‘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.’