by Peter Temple
‘At this point,’ said Helen Castleman, ‘I’d like to say that my client has exercised those rights and he will not be answering any further questions in this interview.’
‘Interview suspended 9.47 am,’ said Cashin.
Dove switched off the equipment.
‘Short and sweet,’ Cashin said. ‘Would you care to step outside with me for a moment, Ms Castleman?’
They went into the corridor. ‘Bail hearing at 12.15,’ Cashin said. ‘If Donny was to tell his story, there might not be opposition to bail.’
Her eyes were different colours, one grey, one blue. It gave her a look somehow fierce and aloof. Cashin remembered studying her face in the year twelve class photograph long after he left school.
‘I’ll need to get instructions,’ she said.
Dove and Cashin went down the street and bought coffee at a place called Aunty Jemimah’s. It had checked tablecloths and Peter Rabbit pictures on the walls.
‘Old school mates,’ said Dove. ‘Lucky you.’
‘She was too good for me,’ said Cashin. ‘Old Cromarty money. Her father was a doctor. The family used to own the newspaper. And the iceworks. The only reason she didn’t go to boarding school was she wouldn’t leave her horses.’
On the way back, Dove opened his cup and sipped. ‘Jesus, what is this stuff?’ he said.
‘Some of the shit you get without the benefits.’
Helen Castleman was outside the station, talking on her mobile. She watched them coming, looked at them steadily. They were near the steps when she said, ‘Detective Cashin.’
‘Ms Castleman.’
‘Donny’s mother says he was at home on the night of the Bourgoyne attack. I’ll see you in court.’
‘Look forward to it.’ Cashin went in and rang the prosecutor. ‘Bail is strenuously opposed,’ he said. ‘Investigations incomplete. Real danger accused will interfere with witnesses or abscond.’
At 11.15, Dove and Cashin headed for the station door.
‘Phone for you,’ said the cop on the desk. ‘Inspector Villani.’
‘What’s wrong with your mobile?’ Villani said.
‘Sorry. Switched off.’
‘Listen, the kid gets bail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what the minister told the chief commissioner, who told the crime commissioner, who told me. It’s political. They don’t want to take the chance Donny so much as gets a nosebleed in jail.’
‘As their honours please.’
‘Donny’s bail not opposed,’ Cashin said to Dove.
‘Pissweak,’ said Dove. ‘That is capitulation, that is so pissweak.’
The desk cop pointed at the door. ‘Got a reception committee. Television.’
Cashin went cold. Somehow he hadn’t thought of this. ‘You speak to them,’ he said to Dove. ‘You’re from the city.’
Dove shook his head. ‘Hasn’t taken you long to turn into a flannelshirt, has it?’
They went out, into camera flashes and the shiny black eyes of television cameras, furry microphones on booms thrust at them. At least a dozen people came at them, jostling.
‘What’s Donny Coulter charged with?’ said a woman in black, blonde hair immobilised with spray.
‘No comment,’ said Dove. ‘All will soon be revealed.’
They made their way down the stairs and the camera crews ran ahead and filmed them walking down the winter street under a grey tumbling sky. Rounding the bend, they saw the crowd outside the court.
‘Ms Castleman’s spread the word,’ said Dove.
The crowd parted, allowed them a narrow corridor. They walked side by side between the hostile faces, silence until they neared the top of the stairs.
‘You murderers,’ said a man wearing a rolled-up balaclava on Cashin’s left. ‘All you cunts are good for, killin kids.’
‘Bastards,’ said a woman on Dove’s side. ‘Mongrels.’
The lobby was crowded, the small courtroom was full. They made their way to the prosecutor, a senior constable. ‘Change of mind,’ said Cashin. ‘Not opposing bail for Coulter.’
She nodded. ‘I heard.’
They took their places on the Crown’s seats. Dove looked around. ‘Just the two of us representing the forces of law and order,’ he said. ‘Where’s Hopgood, the friendly face of community policing?’
‘Probably on the firing range breaking in the replacements for KD and Preston,’ said Cashin.
Dove looked at him for a second, the round glasses flashed.
Helen Castleman arrived with an older woman. Cashin thought he saw a resemblance to Donny.
At 12.15 exactly, Donny was brought up from the cells to a hero’s welcome from the spectators. He didn’t look at anyone except the woman with Helen Castleman. She smiled at him, winked, a brave face.
The audience were told to be silent, then to stand. The magistrate came in and sat down. He had a chubby pink face and the grey strands combed over his bald scalp made him look like an infant suffering from a premature-ageing disease.
The prosecutor identified Donny, said he was charged with attempted murder. The audience had to be hushed again.
‘This is obviously a show-cause situation, your honour,’ she said, ‘but there is no objection to bail.’
The magistrate looked at Helen Castleman and nodded.
She rose. ‘Helen Castleman, your honour. I represent Mr Coulter and would like to apply for bail. My client has no criminal record, your honour. He has been charged in the most tragic circumstances imaginable. A few days ago, he saw his cousin and a close friend die in an incident involving the police…’
Applause from the gallery, a few shouts. More silencing by the clerk of the court.
‘In this court, Ms Castleman,’ said the magistrate, a baby with a gruff voice, ‘it is not a good idea to grandstand.’
Helen Castleman bowed her head. ‘That was not my intention, your honour. My client is just an innocent boy, the victim of circumstances. He is traumatised by what has happened and he needs to be at home with his family. He will give and honour all undertakings the court may require. Thank you, your honour.’
