The Broken Shore

by Peter Temple

  Praise for

  THE BROKEN SHORE

  “If you read only one crime novel this year, read The Broken Shore…. This book is the best yet from a writer who has already won a well- deserved reputation as one of [Australia’s] finest crime writers.”

  —The Age (Melbourne)

  “A towering achievement that brings alive a ferocious landscape and a motley assortment of clashing characters. The sense of place is stifling in its intensity, and seldom has a waltz of the damned proven so hypnotic. Indispensable.”

  —The Guardian (UK)

  “The Broken Shore is superb, full of great characters, and set in rural Australia, a place Temple obviously loves.”

  —The Globe and Mail

  “Slotting The Broken Shore into genre fiction does it a disservice. This book is an excellent novel that happens to be about crime. But it’s also about human nature from the best to the worst, and it’s written with clarity, brute elegance and sophisticated sensitivity.”

  —Edmonton Journal

  “Along with giving us mournful scenes of civilization’s slow encroachment on an idyllic countryside, Temple offers some provocative and painful views of Australia’s inner landscape.”

  —The New York Times

  “Deliciously brutal and spare, full of unambiguous violence, prejudice and hatred one moment, and cavernous instances of insight and revelation the next.”

  —Courier-Mail (Australia)

  To Anita: for the

  laughter and the loyalty.

  CASHIN WALKED around the hill, into the wind from the sea. It was cold, late autumn, last glowing leaves clinging to the liquidambars and maples his great-grandfather’s brother had planted, their surrender close. He loved this time, the morning stillness, loved it more than spring.

  The dogs were tiring now but still hunting the ground, noses down, taking more time to sniff, less hopeful. Then one picked up a scent and, new life in their legs, they loped in file for the trees, vanished.

  When he was near the house, the dogs, black as liquorice, came out of the trees, stopped, heads up, looked around as if seeing the land for the first time. Explorers. They turned their gaze on him for a while, started down the slope.

  He walked the last stretch as briskly as he could and, as he put his hand out to the gate, they reached him. Their curly black heads tried to nudge him aside, insisting on entering first, strong back legs pushing. He unlatched the gate, they pushed it open enough to slip in, nose to tail, trotted down the path to the shed door. Both wanted to be first again, stood with tails up, furry scimitars, noses touching at the door jamb.

  Inside, the big poodles led him to the kitchen. They had water bowls there and they stuck their noses into them and drank in a noisy way. Cashin prepared their meal: two slices each from the cannon-barrel dog sausage made by the butcher in Kenmare, three handfuls each of dry dog food. He got the dogs’ attention, took the bowls outside, placed them a metre apart.

  The dogs came out. He told them to sit. Stomachs full of water, they did so slowly and with disdain, appeared to be arthritic. Given permission to eat, they looked at the food without interest, looked at each other, at him. Why have we been brought here to see this inedible stuff?

  Cashin went inside. In his hip pocket, the mobile rang.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Joe?’

  Kendall Rogers, from the station.

  ‘Had a call from a lady,’ she said. ‘Near Beckett. A Mrs Haig. She reckons there’s someone in her shed.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Well, nothing. Her dog’s barking. I’ll sort it out.’

  Cashin felt his stubble. ‘What’s the address?’

  ‘I’m going.’

  ‘No point. Not far out of my way. Address?’

  He went to the kitchen table and wrote on the pad: date, time, incident, address. ‘Tell her fifteen-twenty. Give her my number if anything happens before I get there.’

  The dogs liked his urgency, rushed around, made for the vehicle when he left the building. On the way, they stood on station, noses out the back windows. Cashin parked a hundred metres down the lane from the farmhouse gate. A head came around the hedge as he approached.

  ‘Cop?’ she said. She had dirty grey hair around a face cut from a hard wood with a blunt tool.

  Cashin nodded.

  ‘The uniform and that?’

  ‘Plainclothes,’ he said. He produced the Victoria Police badge with the emblem that looked like a fox. She took off her smudged glasses to study it.

  ‘Them police dogs?’ she said.

  He looked back. Two woolly black heads in the same window.

