Constable Cashin is good at dealing with people, particularly in circumstances where aggression is involved.
Sergeant Willis wrote that on Cashin’s first assessment, showed it to him before he sent it. ‘Don’t get up your fucking self about this, son,’ he said. ‘I say it about all the girls.’ At his cubicle, he turned. ‘Course, in my day, a report like this, they’d say put the wuss on traffic.’
Kendall arrived. She was making tea, her back to him, when she said, ‘The business in Cromarty.’
‘Yes. A monumental stuff-up. I’m now on holiday. You’re in charge. The relief kid’ll stay on.’
‘How long?’
‘Who knows? Till ethical standards get the blame sorted out. It could be permanent.’
‘They the Bourgoyne ones?’
‘Looks like it. Them or someone they know.’
‘Good riddance then,’ she said.
Cashin looked out the window at the sky, hated Kendall for a while, her quick stupidity. He saw the sparks, the crushed ute, the rain, the blood in the puddles. The boys, broken, life leaking away. He thought about his son. He had a boy.
‘It only looks like it, Ken,’ he said. ‘Nobody should die because we think they might have done something wrong. Nobody gave us that power.’
You fucking hypocrite, he thought.
Kendall went to her desk.
He finished, took the files and his notes and went over, put them in her in-tray. ‘Pretty much up to date,’ he said.
She didn’t look at him. ‘I’m sorry I said that, Joe,’ she said. ‘It just, shit, it just came out, I wanted to say…’
‘I know. Solidarity. That’s a good instinct. Call me if you need anything.’
He was at the back door when she said, ‘Joe, feel like a bit of company. Well, any time. Yes.’
‘Take you up on that,’ he said, went out.
He walked around to the Dublin. A new four-wheel-drive was parked outside and Leon had two customers, a middle-aged couple having breakfast. Soft-looking leather jackets hung on the backs of their chairs.
‘Takeaway black,’ said Cashin. ‘The overdose.’
‘Either you sit down or you get one of those vacuum cups,’ said Leon. ‘Polystyrene does nothing for expensive coffee.’
Cashin had no interest. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ he said.
Leon went to the machine. ‘Your muscle boy was in yesterday. Very fetching but not keen on paying. Long and pregnant pause before he shelled out.’
Cashin was looking across the street at Cecily Addison talking to the woman outside the aromatherapy shop. ‘He’s a city lad,’ he said. ‘They treat officers of the law differently there. Like royalty.’
‘Message received. Roger. Do you say that? Roger?’
‘We say Roger, we say Bruce, we say Leon, it all depends. Case by case.’
Leon brought the container to the counter, capped it. ‘Bringing in reinforcements for the march?’
‘The march?’
‘Could be ugly. Feral greenies, rich old farts pulling up the drawbridge.’
‘I could be missing something here,’ Cashin said. He had no idea what Leon was talking about.
‘The march against the Adrian Fyfe resort? Been away, have we?’
‘Can’t keep up with events in this town. It’s all go, go, go. Anyway, I’m on holiday.’
‘Why don’t you try Noosa, chat to rich retired drug cops? It’s warm up there.’
‘Don’t care for the victuals in Noosa,’ Cashin said. As he said the word, he saw the strange spelling. ‘Listen, an ordinary old toasted cheese and tomato?’
Leon raised his right arm in a theatrical way, drew fingers across his forehead as if wiping away sweat. ‘I take it you don’t require sheep-milk fetta with semi-dried organic tomatoes on sourdough artisan bread?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose I can find a gassed tomato, some rat-trap cheese and a couple of slices of tissue-paper white.’
Cashin bought the city newspaper and drove to Open Beach. One surfer out on a big, heaving sea. The headline on page three said:
TWO DIE IN CHASE
CRASH, GUNFIGHT
It had happened too late for the previous morning’s newspaper. The three youths were much younger in the photographs. The captions didn’t mention that. And the reporter didn’t buy the interception line. It was a chase gone wrong. Luke Ericsen, he said, ‘apparently died in a hail of gunfire’. The conduct of seven officers was under investigation.
Another story was headlined:
UNITED AUSTRALIA LEADER SLAMS POLICE
Bobby Walshe was quoted:
Shock and grief, they are my emotions. Luke Ericsen is my sister’s boy, a bright boy, everyone had great hopes for him. I don’t know exactly what happened but that doesn’t really matter. Two youngsters are dead. That’s a tragedy. And there’s been far too many of these tragedies. Right across Australia, it’s a police culture problem. Indigenous people get the sharp end. Who needs courts when you can hand out punishments yourself? And I’m not surprised this happened in Cromarty. The present federal treasurer entrenched the culture there when he was state police minister. He helped the local police to cover up two Aboriginal cell deaths. I’ll remind him of that disgraceful episode in the election campaign. Often. That’s a promise.
The toasted sandwich wasn’t bad. Flat and tanned, leaking cheese, something yellow anyway.
Would Derry Callahan complain? Punched with a can of dog food. Cashin thought that he didn’t care. Hitting him was worth the damage to his fingers. He should have kicked him too, it would have been a good feeling.
His mobile rang. It took time to find it.
‘Taking it easy?’ said Villani. ‘Lying on the beach in the thermal gear. The striped long johns.’
‘I’m reading the paper. Full of good news.’
‘I’ll give you good news. The pawnshop bloke, he’s ID’d Pascoe and Donny.’
The surfer paddled on a great wall of water. It seemed unwilling to break, then it curled, he stood, an upsurge from a sandbar caused it to crash. He shot out the back, towed by his board.
‘I just talked to the commissioner,’ said Villani. ‘Actually, he talked to me. Non-stop. The spin doctors say we’re playing into our enemies’ hands. I think that means Bobby Walshe and the media. So it’s just Lloyd and Steggles suspended. You are no longer on holiday. And Dove’s coming back to you, he’ll be your offsider.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘Preston to Shepparton, Kelly goes to Bairnsdale.’
‘And Hopgood?’
‘Stays on the job.’
‘So the idea is to load the other ranks?’
‘The commissioner’s decision, Joe. He’s taken advice.’
‘That’s what I call leadership. In Sydney, the pawnshop, it was just Pascoe and Donny?’
‘Ericsen was probably waiting outside.’
‘So what happens to Donny?’
‘He’s still in hospital, under observation, but he’s okay, bruises, cuts. He’ll be charged with attempted murder, interview at 10 am, lawyer present.’
‘On this? Well, excuse fucking me, that’s a pretty thin brief.’
‘With luck, he’ll plead it,’ said Villani. ‘If not, we’ll see. You’ll see.’
‘This is the post-Singo attitude? Winging it?’
‘It’s what we have to do, Joe,’ said Villani, a flatness in his tone.
THEY SAT in the interview room, waiting. Cashin hadn’t worn a suit since coming to Port Monro.
‘In a very short time, I’ve grown to hate this town,’ said Dove. His forearms were on the table, cuffs showing, silver cufflinks, little bars. He was looking at his hands, his long fingers stretched.