‘Yes? Where does that get you?’
‘Just having a sniff.’
‘Ah, the sniff. I keep hearing about it. A trade secret. Hang on.’
Dove was back with the number inside two minutes.
‘Back to work then,’ said Cashin. ‘Go around to whatever the drug squad is now called and arrest the first prick you see.’
‘So old-fashioned, so out of touch with modern policing.’
David Vincent’s number rang out. Too early for him, Cashin thought. His day would probably begin when most people were thinking about lunch.
‘UNEMPLOYED,’ said Carol Gehrig, shifted on the chair, pulled at the crotch of her tracksuit. ‘Sixteen weeks pay, how’s that for twenty-eight years on the job?’
The cheap timber house stood in the teeth of the wind on a low hill looking over Kenmare. Behind it was a big shed, open in front, a truck shed with just an old yellow Mazda in it.
‘Who sacked you?’ said Cashin.
‘The lawyer. Addison. Place’s going on the market some time. She wants me to clean up when the time comes.’
She sucked on her stub, ground it out among the five or six already in the abalone shell on the table. She offered Cashin the packet. He shook his head.
‘Coffee?’ she said. ‘Tea? I should’ve asked. Caught me without my face too. Not used to being here at this time of the morning.’
He’d had to wait minutes, didn’t knock again after he heard movements inside.
‘No thanks. Ever heard of someone called Arthur Pollard?’
‘Pollard? No.’
The sagging foam chair made his back hurt. Cashin sat up straight, tried to extend his spine. He took out the doctored, sanitised photograph of Pollard. ‘Know this man?’
She looked at it, held it away. ‘Something familiar…don’t know. Local?’
‘No. Tell me about Percy Crake.’
‘Well, he came to Bourgoyne’s after the fire at the camp. Little moustache. His sister arrived, a bitch. Face like an axe, moustache too. Bigger than Crake’s. Called herself Mrs Lowell. Christ knows how she got Mr Lowell. She used to come behind me with a tissue looking for dust.’
‘What did Crake do?’
‘Took over, marched around like a dork. He used to make us stand outside his office for our wages, keep us waiting like he was busy inside. Then he’d open the door and he’d say: Now then, line up in alphabetical order.’
The voice she imitated wasn’t loud and commanding. It was thin and grating. ‘Five people. In alphabetical order, I ask you? Pommy shit. Fucking scoutmaster.’
Be Prepared.
Cashin saw the stiff and cracked little belt, the round rusted buckle. ‘That was in 1983,’ he said.
‘Yeah. I started, full-time in 1978. Mrs B was there with the kids. She was nice, gave him about twenty years. Real tragedy that, falling down the stairs.’
‘How did they take it, the kids?’
‘The boy never said a word. Erica followed Mr B around like he was a pop star. She was in love with him. Girls can be like that.’
An intake of smoke, a blowing, a tapping into the abalone shell. ‘They used to have parties. Garden parties, cocktail parties, dinner parties, all the Cromarty money, people from Melbourne. For the autumn races, there’d be people staying. I got help. There was a cook and a waiter come from Melbourne.’
Carol sucked her cheeks hollow. ‘Anyway, old times. History. What’s this about?’
Cashin shrugged. ‘Just curious.’
‘Thought the black kids did it?’
‘What do you think?’
‘No surprise to me. Daunt’s a fucking curse on this town.’
‘You must know a lot about the Bourgoynes.’
‘Not that much. Cleaning up behind people, that’s the job. Washing, ironing. Twenty hours a week the last ten years or so. That’s it.’ More smoking. ‘Head down, bum up around there, mate,’ she said. ‘Unless you’re Bruce Starkey.’
‘He got special treatment?’
‘Well, in the old days, Crake was always checking. He caught you havin a smoko, he’d dock your pay quarter of an hour. Can you believe that? Bloody Starkey, he never went near him, didn’t have to line up for his pay, the big prick.’
‘How’d Bourgoyne and Crake get on?’
‘Pretty good. Only time I ever heard Crake laugh was when Mr B was in his office. Crake helped him with the pots, the kiln. They used to do it at weekends. Burn it all weekend.’
‘You saw that?’
‘No. Mrs Lowell told me. Burn through the night. Starkey used to be chainsawing and chopping for a week before.’
‘How often was this?’
‘Jeez, it’s been a long time. I suppose twice a year. Yeah.’
‘Those pots in the gallery room. Nine pots. That’s all he kept?’
‘He used to smash em up. Starkey took the bits to the tip. Half a ute load at a time.’
Cashin looked at the barren green view, thought about how nice it would be if this had never begun, if he had never received the call that morning.
‘Sure you don’t want coffee? I’m going…’
‘No thanks,’ said Cashin. ‘Erica says she knows almost nothing about her step-father’s affairs. What do you think?’
Carol frowned, aged ten years. ‘Well, wouldn’t surprise me. I can count on one hand the times I’ve seen her there since she was about fourteen. Fell out of love with her step-dad.’
She came with him to the vehicle, hugging herself against the cold. The dogs liked the look of her and she had no fear of them, scratched their chins.
‘Twin buggers,’ she said. ‘What kind’s this?’
‘Poodles.’
‘Nah. Poodles are sooky litle things. Rough buggers, these.’
‘Neglected,’ said Cashin. ‘Short of haircuts and brushing.’
‘Bit like me.’ She was fondling big dog ears, not looking at him.
‘You married?’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Kids?’
He hesitated. ‘No.’
‘Kids are good, it’s bloody jobs that’s the problem. My ex went to Darwin, don’t blame him. Fisherman. I couldn’t hack it, never saw him, he just slept here.’
‘Thanks for the help,’ said Cashin.
‘Any time. Come again. Have a beer.’
‘That’d be good. Starkey get the boot too?’
‘Dunno. Place’ll need some keeping up if it’s on the market.’
Cashin was in the vehicle when he thought to ask. ‘The Companions camp. Know anything about it?’
Carol shook her head. ‘Not much. Starkey used to work there before the fire.’
THE CROMARTY Herald’s editorial office was in a ugly yellow-brick 1950s building on the edge of the business area.
Cashin went through glass doors into an area with a long counter staffed by two young women. A glass wall cut them off from a big office, half a dozen desks, five women and a man, all with heads down. He had to wait for three people to pay bills, one to lodge a classified advertisement.
‘I’d like to see back copies of the paper, please,’ he said.
‘Through that door,’ the woman said. ‘There’s about six months.’
‘For 1983.’
‘Jeez. Don’t think you can do that.’ She wasn’t interested, looking at the person behind him.
‘Is there a library?’
‘Library?’
‘Where you keep your files.’
Puzzled brow. ‘Better ask editorial,’ she said. ‘In there.’
Another reception room, an older woman behind a desk. He asked the same question. This time, he said police. She spoke on the phone. In seconds, a door opened and a man in his fifties, bald, florid, big belly, came in. Cashin introduced himself, showed the badge.
‘Alec Clarke,’ the man said. ‘Assistant editor. Come through.’
It was a big room, six or seven people at desks, looking at computers, three men doing the same at a cluttered table in the centre. It was not unlike a squad room. Clarke led Cashin to the first office in a row of four cubicles. They sat.
‘How can I help?’
Cashin told him.
‘That far back? Looking for something in particular?’