‘He sat there and watched him hanging,’ said Birkerts. ‘Bleeding.’
Finucane came in with Dove, who nodded at Cashin. The seated men all looked at Finucane.
‘Found the bloke’s clothes,’ he said. ‘In a plastic bag in a rubbish bin. Keys in the pocket.’
‘ID?’ said Villani.
Finucane showed his palms. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘No prints either. No one around there saw anything. Been through the missing reports, no one like him there, not in the last month. We’ll hear about his prints soonest.’ He looked at his watch. ‘His picture’s on the news in five minutes, may help.’
Villani turned his head to Cashin. ‘So tell everyone.’
‘The hall was the headquarters of something called the Moral Companions,’ said Cashin. ‘A charity. Once they ran camps for poor kids, orphans, state wards. Camps in Queensland and Western Australia. Bourgoyne was a supporter. He owned the land they built a camp on outside Port Monro and he owned the hall.’
‘What happened to them?’ said Finucane.
‘There was a fire at the Port Monro camp in 1983. Three dead. They packed it in.’
‘So what’s the connection between Bourgoyne and this bloke?’ said Birkerts.
‘I don’t know,’ said Cashin. ‘But I smelled vinegar that morning at Bourgoyne’s.’
‘No cloth found there,’ said Villani.
‘Took it with him,’ said Cashin.
‘Why’d he leave it this time?’
Cashin shrugged. He was tired, a girdle of pain around his hips, hours spent waiting for forensic to finish.
‘Vinegar,’ said Birkerts. ‘What’s with vinegar?’
‘They gave me gall to eat: and when I was thirsty they gave me vinegar to drink,’ said Dove.
‘What?’ said Villani. ‘What’s that?’
‘It’s from the Book of Common Prayer. A psalm, I forget which one.’
No one said anything. Dove coughed, embarrassed. Cashin registered the ringing phones, the electronic humming, the sound of a television next door, the traffic noises from below.
Villani got up, stretched his arms above his head, palms to the ceiling, eyes closed. ‘Joe, this Moral shit,’ he said. ‘That’s religious, is it?’
‘Sort of. Started by an ex-priest called Raphael something. Morris. Morrison. After World War II. He had a life-changing experience.’
‘I need that,’ said Villani.
‘Got some nice new suits,’ said Cashin. ‘Ties too. That’s a start.’
‘Purely cosmetic,’ said Villani. ‘I’m unchanged, believe me. The telly, Fin.’
It was the third item on the news. The media hadn’t been given much: just a dead man found in a hall in North Melbourne, nothing about him being gagged and tortured, hung naked above a stage.
The man’s face was on the screen, clean, almost alive, lights in his eyes. He had been handsome once, longish straight hair combed back, bags under his eyes, deep lines from nose to thin-lipped mouth.
The man is aged in his sixties. His hair is dyed dark brown. Anyone knowing his identity or who has any information about him is asked to call CrimeStoppers on 990 897 897.
‘He scrubbed up well,’ said Finucane.
‘Purely cosmetic,’ said Birkerts. ‘He’s still dead.’
They watched the rest of the news, saw Villani make an appearance to say nothing on the subject of another gangland killing, touch the corner of an eye, his mouth.
‘Bit of Al Pacino, bit of Clint Eastwood,’ said Cashin. ‘Dynamite cocktail, may I say?’
‘You may fuck off,’ said Villani. ‘Just fuck off.’
‘Boss?’
Tracy Wallace, the analyst, a thin worried face.
‘A woman, boss, transferred from CrimeStoppers. The dead bloke.’
Villani looked at Cashin. ‘You take it, skipper,’ he said. ‘You seem to know what’s going on.’
Cashin went to the telephone.
‘Mrs Roberta Condi,’ said Tracy. ‘She lives in North Melbourne.’
He didn’t have to write, Tracy had the headphones on.
‘Hello, Mrs Condi,’ said Cashin. ‘Thanks for calling. Can you help us?’
‘That’s Mr Pollard. The bloke on the telly. I know him.’
‘Tell me about it,’ said Cashin, his eyes closed.
CASHIN PUT the green key in the lock, turned.
‘The home of the late Arthur Pollard,’ he said and opened the door.
The terrace house was dark, cold. It took him a while to find a light switch.
An overhead lamp came on, two globes lit a sitting room, furniture that was modern in the 1970s. A newspaper was on the coffee table. Cashin went over and looked at the date. ‘Four days ago,’ he said.
Off the sitting room was a bedroom-a double bed tightly made, no bedspread, a wardrobe with two mirrors, a chest of drawers, shoes in a wire rack. A passage led to another room with a single bed, a desk, a chair and a bookcase.
Cashin looked at the book spines. All paperbacks. Crime novels, disaster novels, novels with golden titles on the spines. Bought from second-hand shops, he thought.
‘Neat kitchen,’ said Dove from the door.
Cashin followed him down the passage to a 1950s kitchen: a single bare light bulb with a green shade, an enamelled gas stove, an Electrolux fridge with round shoulders and a portable radio on a formica-topped metal table. On the sink stood a blue-and-white striped mug, upside down.
‘Like a monk,’ Cashin said. He went to the sink and tried to look out of the window but all he could see was the reflection of the sad room.
Dove clicked switches beside the back door and a powerful floodlight lit the straight rain falling on a concrete yard. It ran to a brick wall with a steel door. Beside the party wall, a single washline held soaked washing: three shirts and three pairs of underpants.
‘There’s a lane at the back,’ said Dove. ‘That must be the garage door.’
They went outside, Cashin first, he felt the wet, slippery concrete underfoot. No key on Pollard’s ring would unlock the steel door.
‘I’ll try the door in the lane,’ said Dove. He took the keys.
Cashin waited in the house, looked around. In the desk drawers, he found folders with bank statements, power, gas, telephone and rates bills. There was nothing personal-no letters, photographs, no tapes or CDs. Nothing spoke of Arthur Pollard as a human being with a history, with likes and dislikes, except the four cans of baked beans in tomato sauce and a half-empty bottle of whisky and an empty one in the bin.
Dove came in. ‘Not a garage anymore,’ he said. ‘Door’s bricked up.’
Dove’s mobile rang. He exchanged a few words, phrases, and gave the phone to Cashin. ‘The boss,’ he said.
‘We need the big key here,’ said Cashin. ‘Sesame. And not tomorrow.’
‘How come you give all the orders and you are on long-term secondment from homicide?’ said Villani.
‘Someone’s got to be in charge.’
They waited in the car, streetlights streaming down the windscreen. Cashin found the classical station. His thoughts drifted to home, to the dark ruined house under the wet hill, to the dogs. Rebb would have fed them by now, he didn’t have to be asked. They would all be in the shed, the dogs sacked out, drying, the three of them around the old potbelly stove, the rusty shearers’ stove not fired for at least thirty years before Rebb, the warmth moving through the building, awakening old smells-lanolin, bacon fat, the rank sweat of tired men now dead.
‘This could be coincidence,’ said Dove.
‘Maybe you should’ve stayed with the feds,’ said Cashin.
A van’s lights came around the corner. The driver nosed along, looking. Cashin got out and raised a hand.
The two men in overalls followed them through Pollard’s arid house. It was quick.