by Peter Temple
The dogs had vanished into the greenery. Cashin led the way down the narrow path he’d cut with hedge clippers. They came to the ruins. ‘My great-granddad’s brother built it, then he dynamited this part of it. He was planning to blow the whole thing up but the roof fell on him.’
Rebb nodded as if dynamiting a house was an unexceptional act. He looked around. ‘So what do you want to do?’
‘Clear up the garden first. Then I thought I might fix up the house.’
Rebb picked up a piece of rusted metal. ‘Fix this? Be like building that Chartres cathedral. Your kids’ll have to finish the job.’
‘You know about cathedrals?’
‘No.’ Rebb looked through an opening where a window had been.
‘I thought we could do it in bits,’ said Cashin without enthusiasm. He was beginning to see the project through Rebb’s eyes.
‘Easier to build a new place.’
‘I don’t want to do that.’
‘Be the sensible thing.’
‘Well, maybe cathedrals didn’t look like a sensible thing.’
Rebb walked beside the wall, stopped, poked at something with a boot, bent to look. ‘That was religion,’ he said. ‘Poor buggers didn’t know they had a choice.’
Cashin followed him, they fought their way around the building, Rebb scuffing, kicking. He uncovered an area of tesselation, small octagonal tiles, red and white. ‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Got pictures of the place?’
‘They say there’s a few in a book in the Cromarty library.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I’ll get copies.’
‘Need a tape measure. One of them long buggers.’ Rebb mimed winding.
‘I’ll get one.’
‘Graph paper too. See if we can work up a drawing.’
They walked back the long way, it was clearing now, pale blue islands in the sky, dogs ranging ahead like minesweepers.
‘People live here before you?’ said Rebb.
‘Not really. A bloke leased it, ran sheep. He used to stay here a bit.’
‘Cleaning up the garden’s going to take a while,’ said Rebb. ‘Before you start the big job.’ He found the makings, rolled a smoke as he walked, turned his back to the wind to light up, walked backwards. ‘How long you planning on taking?’
‘They know how long a cathedral would take?’
‘Catholic?’
‘No,’ said Cashin. ‘You?’
‘No.’
The dogs arrived, came up to Cashin as if to a rendezvous with their leader, seeking orders, suggestions, inspiration.
‘Met this priest done time for girls,’ said Rebb. ‘He reckoned religion’s a mental problem, like schizophrenia.’
‘Met him where?’
Rebb made a sound, possibly a laugh. ‘Travelling, you meet so many priests done time for kids, you forget where.’
They were at the front entrance.
‘Help yourself to tucker,’ said Cashin. ‘I’m getting something in town.’
Rebb turned away, said over his shoulder, ‘Want to leave the dogs? Take them to Millane’s with me, stay in the yard. He likes them. He told me.’
‘They’ll be your mates for life. Den’s has to be better than the copshop.’
Cashin drove to Port Monro down roads smeared with roadkill— birds, foxes, rabbits, cats, rats, a young kangaroo with small arms outstretched—passed through pocked junctions where one or two tilted houses stood against the wind and signs pointed to other desperate crossroads.
In Port, Leon made him a bacon, lettuce and avocado to take away. ‘Risking the wrath of Ms Fatarse here, are we?’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of having a sign painted. By appointment, supplier of victuals to the constabulary of Port Monro.’
‘What’s a vittle?’
‘Victuals. Food. In general.’
‘How do you spell that?’
‘V-I-C-T-U-A-L-S.’
‘I find that hard to accept.’
Cashin ate his breakfast at Open Beach, parked next to the lifesaving club, watching two windsurfers skimming the wave tops, bouncing, taking off, strange bird-humans hanging against the pale sky. He opened the coffee. There was no hurry. Kendall was acting station commander while the Bourgoyne matter was on. Carl Wexler didn’t like that at all, but the compensation was that he could bully the stand-in sent from Cromarty, a kid even rawer than he was.
Bourgoyne.
Bourgoyne’s brother was executed by the Japs. How could you be interested in Japanese culture when your brother was executed by the Japs? Did executed mean having his head cut off? Did a Jap soldier cut off his head with a sword, sever the neck and spine with one shining stroke?