  ‘They work with the police,’ he said. ‘Where’s this person?’

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Dog’s inside, mad as a pork chop, the little bugger.’

  ‘Jack Russell,’ said Cashin.

  ‘How’d ya know that?’

  ‘Just a guess.’

  They went around the house. He felt the fear rising in him like nausea.

  ‘In there,’ she said.

  The shed was a long way from the house, you had to cross an expanse of overgrown garden, go through an opening in a fence lost beneath rampant potato-creeper. They walked to the gate. Beyond was knee-high grass, pieces of rusted metal sticking out.

  ‘What’s inside?’ Cashin said, looking at a rusted shed of corrugated iron a few metres from the road, a door half open. He felt sweat around his collarbones. He wished he’d let Kendall do this.

  Mrs Haig touched her chin, black spikes like a worn-down hair brush. ‘Stuff,’ she said. Junk. The old truck. Haven’t bin in there for years. Don’t go in there.’

  ‘Let the dog out,’ he said.

  Her head jerked, alarmed. ‘Bastard might hurt im,’ she said.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘What’s the dog’s name?’

  ‘Monty, call them all Monty, after Lord Monty of Alamein. Too young, you wouldn’t know.’

  ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘Let Monty out.’

  ‘And them police dogs? What bloody use are they?’

  ‘Kept for life-and-death matters,’ Cashin said, controlling his voice. ‘I’ll be at the door, then you let Lord Monty out.’

  His mouth was dry, his scalp itched, these things would not have happened before Rai Sarris. He crossed the grassland, went to the left of the door. You learned early to keep your distance from potentially dangerous people and that included not going into dark sheds to meet them.

  Mrs Haig was at the potato-creeper hedge. He gave her the thumbs up, his heart thumping.

  The small dog came bounding through the grass, all tight muscles and yap, went for the shed, braked, stuck its head in the door and snarled, small body rigid with excitement.

  Cashin thumped on the corrugated iron wall with his left hand. ‘Police,’ he said loudly, glad to be doing something. ‘Get out of there. Now!’

  Not a long wait.

  The dog backed off, shrieking, hysterical, mostly airborne.

  A man appeared in the doorway, hesitated, came out carrying a canvas swag. He ignored the dog.

  ‘On my way,’ he said. ‘Just had a sleep.’ He was in his fifties perhaps, short grey hair, big shoulders, a day’s beard.

  ‘Call the dog, Mrs Haig,’ Cashin said over his shoulder.

  The woman shouted and the dog withdrew, reluctant but obedient.

  ‘Trespassing on private property,’ said Cashin, calmer. He felt no threat from the man.

  ‘Yeah, well, just had a sleep.’

  ‘Put the swag down,’ Cashin said. ‘Take off your coat.’

  ‘Says who?’

  ‘I’m a cop.’ He showed the fox.

  The man folded his bluey, put it down on his swag, at his feet. He
wore laced boots, never seen polish, toes dented.

  ‘How’d you get here?’ Cashin said.

  ‘Walking. Lifts.’

  ‘From where?’

  ‘New South.’

  ‘New South Wales?

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Long way to come.’

  ‘A way.’

  ‘Going where?’

  ‘Just going. My own business where I go.’

  ‘Free country. Got some ID? Driver’s licence, Medicare card.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No ID?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Don’t make it hard,’ Cashin said. ‘I haven’t had breakfast. No ID, I take you in for fingerprinting, charge you with trespass, put you in the cells. Could be a while before you see daylight.’

  The man bent, found a wallet in his coat, took out a folded sheet of paper, offered it.

  ‘Put it in the pocket and chuck the coat over.’

  It landed a metre away.

  ‘Back off a bit,’ Cashin said. He collected the coat, felt it. Nothing. He took out the piece of paper, often folded, worn. He opened it.

  Dave Rebb has worked on Boorindi Downs for three years and is a hard worker and no trouble, his good with engines, most mechanic things. Also stock. I would employ him again any time.

  It was signed Colin Blandy, manager, and dated 11 August 1996. There was a telephone number.

  ‘Where’s this place?’ said Cashin.

