could it be to set tongues wagging and see what happened? Who knew who, or what, might come scurrying out of the woodwork? Pam the All-Knowing All-Seeing All-Telling Receptionist was his best bet; he’d made a big show of being curt as he dropped his room key in on the way to breakfast. Clearly here was a man with a lot on his mind, a lot of secrets, and it had worked a treat. Pam hovered in her split role as receptionist and breakfast-server.
‘How are your inquiries progressing, Inspector?’
Cato appreciated the promotion. ‘Good, thanks.’
He’d laid on the absent-minded man-of-mystery thing with a trowel.
‘I hear there’s drugs involved. A syndicate.’ Pam enunciated each syllable of the last word in hushed breathless tones, relishing the ‘syn’ part.
Cato pretended to look alarmed that she knew so much. He glanced around the almost empty dining room and made a soothing, shushing movement with his hands.
Pam nodded knowingly. ‘Your colleague, will he be joining us for breakfast today?’
Cato made his expression unnaturally neutral. ‘Not sure, he’s making a few calls.’ He checked his watch. ‘Seven a.m. here.’
Cato looked like he was trying to calculate time zones. That was all Pam needed. It wasn’t just a drug syndicate; it was an International Drug Syndicate, and these weren’t just ordinary cops. She bustled away to get Cato his coffee. Cato smiled to himself, wondering how far it would spread around town by day’s end. The downside was that the rumour mill would probably also find its way back to the news media, something Hutchens specifically didn’t want right now. Cato was on a deadline; due to be shunted out by one of Hutchens’ puppets in a few days anyway, he figured the career-benefits of a quick result would hopefully outweigh Hutchens’ displeasure at his little game. He frowned. Quick results and little games, wasn’t that what got him into trouble in the first place?
A polite cough from Jim Buckley brought him back into the moment and back into the Murder Room. Cato noticed that Buckley still had a distracted look about him. Constable Greg Fisher reported on the trip to Mason and Starvation bays and the chat with Billy Mather, none of which had generated anything of real interest except for the tip about the grey nomads who’d passed through. When he got back to Hopetoun after the ruckus at the mine he’d spent the rest of the afternoon following up on said grey nomads. He struck lucky quickly. Security video footage from the Hopetoun general store fuel pumps showed a Britz van filling up the previous Saturday; that fitted Billy Mather’s time frame. Greg had noted the rego number and phoned the company.
‘That produced a hirer’s name and mobile contact: Mr Kevin Redmond from Newcastle, New South Wales, by this time plugged into a powered site in Esperance. Two hundred kilometres east along the coast,’ he added for the benefit of the city slickers.
Mr Redmond had sounded like a Pom. Greg Fisher observed that you couldn’t move for the bastards these days and Jim Buckley nodded sourly in agreement. Redmond confirmed that he and his wife had called through Starvation Bay last weekend and hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The other campervan had been hired by his wife’s sister and her husband, and Redmond doubted they’dnoticed anything either or it would have helped the flagging conversations in the evenings. Redmond had put his brother-in-law on the phone and he’d confirmed as much.
‘Except...’ teased Fisher.
‘Except what?’ said Cato impatiently.
‘On the first night, that’s last Thursday into Friday, he got up to take a piss. Prostate.’
‘Yes?’ Cato said.
‘At around 2.15a.m. – apparently he noticed the time on the microwave – he stepped outside to do the business and noticed some lights down near the boat ramp. Didn’t give it any further thought. Too busy trying to piss and get back to bed.’
Greg Fisher sat back
‘How are your inquiries progressing, Inspector?’
Cato appreciated the promotion. ‘Good, thanks.’
He’d laid on the absent-minded man-of-mystery thing with a trowel.
‘I hear there’s drugs involved. A syndicate.’ Pam enunciated each syllable of the last word in hushed breathless tones, relishing the ‘syn’ part.
Cato pretended to look alarmed that she knew so much. He glanced around the almost empty dining room and made a soothing, shushing movement with his hands.
Pam nodded knowingly. ‘Your colleague, will he be joining us for breakfast today?’
Cato made his expression unnaturally neutral. ‘Not sure, he’s making a few calls.’ He checked his watch. ‘Seven a.m. here.’
Cato looked like he was trying to calculate time zones. That was all Pam needed. It wasn’t just a drug syndicate; it was an International Drug Syndicate, and these weren’t just ordinary cops. She bustled away to get Cato his coffee. Cato smiled to himself, wondering how far it would spread around town by day’s end. The downside was that the rumour mill would probably also find its way back to the news media, something Hutchens specifically didn’t want right now. Cato was on a deadline; due to be shunted out by one of Hutchens’ puppets in a few days anyway, he figured the career-benefits of a quick result would hopefully outweigh Hutchens’ displeasure at his little game. He frowned. Quick results and little games, wasn’t that what got him into trouble in the first place?
A polite cough from Jim Buckley brought him back into the moment and back into the Murder Room. Cato noticed that Buckley still had a distracted look about him. Constable Greg Fisher reported on the trip to Mason and Starvation bays and the chat with Billy Mather, none of which had generated anything of real interest except for the tip about the grey nomads who’d passed through. When he got back to Hopetoun after the ruckus at the mine he’d spent the rest of the afternoon following up on said grey nomads. He struck lucky quickly. Security video footage from the Hopetoun general store fuel pumps showed a Britz van filling up the previous Saturday; that fitted Billy Mather’s time frame. Greg had noted the rego number and phoned the company.
‘That produced a hirer’s name and mobile contact: Mr Kevin Redmond from Newcastle, New South Wales, by this time plugged into a powered site in Esperance. Two hundred kilometres east along the coast,’ he added for the benefit of the city slickers.
Mr Redmond had sounded like a Pom. Greg Fisher observed that you couldn’t move for the bastards these days and Jim Buckley nodded sourly in agreement. Redmond confirmed that he and his wife had called through Starvation Bay last weekend and hadn’t noticed anything unusual. The other campervan had been hired by his wife’s sister and her husband, and Redmond doubted they’dnoticed anything either or it would have helped the flagging conversations in the evenings. Redmond had put his brother-in-law on the phone and he’d confirmed as much.
‘Except...’ teased Fisher.
‘Except what?’ said Cato impatiently.
‘On the first night, that’s last Thursday into Friday, he got up to take a piss. Prostate.’
‘Yes?’ Cato said.
‘At around 2.15a.m. – apparently he noticed the time on the microwave – he stepped outside to do the business and noticed some lights down near the boat ramp. Didn’t give it any further thought. Too busy trying to piss and get back to bed.’
Greg Fisher sat back
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