The Broken Shore (30 page)

‘It always has been. Can you get that soonest?’

‘I’ll see. Give me your number.’

Cashin sat down, looked at Dove. Dove didn’t want to look at him.

‘Hopgood says there’s no record of the messages to him that night,’ said Cashin.

Now Dove looked. ‘The cunts,’ he said. ‘They’ve wiped them. They’ve wiped the fucking record.’

‘It could be at our end, a technical thing.’

Dove shook his head, the overhead light blinked in his round lenses. ‘Well, then you can blame me at the inquest,’ he said. ‘Didn’t press the right buttons. Just fucked it up. As a boong does.’

Cashin rose, sitting was worse than standing, went back to the window. He said, ‘Hopgood said, and I quote him, “You two boongs making up stories now?”’

‘What?’

‘He said, you two boongs making up stories now.’

‘That’s us?’

‘I took him to mean that, yes.’

Dove laughed, real pleasure. ‘Welcome to Boongland,’ he said. ‘Listen, bro, want to get some lunch round the corner? Grub sandwich?’

‘Had it with round the corner,’ said Cashin. ‘Had it for six years and I’ve had it.’

‘There’s a Brunetti’s at the arts centre,’ said Dove. ‘Know Brunetti’s in Carlton?’

‘You fucking blow-in, you don’t know Brunetti’s from Donetti’s.’

Finucane joined them in the lift, gave them a ride down St Kilda Road.

‘Fin, looking at you,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m giving you a nine point six on the over-worked, under-slept, generally-fucked-over scale.’

Finucane smiled the small modest smile of a man whose efforts had been recognised. ‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.

‘Want a transfer to Port Monro?’ said Cashin. ‘Just pub fights and sheep-shagging, the odd cunt nicks his neighbour’s hydroponic gear officially used to grow vine-ripened tomatoes. It’s a nice place to bring up kids.’

‘Too exciting,’ said Finucane. ‘I’ve got six blokes to see on Pollard. This one in Footscray, he says he goes back a long way. Probably turn out he rang from his deaf and dumb auntie’s house where he isn’t and doesn’t live.’

At Brunetti’s, they queued behind black-clad office workers and backpackers and four women from the country who were overwhelmed by the choices. Cashin bought a calzone, Dove had a roll with duck and olives and capsicum relish and five kinds of leaves. They were drinking coffee when Cashin’s mobile rang. He went outside.

‘I hear traffic,’ said Helen. ‘Makes me nostalgic. Where are you?’

‘Near the arts centre.’

‘So cultured—opera, art galleries.’

‘Get hold of Susie?’ Cashin was watching a man coming down the pavement on a unicycle, a small white dog perched on each shoulder. The dogs had the resigned air of passengers on a long-distance bus.

‘She says the watch had a big black face and two or three little white dials.’

Cashin closed his eyes. He thought that he should say thanks for your help and goodbye. That was what he should do. That was what the police minister and the chief commissioner and the assistant crime commissioner and very possibly Villani would want him to do.

It wasn’t the right thing to do. He should tell her that the watch the
boys tried to sell in Sydney wasn’t the watch Bourgoyne was wearing on the night he was attacked.

‘Still there?’ said Helen.

‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

‘That’s it?’

‘That’s it.’

‘Well, goodbye.’

They finished their coffee and walked back. Cashin had to wait twenty minutes to see Villani. ‘Bourgoyne wasn’t wearing the watch the boys tried to sell in Sydney,’ he said.

‘How do you know?’

Cashin told him.

‘Could’ve pinched that one from the house too. Pinched both watches.’

‘No. Corey Pascoe’s sister saw the fancy watch about a year ago. Corey had it before he went to Sydney. I’ve spoken to her.’

‘Well that could be bullshit.’

‘I believe her.’

‘Yeah?’

‘She knew the name. She’s described the watch.’

‘Fuck,’ said Villani. ‘Fuck. This is not looking good.’

‘No. What’s showing on Pollard?’

‘A woman down the street from the hall’s ID’d him. Seen in the vicinity a few times. Once with a kid. About twenty victims to interview. The computer stuff will take forever. Thousands of images. I don’t fancy our chances. Just be happy he’s dead. Like these drug scumbags we’re trying to get justice for.’

‘Anyway, I’m off,’ said Cashin. ‘Going home. I’m on enforced holiday. Over and out.’

‘Just when you were settling in again. Want to end this secondment shit? There’s fuck all wrong with you.’

‘I’m over homicide,’ said Cashin. ‘I don’t want to see any more dead people. Except for Rai Sarris. I want to see the dead Rai Sarris. And Hopgood. I’ll make an exception for Hopgood too.’