  ‘Queensland. Near Winton.’

  ‘And this is it? This’s your ID? Ten years old?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Cashin found his notebook and wrote down the names and the number, put the paper back in the coat. ‘Scared the lady here,’ he said. ‘That’s not good.’

  ‘No sign of life when I come,’ said the man. ‘Dog didn’t bark.’

  ‘Been in trouble with the police, Dave?’

  ‘No. Never been in trouble.’

  ‘Could be a murderer,’ said Mrs Haig behind him. ‘Killer. Dangerous killer.’

  ‘Me, Mrs Haig,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m the policeman, I’m dealing with this. Dave, I’m going to drive you to the main road. Come back this way, you’ll be in serious trouble. Okay?’

  ‘Okay.’

  Cashin took the two steps and gave the man back his coat. ‘Let’s go.’

  ‘Charge him!’ shouted Mrs Haig.

  In the vehicle, Dave Rebb offered his hands to the dogs, he was a man who knew about dogs. At the T-junction, Cashin pulled over.

  ‘Which way you going?’ he said.

  There was a moment. ‘Cromarty.’

  ‘Drop you at Port Monro,’ Cashin said. He turned left. At the turnoff to the town, he stopped. They got out and he opened the back for the man’s swag.

  ‘Mind how you go now,’ Cashin said. ‘Need a buck or two?’

  ‘No,’ said Rebb. ‘Treated me like a human. Not a lot of that.’

  Waiting to turn, Cashin watched Rebb go, swag horizontal across his back, sticking out. In the morning mist, he was a stubby-armed cross walking.

  ‘NO DRAMA?’ said Kendall Rogers.

  ‘Just a swaggie,’ said Cashin. ‘You doing unpaid time now?’

  ‘I woke up early. It’s warmer here, anyway.’ She fiddled with something on the counter.

  Cashin raised the hatch and went to his desk, started on the incident report.

  ‘I’m thinking of applying for a transfer,’ she said.

  ‘I can do something about my personal hygiene,’ Cashin said. ‘I can change.’

  ‘I don’t need protecting,’ she said. ‘I’m not a rookie.’

  Cashin looked up. He’d been expecting this. ‘I’m not protecting you from anything. I wouldn’t protect anybody. You can die for me anytime.’

  A silence.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Kendall said. ‘There are things here to be resolved. Like the pub business. You drive back at ten o’clock at night.’

  ‘The Caine animals won’t touch me. I’m not going to go to an inquiry and explain why I let you handle it.’

  ‘Why won’t they touch you?’

  ‘Because my cousins will kill them. And after that, they’ll be very nasty to them. Is that a satisfactory answer, your honour?’ He went back to the report but he felt her eyes. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m going to Cindy’s. Ham and egg?’

  ‘I’ll let you face the savage bitch? On a Friday morning? I’ll go.’

  She laughed, some of the tension gone.

  When she was at the door, Cashin said, ‘Ken, bit more mustard this time? Brave enough to ask her?’

  He went to the window and watched her go down the street. She had been a gymnast, represented the state at sixteen, won her first gold medal. You would not know it from her walk. In the city, off duty, she went to a club with a friend, a photographer. She was recognised by a youth she had arrested a few months before, an apprentice motor mechanic, a weekend raver, a kicker and a stomper. They were followed, the photographer was badly beaten, locked in his car boot, survived by luck.

  Kendall was taken somewhere, treated like a sex doll. After dawn, a man and his dog found her. She had a broken pelvis, a broken arm, six broken ribs, a punctured lung, damaged spleen, pancreas, crushed nose, one cheekbone stove in, five teeth broken, a dislocated shoulder, massive bruising everywhere.

  Cashin returned to the paper work. You could get by without identification but Rebb had been employed, there might be some tax record. He dialled the number for Boorindi Downs. It rang for a while.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Victoria Police, Detective Cashin, Port Monro. Need to know about someone worked on Boorindi Downs.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Dave Rebb.’

  ‘When’s that?’

  ‘1994 to 1996.’

  ‘No, mate, no one here from then. Place belongs to someone else now, they did a clear-out.’

