Who knows what or who’s on his bucket list.’
Mickey hadn’t taken his eyes off Graham. ‘What are you offering?’
‘I’m not at liberty to offer anything Mickey, that would be unfair pressure or inducement, but circumstances and priorities change. It’s a very fluid situation.’
Mickey sat down again. ‘What do you want?’
Willagee must have been one of the suburbs the Boom forgot. Cato drove past houses scarred with graffiti, the rusted hulks of abandoned cars moored in litter-strewn driveways. He’d comealong North Lake Road past Moorhouse Street, once home to WA’s very own infamous husband and wife murder team. According to DS Meldrum, whose kids went to the local school, the address of Mr and Mrs Birnie’s house of horrors had become a tiebreaker question at community quiz nights.
To be fair, even Willagee was being kissed here and there by the side winds of prosperity. Some houses had been renovated, some driveways hosted the obligatory turbo ute or Prado. And given the proximity to Fremantle, it was only a matter of time before the real estate prospectors turned a sparkle in the seam into a fully-fledged gold rush. Until then, Cato would curb his enthusiasm.
The police database reckoned that Gordon Francis Wellard was Johnny-Few-Mates. His known associates could be counted on the fingers of a clumsy chef’s hand. Two were dead, from an overdose and car crash respectively, and another was in Karnet Prison Farm, no doubt abusing the chooks. That left an old girlfriend and meth partner, Karina Ford. Cato wondered if she’d changed her name by deed poll, some people were like that about their cars. Her driving licence record, suspended as it was, gave an address in Greig Street, Willagee.
Cato pulled up outside the house where Ms Ford lived. It looked respectable enough, the grass was mown and the windows were intact. Willagee was like that: your neighbours could be honest aspirant battlers on one side and drug-fucked dropkicks on the other, with serial killers over the road.
A heavily pregnant teenager left the house pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler. Her rat-tailed boyfriend was doing his best to wake the kid up by constantly bouncing his basketball. He was twitchy and hyper and possibly on something.
‘Fuck you looking at?’ they both said to Cato in passing.
He ignored them and knocked on the locked security screen.
‘Don’t need any,’ said the smoky voice from inside.
‘Not selling any,’ said Cato flashing his ID. ‘Police.’
‘Done nuthin’,’ said Karina from the forbidden gloom.
‘Good,’ said Cato. ‘Open up and talk to me or I’ll stand here all day looking Chinese.’
‘I’m not prejudiced, I’ll ignore any bastard.’
Sometimes Cato missed Hopetoun, the pleasant everyday exchanges of simple country folk. ‘Karina, you heard from Gordon Wellard lately?’
The screen door unlatched and Karina blinked at the daylight. She was wearing tight denim shorts and a singlet that might have looked good on her twenty years ago. ‘Why?’ she said through a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She walked back inside and Cato joined her in the fug of cigarettes, old mull, and something chemical. Jerry Springer was on TV: two reasonably presentable middle-aged women were locked in mortal combat over the affections of an obese smirking twenty-year old in a turned-back baseball cap. Karina muted them. ‘Freaks.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cato. He nodded his head back in the direction of the departing teenage parents. ‘Yours?’
‘She is, he isn’t. What’s it to you?’
‘Just being chatty. Going to be a nanna again soon then?’
‘Yeah. Can’t wait. Waddyawant?’
‘Do you hear much from Wellard these days?’
‘Why would I? He’s locked away. Good riddance.’
‘Not friends any more then?’
‘I was his last shag before he got arrested. We made soulful love and did drugs for three weeks. No big
Mickey hadn’t taken his eyes off Graham. ‘What are you offering?’
‘I’m not at liberty to offer anything Mickey, that would be unfair pressure or inducement, but circumstances and priorities change. It’s a very fluid situation.’
Mickey sat down again. ‘What do you want?’
Willagee must have been one of the suburbs the Boom forgot. Cato drove past houses scarred with graffiti, the rusted hulks of abandoned cars moored in litter-strewn driveways. He’d comealong North Lake Road past Moorhouse Street, once home to WA’s very own infamous husband and wife murder team. According to DS Meldrum, whose kids went to the local school, the address of Mr and Mrs Birnie’s house of horrors had become a tiebreaker question at community quiz nights.
To be fair, even Willagee was being kissed here and there by the side winds of prosperity. Some houses had been renovated, some driveways hosted the obligatory turbo ute or Prado. And given the proximity to Fremantle, it was only a matter of time before the real estate prospectors turned a sparkle in the seam into a fully-fledged gold rush. Until then, Cato would curb his enthusiasm.
The police database reckoned that Gordon Francis Wellard was Johnny-Few-Mates. His known associates could be counted on the fingers of a clumsy chef’s hand. Two were dead, from an overdose and car crash respectively, and another was in Karnet Prison Farm, no doubt abusing the chooks. That left an old girlfriend and meth partner, Karina Ford. Cato wondered if she’d changed her name by deed poll, some people were like that about their cars. Her driving licence record, suspended as it was, gave an address in Greig Street, Willagee.
Cato pulled up outside the house where Ms Ford lived. It looked respectable enough, the grass was mown and the windows were intact. Willagee was like that: your neighbours could be honest aspirant battlers on one side and drug-fucked dropkicks on the other, with serial killers over the road.
A heavily pregnant teenager left the house pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler. Her rat-tailed boyfriend was doing his best to wake the kid up by constantly bouncing his basketball. He was twitchy and hyper and possibly on something.
‘Fuck you looking at?’ they both said to Cato in passing.
He ignored them and knocked on the locked security screen.
‘Don’t need any,’ said the smoky voice from inside.
‘Not selling any,’ said Cato flashing his ID. ‘Police.’
‘Done nuthin’,’ said Karina from the forbidden gloom.
‘Good,’ said Cato. ‘Open up and talk to me or I’ll stand here all day looking Chinese.’
‘I’m not prejudiced, I’ll ignore any bastard.’
Sometimes Cato missed Hopetoun, the pleasant everyday exchanges of simple country folk. ‘Karina, you heard from Gordon Wellard lately?’
The screen door unlatched and Karina blinked at the daylight. She was wearing tight denim shorts and a singlet that might have looked good on her twenty years ago. ‘Why?’ she said through a curl of cigarette smoke.
‘Let me in and I’ll tell you.’
‘Suit yourself.’ She walked back inside and Cato joined her in the fug of cigarettes, old mull, and something chemical. Jerry Springer was on TV: two reasonably presentable middle-aged women were locked in mortal combat over the affections of an obese smirking twenty-year old in a turned-back baseball cap. Karina muted them. ‘Freaks.’
‘Thanks,’ said Cato. He nodded his head back in the direction of the departing teenage parents. ‘Yours?’
‘She is, he isn’t. What’s it to you?’
‘Just being chatty. Going to be a nanna again soon then?’
‘Yeah. Can’t wait. Waddyawant?’
‘Do you hear much from Wellard these days?’
‘Why would I? He’s locked away. Good riddance.’
‘Not friends any more then?’
‘I was his last shag before he got arrested. We made soulful love and did drugs for three weeks. No big
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