Some fucking In Cold Blood thing. How did Villani know about Truman Capote? He couldn’t have seen the movie. Villani didn’t go to the movies. Villani didn’t read books either, Cashin thought. He’s like me before Rai Sarris. He doesn’t have the standstill to read books.
Before Rai, he wouldn’t have known what In Cold Blood meant either. Vincentia gave him the book. She was doing a literature degree part-time. He read the book in a day and a night. Then she gave him The Executioner’s Song by Norman Mailer. That took about the same time. He asked her to buy him another book by Mailer and she came in with The Naked and the Dead, second-hand.
‘All about dying?’ he said. ‘I think I can read other kinds of stuff.’
‘Try it,’ she said, ‘it’s about a different kind of senseless killing.’
Shane Diab shouldn’t have been there. Nothing could change that. He was just a keen kid, he was in awe, so rapt at being in homicide he would have done anything, gone anywhere, worked twenty-three-hour days, then got up early.
There was no point in thinking about Shane. It served no purpose, cops got killed in all sorts of ways, he could just as easily have been shot by some arsehole brain-dead on Jack Daniels and speed. That was the job.
Cashin’s mobile rang.
‘Joseph?’ His mother.
‘Yes.’
‘Michael rang. I’m worried.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s the way he sounds.’
‘How’s that?’
‘Strange. Not like him.’
‘Rang from where?’
‘Melbourne.’
‘The one-and-a-half bathrooms?’
‘I don’t know, what does it matter?’ Irritated.
‘How does he sound?’
‘He sounds low. He never sounds low.’
‘Everyone gets low. Life’s a seesaw. Up, down, brief level bit if you’re lucky.’
‘Rubbish, Joseph. I know him. Will you ring? Have a chat?’
‘What do I say? Your mother asked me to ring you? We don’t have chats. We don’t have any chat.’
Silence. A windsurfer was in the air, hanging beneath his board. He disconnected, man and board vanished behind the wave as if dropping into a slot.
‘Joe.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Mum, not your mother. I brought both of you into the world. Will you do that for me? Ring him?’
‘Give me the number.’
‘Hang on, I’ll find it. Got a pen?’
He wrote the number in his book, said goodbye. The windsurfer had reappeared. I’ll ring Michael later, he said to himself. After a few drinks, I’ll make up a reason. We’ll have a chat, whatever the fuck that is.
In the main street, Cashin bought groceries, milk, onions and carrots, half a pumpkin and four oranges and a hand of bananas. He put the bags in the vehicle, walked down to the newsagency. It was empty except for Cecily Addison looking at a magazine. She saw him, replaced it on the stand.
‘Well, what’s happening?’ she said. ‘What’s taking you so long?’
‘Investigation progressing.’ Cashin picked up the Cromarty Herald. The front-page said:
RESORT COULD BRING 200 NEW JOBS
‘They call the man a developer,’ said Cecily. ‘Might as well call hyenas developers. Hitler, there’s a de
veloper for you. Wanted to develop Europe, England, the whole damn world.’
Cashin had learned that when Cecily got going, you didn’t have to say anything. Not even in response to questions.
‘Going to the mouth since I don’t know when,’ said Cecily. ‘My dear old dad made little cane rods for us, two bricks and a biscuit high the two of us. There’s that little spit there, a bit of sand, perfect to cast a line. Mind you, you had a walk. Park the Dodge at the Companions camp, best part of twenty minutes over the dunes. Seemed like a whole day. Worth it, I can tell you.’
She paused to breathe. ‘What do you think this Fyfe jackal is slinging the pinkos?’
‘I’m not quite with you, Mrs Addison.’
Cecily pointed at the newspaper.
‘Read that and weep. The socialists are talking about letting Adrian Fyfe build at Stone’s Creek mouth. Hotel, golf course, houses, brothel, casino, you name it. If that’s not enough, this morning I find my firm, my firm, is acting for the mongrel. No wonder people think we’re lower than snakes’ bellies.’
‘Why does he need lawyers?’
‘Everyone needs lawyers. He’ll have to buy the Companions camp from Charles Bourgoyne. Well, could be the estate of Charles Bourgoyne now. What this rag doesn’t say is buying Stone’s Creek mouth’s no use unless you can get to it. And the only way’s through the nature reserve or through the camp.’
