‘A fire. At the Moral Companions camp near Port.’
‘Right, yes. Big news that, the boys. Very sad. What’s the interest now?’
‘Idle curiosity.’
Clarke laughed, held up his hands, palms out. ‘Message received. I’ll have a check, back in a minute.’
He went out, turned right. Cashin looked at the workers. They were all young women except for the three at the middle table, seedy older men, pale, moulting and flaking. The ginger one who appeared to be in charge was methodically fossicking in his nostrils, from time to time studying the finds. A painfully thin young woman came in and went to the prospector, spoke in a respectful manner. He pulled a face, waved his right hand dismissively. She nodded and she went to a seat at the back of the room. Cashin saw her shoulders slump, her chin go down.
‘Sorry to be so long, detective,’ said Clarke. He sat behind the desk.
‘Always a pleasure to watch a well-oiled machine,’ said Cashin.
A tight smile. ‘Now there’s a problem here,’ said Clarke. ‘We went modern in ′84, put everything on microfiche. You’re probably too young to remember microfiche.’
‘I know microfiche.’
‘Yes. Well, we had a fire in ′86, a cigarette someone dropped in a bin, but we lost the fiche for about ten years from 1976.’
‘What about the actual papers?’
‘Destroyed in ′84, unfortunately. No concern for heritage then. In retrospect, we should never…’
‘The State Library would have them?’
‘Worth a try. Certainly.’
Outside, Cashin walked to the vehicle in a cold morning, looked up at a sky deep as heaven, pale as memory. The dogs beat each other with their tails at the sight of him.
THE STATE Library did not hold the Cromarty Herald. Cashin put down the phone and thought about Corey Pascoe and Bourgoyne’s watch. Did it matter now?
He closed his eyes, put his head back. The boys were dead because of a Bourgoyne watch. The whole terrible business turned on the watch.
How did Corey come to have a watch belonging to Bourgoyne? Chris Pascoe said something that day on the pier, it hadn’t registered as important. He wasn’t a bad kid, Corey. Could’ve played AFL footy. Just full of shit, thought he saw a fuckin career in dope. You a mate of Hopgood and that lot?
A career in dope. Was he talking about Corey smoking dope? That wouldn’t be remarkable on the Daunt, it wouldn’t be remarkable anywhere in the country. Dope was like beer in the 1960s. People then didn’t say the beer kept them from playing professional footy.
No, Pascoe didn’t mean smoking. He meant growing, dealing.
He watched the dogs patrolling the backyard, complaining to each other of sensory deprivation. They didn’t like the place, they wanted to be somewhere with Rebb. What kind of memory did dogs have? Did they miss Rebb?
The Piggots were drug people. Billy Piggot was dealing to schoolkids. Debbie Doogue had been a customer.
Kendall behind him. ‘Am I allowed to say I’d like you back in that chair permanently ASAbloodyP? I am so bored by these boy wonders I could face a charge any time now.’
‘I’m back soon,’ said Cashin. ‘Never heard of anyone missing me.’
‘Staging for compliments, that’s not allowed,’ she said. ‘What I appreciate is that you don’t go on about reality crap on television and how many slow curls for the maximum upper-body benefit.’
‘Actually, I’ve been thinking about curls. This kid came in about the hairdresser girlfriend took his ute to Queensland. He says the Piggots are getting rich. Been busted to your knowledge, the Pigs?’
‘In my time, no.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Don’t know. It’s Cromarty’s business.’
‘Yes, but someone has to tell Cromarty.’
‘I don’t think they need telling. I think they know.’
‘This come up before I arrived? When Sadler was in charge?’
‘We had complaints.’ Kendall looked away. ‘Sadler said he’d talk to Cromarty. Anyway, work to do.’
‘Just hold a sec, Ken. The day of the march, I asked you about Billy Piggot, you said something about a Ray Piggot. What was it again?’
‘Ripped five hundred bucks off a rep staying at the Wavecrest. He said he gave Ray a lift from outside Cromarty, invited him to his room for a beer. Later the money was gone. Just two thirsty blokes, you understand, one’s about fifty, the other one looks like he’s fourteen.’
‘He had Ray’s full name?’
‘Yes. Sadler rang Cromarty. Hopgood and that Steggles arrived. Parked in the back. Ray Piggot was in the car. Must’ve picked him up on the way. They left him there, talked to the rep in the interview room. He left, they left. Never heard any more.’
‘Piggot not charged?’
‘Nope. He got off a charge in Melbourne too. Stole a stereo and a laptop from a bloke he met in the park. Streetkid then.’
‘What does all this say to you?’
Kendall smiled her small sad, comprehending smile, eyes down. ‘I’m just happy to have my job,’ she said. ‘When I was physically stuffed, people didn’t push me away, get me out of sight, pension me off. They were family to me. You’d know about that. Not so?’
She left. Cashin put his head back, heard the messages from his tired places. The morning at the court, Greg Law had given him a message about Hopgood. Head-kicking, grass-growing Gaby Trevena wasn’t the most dangerous person in town, he said. Had Law been delivering a threat from Hopgood? Or had he been saying he wasn’t a Hopgood man?
You a mate of Hopgood and that lot?
Hopgood and Lloyd. And Steggles, presumably.
Steggles vomited that night. In the pouring rain, face down, his gun pointed at the sky, a tube of vomit sprang from his mouth. The hamburger he had been eating at the briefing, the greasy yellow chips with sauce-red tips, they exited his body after he shot the boy.
Didn’t have the stomach for it, Steggie.
Cashin rang Helen Castleman.
‘I want to talk to that Pascoe again,’ he said.
‘Your bedside manner needs some work. Has anyone told you that?’
‘I’ll talk to him in your office. You can be there.’
‘This is official, is it? An official interview?’
‘No. Just a chat.’
‘Well, I don’t represent Pascoe, so I have no standing when it comes to chats. Also I have no desire to assist the police in their chatting work.’
‘I’ll start again. I’m trying to clear the boys. Clear your client.’
‘My late client.’
She was silent. Cashin waited.
‘I’ll get back to you,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’
Cashin went outside, walked around the block in the wind, only a few people in the main street, moving between vehicles and shops. Leon’s place was empty.
‘Police,’ said Cashin loudly. ‘This business open?’
‘Open to bloody suggestions,’ said Leon, coming out of the kitchen. ‘Open to offers of any kind. Limited menu today. Soup, that’s all I’m offering, a proper minestrone made with a ham bone.’
‘To take away?’
‘Seven-fifty eaten on premises. For removal, I’ll accept four-fifty. Three-fifty because you’re the police.’
‘You can keep the bone.’
‘Three-fifty. I’ll chuck in a slice of bread. Proper bread. Buttered. With butter.’
‘Two slices.’
‘Stood over. I’m being stood over. What kind of music do you like?’
Cashin was eating the soup at his desk when the phone rang.
‘He doesn’t want to come here,’ said Helen. ‘He’s a very uninterested person, he’s not interested in chatting’
‘That’s it?’
‘He says if you want to chat, you can come to his house tonight. He would like to point out that he owes the police nothing. I’m paraphrasing and editing here so as not to offend your tender sensibilities.’
So smart. Cashin thought he could read books for another ten years and it wouldn’t help. ‘I’ll do that then,’ he said. ‘Thank you and goodbye.’