Read Prime Cut for Free Online

‘drowning’ and the probability that the so-called ‘shark attack’ was most likely post-mortem curiosity. In the meantime Hutchens had to be seen to be doing something just in case a grieving relative popped out of the woodwork. And now the pathologist was suggesting foul play. Hutchens punctuated his monologue with another expletive.
    One of his detective sergeants was due back on duty on Mondayfrom a family holiday in New Zealand but had phoned in saying he’d slipped on a glacier and snapped his ankle.
    ‘A fucking glacier. Prick.’
    The next one due back was a week later and she’d cleverly kept her phone turned off while she no doubt partied hard in Bali. Everybody else was too fucking busy. There was a stagnant, ill-tempered pause. Cato wanted a crack at this so he let the silence hang. And hang. And was rewarded with an exasperated grunt.
    ‘I hope I’m not going to regret this. Reckon you and Buckley can hold the fort for a week or so?’
    Cato made sure nobody was looking, punched the air and grinned. Hutchens sucked in a breath as if he’d seen the gesture down the phone.
    ‘Just look and act like real detectives but don’t actually try to find anything out. We don’t need it. Just walk the walk, okay? Then, a week Monday, walk away. I’ll have someone else down there by then.’
    ‘Won’t let you down, boss.’
    ‘Too right you won’t.’ Hutchens cleared his throat. ‘In effect you run it, Cato. Work out whatever you need to with Buckley to keep him sweet. Any journos come sniffing, send them my way or just tell them to fuck off. Mate, keep your nose clean on this. Don’t stuff up and I’ll owe you one. I might even bring you back in from the cold.’
    Cato didn’t intend to hold his breath on that.
    Hutchens made some scratching and rustling noises. ‘Give me the number of that boss of yours. What’s his name again?’
    ‘Saunders. Brett Saunders.’
    ‘Oh yeah, “Colonel” Saunders, Sheep-Shagging Squad. I hope he can spare two hotshots like you and Buckley.’
    So did Cato.
    Cato went back inside to get some breakfast. Miraculously two rooms had been free at the Fitzgerald River Motel, directly over the road from the police shipping container, now a de facto ‘Murder HQ’. It was a miracle because everywhere, including thecaravan park, had been full for the last two years. Life in a mining boomtown, apparently. Yet to Cato this place still seemed tiny, quiet and unspoilt. Mining boom to him conjured up the vivid red earth of the Pilbara and mile-long trains. If this was a boom then – first impressions anyway – it seemed to be a muted one.
    The two rooms had become available because, according to Pam the bustling receptionist who seemed to know everything and didn’t mind sharing it, the previous long-term resident, a middlelevel accountant at the mine, had just been sacked for downloading extreme porn. Pam’s lips pursed disapprovingly at that one. The second room had just come back into service after being trashed the previous month by a party of contractors ‘celebrating’ the end of their tour of duty. Either way it was a big relief to Cato. The idea of bunking in with Jim Buckley for the next week didn’t appeal. Pam’s eyes had widened when they presented their police ID and gave Albany CIB as the billing address.
    ‘That’ll be the body on the beach. They reckon he’d been involved in drugs.’
    ‘That right?’ said Cato.
    ‘Oh yes, since that mine opened the dealers have been targeting this place. Eastern States cartels out to make a killing. You mark my words.’ Pam gave a what’s-the-world-coming-to shake of the head and disappeared out back.
    Buckley was freshly showered and shaved and finishing off a big fry-up. Cato joined him at the cramped table overlooking Veal Street and Murder HQ. Buckley glanced up from the remnants of brekkie and mopped up some egg yolk with a corner of toast.
    ‘What did your mate Hutchens say then?’
    Cato thought he