr Nguyen going to be charged with anything, Detective Sumich?’
‘At this stage he’s assisting us with our inquiries.’
‘You brought in the TRG, handcuffed him, assaulted him,’ a frown in Lara’s direction, ‘held him overnight, and he was only “assisting you with inquiries”? What do you do to people you really don’t like?’
‘Sorry,’ said Lara. ‘I didn’t see his foot. Just stumbled, you know?’
‘So he is free to leave at any time?’
‘Of course.’
Mickey started limping towards the door.
‘How’s your old man?’ said DS Colin Graham.
Mickey turned. ‘Fuck you, too.’
Graham opened a file in front of him. ‘Your dad’s very sick but he’s not due for release for eighteen months.’
‘Is there a point to this, Detective?’ said Rebecca. ‘If not then it appears my client would like to go home.’
‘Cancer isn’t it? Days are numbered I hear. Your mum must be heartbroken, Mickey.’
‘Detective?’ An icy warning from the lawyer.
‘If I had my way he’d be released on humanitarian grounds,’ said Graham.
‘This could be viewed as unfair pressure or inducement.’ Rebecca tapped her pen lightly on her legal pad. ‘If the situation is as you describe, then Mr Nguyen’s father is likely to be released on humanitarian grounds anyway.’
Graham shook his head. ‘Minister’s discretion. Organised Crime’s advice has been that he is a serious risk to public safety.
Similar Books