  ‘What about Colin Blandy?’

  ‘Blands, oh yeah. I know him from before, he got the bullet from the Greeks, went to Queensland. Dead, though.’

  ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Cashin thought that he had made a mistake, he should have fingerprinted Rebb. He had cause to, he had allowed sympathy to dictate.

  Could be a murderer, said Mrs Haig. Killer.

  He rang Cromarty, asked for the criminal investigation man he knew.

  ‘Got a feeling, have you?’ said Dewes. ‘I’ll tell them to keep a lookout.’

  Cashin sat, hands on the desk. He had threatened Rebb with this, the fingerprinting, the long wait in the cells.

  ‘Sandwich,’ said Kendall. ‘Extra mustard. She put it on with a trowel.’

  An ordinary shift went by. Near the end, the word came that the first electronic sweep found no David Rebb on any government database in the states and territories. It didn’t mean much. Cashin knew of cases where searches had failed to find people with strings of convictions. He clocked off, drove out to the highway, turned for Cromarty.

  Rebb had walked twenty-three kilometres. Cashin pulled in a good way in front of him, got out.

  He came on, a man who walked, easy walk, stopped, a tilt of shoulders, the tilted cross.

  ‘Dave, I’ve got to fingerprint you,’ Cashin said.

  ‘Told you. Done nothing.’

  ‘Can’t take your word, Dave. Can’t take anyone’s word. Got to charge you with trespass,’ Cashin said.

  Rebb said nothing.

  ‘That’s so we can take your prints.’

  ‘Don’t lock me up,’ said Rebb, softly, no tone. ‘Can’t go in the cells.’

  Cashin heard the fear in the man’s voice and he knew that once he would not have cared much. He hesitated, then he said, ‘Listen, you interested in work? Dairy cows, cow stuff. Do that kind of thing?’

  Rebb nodded. ‘Long time ago.’

  ‘Want some work?’

  ‘Well, open to offers.’

  ‘And garden stuff, some building work maybe?’
>
  ‘Yeah. Done a bit of that, yeah.’

  ‘Well, there’s work here. My neighbour’s cows, I’m clearing up an old place, might rebuild a bit, thinking of it. Work for a cop?’

  ‘Worked for every kind of bastard there is.’

  ‘Thank you. You can sleep at my place tonight. There’s a shed with bunks and a shower. See about the job tomorrow.’

  They got into the vehicle, Rebb’s swag in the back. ‘This how they get workers around here?’ he said. ‘Cops recruit them.’

  ‘All part of the job.’

  ‘What about the fingerprints?’

  ‘I’m taking your word you’re clean. That’s pretty dumb, hey?’

  Rebb was looking out of the window. ‘Saved the taxpayer money,’ he said.

  CASHIN WOKE in the dark, Shane Diab on his mind, the sounds he made dying.

  He listened to his aches for a time, tested his spine, his hips, his thighs—they all gave pain. He pushed away the lovely warm burden of the quilts, put feet in the icy waiting boots, and left the room, went down the passage, through Tommy Cashin’s sad ballroom, into the hall, out the front door. It was no colder out than in, today the mist blown away by a strong wind off the ocean.

  He pissed from the verandah, onto the weeds. It didn’t bother them. Then he went inside and did his stretching, washed his face, rinsed his mouth, put on overalls, socks, boots.

  The dogs knew his noises, they were making throat sounds of impatience at the side door. He let them in and the big creatures snuffled around him, tails swinging.

  Thirsty, he went to the fridge and the sight of the frosted beer bottles made him think he could drink a beer. He took out the two-litre bottle of juice, eight fruits it said. Only a dickhead would believe that.

  He held the plastic flagon in both hands, took a long drink, a tall glass at least. He took the old oilskin coat off the hook behind the door, picked up the weapon. When he opened the door to the verandah, the dogs pushed through, bounded down the steps, ran for the back gate. They jostled while they watched him come down the path, shrugging into the coat as he walked. Gate open, they ran down the path, side by side, reached the open land and made for the trees, jumping over the big tufts of grass, extravagant leaps, ears floating.