‘Unprofessional attitude. The vinegar smell. You sure about that?’

‘Yes.’

Villani walked with him to the lifts. ‘I should say,’ he said, he looked down the corridor. ‘I want to say I’ve been squeezed on this. I’m not happy with my conduct. Not proud. I am considering my position.’

Cashin didn’t know what to say. The lift doors opened. He touched Villani’s sleeve. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Don’t obsess.’

LONG BEFORE he’d cleared the city, the mobile rang. Cashin pulled over.

‘Boss, Fin. This bloke rang in…’

‘Yes. Footscray.’

‘You should talk to him, boss.’

‘Out of this, Fin, I’m on my way home.’

The traffic was picking up, the early leavers, commuters to the satellite towns, lots of four-wheel-drives, trade utes, trucks.

‘Yeah, well, the boss says to ask you, boss.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Well, this one’s pretty fucked up. He drifts off the station, know what I mean?’

‘What’s the station?’

‘He knows Pollard. He hates Pollard. Hates everyone, everything, actually, spit going everywhere, you need a riot shield.’

‘How old?’

‘Not old old. It’s hard to say, shaven head, buggered teeth, maybe forties. Yeah. Major drug problem, no doubt.’

‘Get a statement?’

‘Boss, this is not statement territory. This is door-punching territory.’

‘Door-punching?’

‘I was trying to get through to him, he went quiet and then he came
out of the fucking chair and he ran across the room, punched the door, two shots. The second one, his hand’s stuck in the door, blood everywhere.’

‘His name?’ said Cashin.

‘David Vincent.’

Cashin expelled breath. ‘What’s the address? I’m close.’

Finucane was waiting for him, parked in a street of rotting weatherboards, dumped cars and thin front yards silting up with junk mail. Cashin walked over, stood at the car window, hands in his pockets.

‘He’ll be happy to see you again?’

Finucane scratched his head. ‘No. He told me to fuck off. But he’s not aggro about me. It’s the world that’s the problem.’

‘Live alone?’

‘There’s no one else there now.’

‘Let’s go.’

It took several bouts of knocking before the door opened. Cashin could see a veined eye.

‘Mr Vincent,’ said Finucane, ‘A senior police officer would like a little chat about the things worrying you.’

The door opened enough to show both eyes and a discoloured nose broken more than once, broken and shifted sideways. The eyes were the colour of washing powder. ‘Nothing’s fuckin worrying me,’ Vincent said. ‘Where’d you get that crap?’

‘Can we come in, Mr Vincent?’ said Cashin.

‘Fuck off. Said what I wanted.’

‘I understand you know Arthur Pollard?’

‘That’s what I fuckin said. CrimeStoppers. Told the fuckin idiot. Give him the name.’

Cashin smiled at him. ‘We’re very grateful for that, Mr Vincent. Thank you. Just a few other things we’d like to know.’

‘Nah. I’m busy. Got a lot on.’

‘Right,’ said Cashin. ‘Well, we’d really appreciate your help. There’s a man murdered, an innocent man…’

Vincent pulled the door open, smashed it against the passage wall, jarred the whole building. ‘Innocent? You fuckin mad? The fuckin bastard, shoulda killed the fuckin cunt myself…’

Cashin looked away. He hadn’t meant Pollard, he’d been thinking of Bourgoyne.

A woman had come out of the house next door. She was of unguessable age, wearing a pink turban and wrapped in what looked like an ancient embossed velvet curtain, faded and moulting.

‘Dint I tell you to bugger off last time?’ she shouted. ‘Comin around with yer bloody Yank religion, yer bloody tower of Pisa, leanin bloody watchtower, whatbloodyever.’

‘Police,’ said Finucane.

She went backwards at speed. Cashin looked at Vincent. The rage had left his face as if the outburst had drained some poison from him. He was a big man but stooped and gone to fat, rolls at his neck.

‘Woman’s mad,’ said Vincent in a calm voice. ‘Completely out of her tree. Come in.’

They followed him into a dim passage and a small room with a collapsed sofa, two moulded plastic restroom chairs and a metal-legged coffee table with five beer cans on it. A television set stood on two stacked milk crates. Vincent sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette, holding the lighter in both hands, shaking badly. Blood was caked on the fingers and knuckles of his right hand.

Cashin and Finucane sat on the plastic chairs.

‘So you know Arthur Pollard, Mr Vincent?’ said Cashin.

Vincent picked up a beer can, shook it, tested another one, found one with liquid in it. ‘Many fuckin times you want me to say it? Know the cunt, know the cunt, know the…’

Cashin held up a hand. ‘Sorry. Where do you know him from, Mr Vincent?’

