‘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 developer 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.