‘Bourgoyne owns the camp?’
‘His dad gave the Companions a forty-year lease. Peppercorn. That’s history, been nothing there since the fire. Companions are history too.’
Cashin’s mobile rang. He went outside. Villani.
‘Joe, Bourgoyne. Two kids tried to sell a Breitling watch in Sydney yesterday.’
CASHIN SAT at a pavement table. ‘You heard this when?’ he said.
‘Five minutes ago,’ said Villani. ‘Cash Converters kind of place. Your pawnshop, basically. The manager did the right thing, sent his offsider out after them and he got a rego, reported it. And that lay on some dope’s desk till now.’
‘So?’
‘Toyota ute, twincab. Martin Frazer Gettigan, 14 Holt Street, Cromarty.’
‘Jesus,’ said Cashin, ‘not another Gettigan.’
‘Yes?’
‘A clan. Lots of Gettigans.’
‘What are we talking? Aboriginal?’
‘Some are, some aren’t.’
‘Like Italians. Find out about this ute without spooking anybody? Can’t trust the Cromarty turkeys. Turkeys and thugs.’
Cashin thought about the building site, the trembling panel van. ‘I’ll have a go.’
‘From a distance, understand?’
‘Not capiche? Out of fashion, is it?’
Villani said, ‘Don’t take too long about this. Minutes, I’m talking.’
‘Whatever it takes,’ said Cashin.
He rang the station, got Kendall. ‘Listen, there’s an incident report on Allan James Morris, me, complaint from the primary school. His mobile number’s there.’
It took more than a minute for Morris to answer. Pulling up his pants on a building site somewhere, thought Cashin.
‘Yeah.’
‘Allan?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Detective Sergeant Cashin from Port Monro. Remember me?’
‘Yeeaah?’
‘You can help me with something. Okay?’
‘What?’
‘Martin Frazer Gettigan, 14 Holt Street. Know him?
‘Why?’
‘I’m in a hurry, son. Know him?’
‘Know him, yeah.’
‘Is he in town?’
‘Dunno. Don’t see him much.’
Cashin said, ‘Allan, I want you to do something for me.’
‘Jeez, mate, I’m not doin fuckin cop’s work…’
‘Allan, two words. Someone’s grand-daughter.’
Cashin heard the sounds of a building site: a nailgun firing, hammer blows, a shouted exchange.
‘What?’ said Morris.
‘I want to know who’s driving Martin’s Toyota ute.’
‘How’m I supposed to fuckin…’
‘Do it. You’ve got five minutes.’
Cashin drove to Callahan’s garage at the Kenmare crossroads, filled up. Derry Callahan came out of the service bay, cap pulled down to his eyebrows, unshaven. Cashin knew him from primary school.
‘You blokes got nothin to do except drive around?’ he said. He wiped a finger under his nose, darkened the existing oil smear. ‘What’s happenin with the Bourgoyne business?’
‘Investigation proceeding.’
‘Proceeding? You checkin out the boongs? Curfew on the whole fuckin Daunt, that’s what I say. Barbed wire around it, be a start. Check em comin and goin.’
‘Lateral thinking,’ said Cashin. ‘Why don’t you write a letter to the prime minister? Well, spelling’d be a problem. You could phone it in.’
Derry’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his cap. ‘They got that?’ he said. ‘Talkback?’
The mobile rang while Cashin was paying Derry’s sister, fat Robyn, slit eyes, mouth permanently hooked into a sneer. He let it ring, took his change and went into the cold, stood at the vehicle, in the wind, looking across the highway at the flat land, the bent grass, pressed the button on the phone.
‘Well, he’s here,’ said Allan Morris. ‘Workin over at his old man’s place.’
‘The ute?’
‘Had to make up a fuckin stupid story.’
‘Yes?’
‘Says he lent it to Barry Coulter and Barry’s kid buggered off in it. He’s not fuckin happy, I kin tell you.’
A sliver of pain up from his left leg, the upper thigh, into his hip. He knew the feeling well, an old friend. He shifted his weight. ‘What’s the kid’s name?’
‘Donny.’
‘That’s Donny Coulter?’
‘What else?’
‘Buggered off where?’