Vincent drank, looked down at the floor, drew on the cigarette. His left shoulder was jerking. ‘From the fuckin holidays.’

‘What holidays, Mr Vincent?’

‘The fuckin holidays, you know, the holidays.’ He raised his head, fixed his gaze on Cashin. ‘Tried to tell em, y’know. It wasn’t just me. Oh no. Nearly, poor little bugger, saw em. Saw em.’

‘Tell them what, Mr Vincent?’

‘Don’t believe me, do you?’

‘What holidays are you talking about?’

‘Givin me that fuckin look, I know that fuckin look,
HATE THAT FUCKIN LOOK.
’

‘Steady on,’ said Cashin.

‘Piss off. Piss off. Got nothing to say to you cunts, all the same, you’re all fuckin in it, bastards kill a kid, you, you…you can just fuck off.’

‘Spare a smoke?’ said Cashin.

‘What?’

Cashin mimed smoking. ‘Give us a smoke?’

Vincent’s eyes flicked from Cashin to Finucane and back. He put a hand into his dirty cotton top and took out a packet of Leisure Lights, opened it with a black-rimmed thumbnail, offered it, shaking. Cashin took. Vincent offered the box to Finucane.

‘No thanks,’ said Finucane. ‘Trying to give up.’

‘Yeah. Me too.’ Vincent gave the plastic lighter to Cashin.

Cashin lit up, returned the lighter. ‘Thanks, mate,’ he said. ‘So they wouldn’t listen?’

‘Wouldn’t listen,’ said Vincent. ‘Copped a thrashin from the bastard Kerno. Thrashed me all the time. Thin as a stick, I was. Broke me ribs, three ribs. Made me tell school I fell off me bike.’

A long silence. Vincent emptied the beer can, put it on the table. His shaven, scarred head went down, almost touched his knees, the cigarette was going to burn his fingers. Cashin and Finucane read each other’s eyes.

‘Didn’t have a bike,’ said Vincent, a sad little boy’s voice. ‘Never ever had a bike. Wanted a bike.’

Cashin smoked. The cigarette tasted terrible, made him glad he didn’t smoke. Smoke much. Vincent didn’t look up, dropped his butt on the carpet, aimed a foot at it, missed. The smell of burning nylon fibres rose, acrid and strangely sweet.

‘I’d like to hear about when you were a kid,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll listen. You talk, I’ll listen.’

Another long silence. Vincent raised his head, startled, looked at them as if they’d just appeared in the room. ‘Got to go,’ he said breathlessly. ‘A lot on, blokes.’

He rose unsteadily and left the room, bumped against the door
jamb. They heard him muttering as he went down the passage. A door slammed.

‘That’s probably it,’ said Finucane. He stood on Vincent’s cigarette.

Outside, in the rain, Cashin said to Finucane, ‘The holidays. He’s talking about a Moral Companions camp, Fin. His whole life, we need his whole life. That’s ASAP. Tell Villani I said that.’

‘Not staying then, boss?’

‘No. Also the files at the hall. Someone needs to pull out everything that refers to Port Monro. Call me with what you get. Ring me, okay?’

‘Okay. First to know, boss.’

‘And for fuck’s sake get some sleep, Fin. You’re a worry to me.’

‘Right. They stay dead, don’t they?’

‘You’re learning. It’s slow but you’re learning.’

It was long dark by the time he switched off and saw the torch beam coming down the side of the house, saw the running dogs side by side, heads up, big ears swinging. They were at the vehicle before he could get out. He had to fight their weight to open the door. A spoke of pain ran down his right thigh as he swung his legs out.

‘Thought we’d lost you,’ said Rebb, a hulk behind the light.

Cashin was returning the dogs’ affection, head down, allowing them to lick his hands, his hair, his ears. ‘Got stuck in the city,’ he said. ‘I reckoned you might do the right thing by these brutes.’

‘No brute food left,’ said Rebb. ‘I took the little peashooter of yours for a walk. Okay?’

‘Good thinking.’

‘The other bunny’s in the oven. Used the olives in the fridge. Also a tin of tomatoes.’

‘What do you know about olives?’ said Cashin.

‘Picked them in South Australia, worked in a place they pickled them. Ate olives till they came out of my ears. Swaggies eat anything. Roadkill, caviar.’

‘I need a drink,’ said Cashin. ‘You left anything to drink?’

‘I’m leaving in the morning.’

Cashin felt tiredness and pain expand within him, fill him. ‘Can we talk about that?’

‘I’ll drop in if I come this way again.’

‘Come in and have a drink anyway. Farewell drink.’

‘Had a drink. Knackered. I’ll shake your hand now.’

He put out a hand. Cashin didn’t want to take it. He took it.