‘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, well. 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.
‘So how do you want this done?’ Hopgood affected boredom.
‘I’ll listen to advice.’
‘You’re the fucking boss, you tell me.’
Cashin’s mobile rang. He went into the passage.
‘Bobby Walshe’s nephew,’ said Villani. ‘I take your point. We do this thing by the book. There’s a bloke coming down to you, on his way now. Paul Dove, detective sergeant. Transferred from the feds, done soft stuff, no one wanted him but he’s smart so I took him. He’s learning, takes the pains.’
Takes the pains. That was a Singo expression. They were both Singo’s children, they used his words without thinking.
‘He’s taking over?’ said Cashin.
‘No, no, you’re the boss.’
‘Yes?’
‘Yes what?’
‘Oh come on,’ said Cashin.
‘He’s Aboriginal. The commissioner wants him there.’
‘I’m lost here. Night has fallen.’
‘Don’t come the naïve shit with me, kid,’ said Villani. ‘You told me about Bobby Walshe. Plus Cromarty’s record’s fucking appalling. Two deaths in cells, lots of other suspicious stuff.’
‘Go on.’
‘So. When these boys get there, they’ll be knackered. Let them go home. You want them asleep. Go in two hours after they pack it in, more. Gently. I cannot say that too strongly.’
The conversation ended. Cashin went back into Hopgood’s office.
‘Villani,’ he said. ‘He wants the boys lifted at home.’
‘What?’
‘At home. After they’ve gone to bed.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Hopgood, running both hands over his hair. ‘Heard everything now. You don’t just go into the fucking Daunt at night and arrest people. It’s Indian territory. Excellent chance we end up being attacked by the whole fucking street, the whole fucking Daunt, hundreds of coons off their fucking faces.’
Hopgood got up, went to the window, hands in pockets. ‘Tell your wog mate I want confirmation that he’s taking all responsibility for this course of action. The two of you both.’
‘What’s your advice?’ said Cashin.
‘Lift the cunts on the way into town, that’s no risk, no problem.’
Cashin left the room and rang Villani. ‘The local wisdom,’ he said, ‘is that going into the Daunt for something like this is inviting a small Blackhawk Down. Hopgood says to lift them on the way in is easy. I say let him run it.’
Villani sighed, a sad sound. ‘You sure?’
‘How can I be sure? The Daunt’s not the place it was when I was a kid.’
‘Joe, the commissioner’s on my hammer.’
Cashin was thinking that he wanted to be somewhere else. ‘I think you might be over-dramatising,’ he said. ‘It’s just three kids in a ute. Can’t be that hard to do.’
‘So you’ll be the one on television explaining what happened to Bobby Walshe’s relation?’
‘No,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll be the one hiding in a cupboard and letting your man Dove explain.’
‘Fuck you,’ said Villani. ‘I say that in a nice way. Do it then.’
Cashin told Hopgood.
‘Some sense,’ said Hopgood, face in profile. ‘That’s new.’
‘They’re sending someone down. The commissioner wants an Aboriginal officer present.’
‘Jesus, not enough coons here,’ said Hopgood. ‘We have to import another black bastard.’
‘Is there somewhere I can sit?’ said Cashin.
Hopgood smiled at him, showed his top teeth, a small gap in the middle. ‘Tired, are we? Should’ve taken the pension, a fucked bloke like you. Gone up where it’s warm.’
Cashin willed his facial muscles to be still, looked in the direction of the window, saw nothing, counted the numbers. There would be a day, there would be an hour, a minute. There would be an instant.