Cashin said, ‘So to clear this up, we’re not talking about Ray and a burg?’
Pascoe laughed. ‘Hopgood woulda dropped him off up there for old Charlie Bourgoyne. This cunt Ray knew what he was in for but he’s not the first kid been fed to Charlie and his mates. That’s one of Hoppy’s jobs. That’s the way it’s always been.’
THEY DROVE in silence to the forecourt of the service station where Cashin had parked. ‘Thank you,’ he said, made to go.
‘Wait.’
There were no cars at the pumps. The windows of the small cashier’s cabin were steamed up by breath.
‘I need some things explained to me,’ said Helen. ‘What the hell was going on there?’
Cashin thought about what to say to her. She had no further part to play in this shit, she didn’t have a client. ‘Pascoe’s growing,’ he said. ‘Also, he delivers, he does the tightarse run. The Piggots get other people to grow, make tablets, deliver. Pascoe says Hopgood and the mates are in it, building up their super.’
‘Why’s Pascoe telling you?’
‘He wants me to take care of the Piggots. For telling me how the boys got the watch.’
‘This is another watch, an earlier one?’
‘That’s right. Different model.’
‘So it was a stuff-up from the beginning?’
‘It was.’
‘And you believe the story about this Ray Piggot?’
Cashin looked at her. A car turned in and the headlights splashed her face and he felt again the full sad stupidity of teenage lust for someone beyond reach. ‘Ray’s a quickpick,’ he said. ‘Rips off the punters if he can.’
‘A quickpick?’
‘Drivethrough, a hitchhiker. One size fits all.’
‘Joe, I was in corporate law until a year ago.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing left for you to do. Just a mess for us to clean up. Of our own making.’
‘Joe.’
‘What?’
‘Give me a break. You wouldn’t know what you know if I hadn’t pushed you to see Pascoe. Pascoe says Hopgood delivered Ray Piggot to Bourgoyne. And other boys. Nobody’s ever said this about Bourgoyne.’
‘In your circle.’
‘What’s that mean? In my circle?’
‘Maybe you Bayview Drive people don’t talk about stuff like that. Too vulgar.’
Helen tapped second knuckles of both hands on the steering wheel. ‘Not rising to that bait,’ she said, a pause between each word.
‘Got to go,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll get back to you.’
It was cold and damp outside, a sea mist. He ducked his head to say thanks.
‘Are you often in pain?’ said Helen.
‘No.’
‘Well, you fooled me. Anyway, I’m in the house, we’re neighbours. Care to stop off for a drink? I can microwave some party pies. I gather people in your circle enjoy them.’
He was going to say, no thank you, I’ll give that a miss, but he looked into her eyes. ‘I’ll follow you,’ he said.
‘No,’ she said, ‘you go first. You know the road better.’
The driveway to the Corrigan house ran between old elms, many dead. It was newly graded, the earth white in the headlights. Cashin parked to the left of the homestead gate and switched off. Helen parked beside him. He got out, uneasy. The moving sky opened and a full moon appeared in the wedge, lit the world pale grey. They went down the long path in silence, climbed new timber steps to the front door.
‘I’m still a bit spooked out here,’ she said. ‘The dark. The silence. It may be a mistake.’
‘Get a dog,’ said Cashin. ‘And a gun.’
They went down a passage. She clicked lights, revealed a big empty room, two or three of the old house’s rooms knocked into one, a new floor laid. There were two chairs and a low table.
‘I haven’t got around to furniture yet,’ said Helen. ‘Or unpacked the books.’
He followed her into a kitchen.
‘Stove, fridge, microwave,’ she said. ‘It’s your basic bed-and-breakfast establishment. No personality.’
‘Party pies are just right then,’ said Cashin. ‘Very little personality in a party pie.’
Helen hooked her thumbs in her coat pockets. She lifted her chin. Cashin saw the tendons in her throat. He could feel his heartbeat.
‘Hungry?’ she said.
‘Your eyes,’ said Cashin. ‘Did you inherit that?’
‘My grandmother had different coloured eyes.’ She half-turned from him. ‘You were a person of interest at school. I like that term. Person of interest.’
‘That’s a lie. You never noticed me.’
‘You looked so hostile. Glowering. You still glower. Something sexy about a glower.’
‘How do you glower?’
‘Don’t question your gift.’ Helen crossed the space and took his head in her hands, kissed him, drew back. ‘Not too responsive,’ she said. ‘Are cops intimate on the first date?’
Cashin put his hands inside her coat, held her, inhaled her smell, felt her ribs. She was thinner than he expected. He shivered. ‘Cops generally don’t have second dates.’
There was a long moment.
Helen took Cashin’s right hand, kissed it, kissed his lips, led him.
In the night, he awoke, sensed that she was awake.
‘Do you still ride?’ he said.
‘No. I had a bad fall, lost my nerve.’
‘I thought the idea was to get on again.’
She touched him. ‘Is that a suggestion?’
THE HOUSE could be seen from a long way, the front door dead centre at the end of a drive of pencil pines. As Cashin drove, the weak western sunlight flicked unnervingly through the trees.
A thin, lined woman wearing a dark tracksuit answered his knocks. Cashin said the words, offered the ID.
‘Round the back,’ she said. ‘In the shed.’
He walked on the concrete apron. The place had the air of a low-security prison-the fence around the compound, the building freshly painted, the watermelon scent of newly mown grass in the air. No trees, no flowers, no weeds.
The shed, big enough for a few light aircraft, had an open sliding door on the north side. A man appeared in it when Cashin was ten metres away.
‘Mr Starkey?’ said Cashin.
‘Yeah?’
He was wearing clean blue overalls over a checked shirt, a huge man, fat but hard looking, head the shape and colour of a scrubbed potato.
‘Detective Senior Sergeant Cashin. Can we talk?’
‘Yeah.’ He turned and went inside.
Cashin followed him. Mrs Starkey’s kitchen would be this clean and neat, he thought. Power tools in racks. Two long benches with galvanised iron tops shone under the fluorescent light. Behind them pegboards held tools-spanners, wrenches, pliers, metal snips, hacksaws, steel rulers, clamps, calipers-arranged by size in laser-straight rows. There was a big metal lathe and a tiny one, a drill stand, two bench grinders, a power hacksaw, a stand with slots and holes for files and punches and other things.
In the centre of the space, under chain hoists, four old engines in stages of disassembly stood on square steel tables.
A tall thin youth, dressed like Starkey, was at a vice, filing at something. He glanced at Cashin, looked down at the work, a lock of hair falling.
‘Go talk to yer mum, Tay,’ said Starkey.
Tay had an oily cloth in his back pocket. He took it out and carefully wiped the bench, went over to a stand, wiped his file and put it in its place.
He went without looking at Cashin again. Cashin watched him go. He held one shoulder lower than the other, walked with it leading in a crab-like way.
‘Working on these engines,’ said Cashin.
‘Yeah,’ said Starkey. His eyes were slits. ‘Bourgoyne & Cromie engines. What can I do for you?’
‘You fix them?’
‘Restore em. Best ever made. What?’
Cashin realised there was nowhere to sit. ‘The watch Mr Bourgoyne was wearing,’ he said. ‘Can you identify it?’
‘Yeah, I reckon.’
Cashin took out a colour copy of the brochure, folded to show only the watch with the plain white face, three small dials.