‘Sydney. He rang. Got another kid with him, Luke Ericsen. He’s the driver. They’re cousins. Sort of. Donny’s not too bright.’
‘Been in trouble, these kids?’
‘Black kids? In this town? Ya phonin from Mars?’
‘Yes or no?’
‘Dunno.’
‘We never had this talk,’ said Cashin.
‘Shit. And I’m plannin to go around tellin everyone about it.’
Cashin rang Cromarty station, got Hopgood, gave him the names.
‘Donny Coulter, Luke Ericsen,’ said Hopgood. ‘I’ll talk to the boong affairs adviser. Call you back.’
Cashin pulled away from the pumps, parked at the roadside, waited in the vehicle thinking about a smoke, about having another try at getting Vickie to let him see the boy. Did she doubt the boy was his? She wouldn’t discuss the subject. He’s got a father, that was all she said. When they had their last, unexpected one-night stand, she was seeing Don, the man she married. Seeing, screwing, there were men’s clothes in the laundry, muddy boots outside the back door. A vegetable patch had been dug in the clay, seed packet labels impaled on sticks—that sure as hell wasn’t Vickie.
You’d have to be blind not to know who the father was. The boy had Cashin written on his forehead.
His mobile.
‘Typical Daunt black trash,’ said Hopgood. ‘They’ve got some minor form. Suspected of doing some burgs together. Means they did them. Luke’s older, he fancies he’s a fighter. Donny’s a retard, tags along. Luke’s Bobby Walshe’s nephew.’
‘How old?’
‘Donny seventeen, Luke nineteen. I’m told they might be brothers. Luke’s old man fucked anything moving. Par for the boong course. What’s the interest?’
‘Looks like one of them tried to sell a watch like Bourgoyne’s in Sydney.’
A pause, a whistle. ‘Might have fucking known it.’
‘New South’s got an alert for a Toyota ute registered to Martin Gettigan, 14 Holt Street. The boys are in it.’
‘Well, we
ll. Might go around and see Martin,’ said Hopgood.
‘That would be seriously fucking stupid.’
‘You’re telling me what’s stupid?’
‘I’m conveying a message.’
‘From on fucking high. Suit yourself.’
‘I’ll keep you posted,’ said Cashin.
‘Gee, thanks,’ said Hopgood. ‘Do so like to be in the fucking loop.’
Cashin rang Villani.
‘Jesus,’ said Villani. ‘Plugged in down there, aren’t you? I’ve got news. Vehicle sighted in Goulburn, three occupants. Looks like your boys are coming home.’
‘Three?’
‘Given someone a lift, who knows.’
‘You should know Luke Ericsen is Bobby Walshe’s nephew.’
‘Yes? So what?’
‘I’m just telling you. Going to pick them up?’
‘I don’t want any hot-pursuit shit,’ said Villani. ‘Next thing they’re doing one-eighty on the Hume, they wipe out a family in the Commodore wagon. Only the dog survives. Then it’s my fault.’
‘So?’
‘We’ll track them all the way, if I can get these rural dorks to take KALOF seriously and not spend the shift keeping a look out for skirt to pull over.’
‘If they come back here,’ said Cashin, ‘it’ll be Hopgood’s job.’
‘No,’ said Villani. ‘You’re in charge. You’ve done enough malingering. I want to avoid a Waco-style operation by people watched too much television. Understand?’
‘Capiche,’ said Cashin. ‘Whatever that means.’
‘Don’t ask me. I’m a boy from Shepparton.’
AT 3 PM, Hopgood rang.
Cashin was in Port Monro, looking at the gulls scrapping in the backyard, no dogs to chase them away.
‘These Daunt coons are on their way,’ Hopgood said. ‘Don’t stop somewhere for a bong, they should be here about midnight.’ He paused. ‘I gather you’re the boss.’
‘In theory,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll be there in an hour or so.’
He went home, fed the dogs. They didn’t like the change in routine; food came after the walk, that was the order of things. There was no sign of Rebb. He left a note about the dogs, drove to Cromarty.
Hopgood was in his office, a tidy room, files on shelves, neat in and out trays. He was in shirtsleeves, a white shirt, buttoned at the cuffs. ‘Sit,’ he said.
Cashin sat.