The magistrate frowned. ‘Bail is granted,’ he said. ‘The accused is not to leave his place of residence between the hours of 9 pm and 6 am and must report to the Cromarty police once a day.’
Applause again, more shouts, more silencing.
Cashin looked at Helen Castleman. She tilted her head, gave him a suggestion of a smile, lips just parted. Cashin felt like the teenage boy he once was, full of lust and full of wonder that a beautiful and clever rich girl would kiss him.
THEY WALKED past Helen Castleman being interviewed on the court steps and the television crews caught up with them before they reached the station. Dove declined to answer questions.
‘There’s a room organised, boss,’ the desk cop said to Cashin. ‘Upstairs, turn left, last door on the right.’
When they got there, Dove looked around, shook his head. ‘Organised?’ he said. ‘They unlocked the fucking junk room, that’s organised?’
Tables pushed together, two computers, four bad chairs, piles of old newspapers, scrap paper, drifts of pizza boxes, hamburger clams, styro-foam cups, plastic spoons, uncapped ballpoints, crushed drink cans.
‘Like a really bad sitting room in an arts students’ shared house,’ Dove said. ‘Disgusting.’ He went to a window, unlatched it, tried to pull the bottom half up, failed, banged both sides of the frame with fists, tried again. Cords showed in his neck. The window didn’t move.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Can’t breathe in here.’
‘Need the nebuliser?’
It was provocative and it worked. ‘I don’t have fucking asthma,’ Dove said. ‘I have a problem with breathing air circulated ten thousand times through people with bad teeth and rotten tonsils and constipation.’
‘Didn’t mean anything. People have asthma.’ Cashin sat down. He had to live with Dove.
Dove pull
ed a chair out, sat, put his polished black shoes on the desk. The soles were barely worn, insteps shiny yellow and unmarked. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t have asthma.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’m assuming what will happen here is the defence will want Luke Ericsen loaded with Bourgoyne. Luke’s dead, it’s not a problem for him.’
‘If Donny was there, he’ll share the load.’
‘Placing Donny there,’ said Cashin. ‘That’s a challenge. And if it happens, the story then will be led astray by his older cousin, didn’t take part, that sort of thing.’
A crash, his heart jumped. Unlatched by Dove, its sash cords rotten, the top half of the window had waited, dropped. The big panes were vibrating, wobbling the outside world.
Cold air came in, the sea—salty, sexual.
‘That’s better,’ said Dove. ‘Much better. Delayed action. Smoke?’
‘No thanks. Always fighting the urge.’
Dove lit up, moved his chair back and forth. ‘I’m new to this but if you don’t place Donny at the house, all you have is he went to Sydney with Luke and they tried to sell Bourgoyne’s watch. A half-way solid story about where he was on the night, tucked up in bed, he’ll walk.’
‘I suppose he should. That’s the system.’
Dove eyed him briefly, narrow eyes. ‘The smartarses who walk. You see them look at their mates, little smirk. Outside, it’s the high fives. How easy was that? Fucking shithead cops, let’s do it again.’ Pause. ‘What’s Villani say? Your mate.’
Cashin felt a powerful urge to smack Dove down. He waited. ‘Inspector Villani says nothing,’ he said. ‘The solicitor says Donny’s mum’s giving the alibi. There may be others to confirm it.’
Dove’s head was back. ‘Some women amaze me. They spend their whole lives covering up for men—the father, the husband, the sons. Like it’s a woman’s sacred duty. Doesn’t matter what the bastards do. So what if my dad beat my mum, so what if my hubby fucked the babysitter, so what if my boy’s a teenage rapist, he’s still my…’
‘We don’t have anything that says Donny was there on the night,’ Cashin said.
‘Anyway, it’s academic,’ Dove said. ‘Hopgood’s right. Bobby Walshe’s made them go soft-cock on this. First it’s bail, next they drop the charges.’
‘You should tell Hopgood that. He’ll want you on the Cromarty team. You could be spokesperson.’
Dove smoked in silence, eyes still on the ceiling. Then he said, ‘I’m black so I’m supposed to empathise with these Daunt boys. Is that what you’re saying?’
There was a gull on the sill—the hard eyes, the moulting head, it reminded Cashin of someone. ‘The idea is to keep an open mind until the evidence convinces you of something.’
‘Yes, boss. I’ll keep an open mind. And in the meantime, I have to live in the Whaleboners’ Motel.’
‘The Whalers’ Inn.’
‘Could very well be.’ Cigarette in his mouth, Dove looked at Cashin. ‘Just tell me,’ he said. ‘I accept reality. I’ll read a book until it’s time to go home.’
‘The job is to build the case against Donny and Luke,’ said Cashin. ‘I don’t have any other instructions.’
‘I’m not talking about instructions.’
The sagging chair wasn’t doing anything for Cashin’s aches, his mood. He got up, took off his coat, spread an old newspaper on the floor, lay down and put his legs on the chair, tried to get into a Z shape.
‘What’s this?’ said Dove, alarmed. ‘Why are you doing that?’
Cashin couldn’t see him. ‘I’m a floor person. We’ll have to see where we can get with Donny’s mum.’
Dove appeared above him. ‘What’s the point?’
‘If she’s going to lie for the boy, she’ll be worried. They don’t know what we’ve got. Getting Donny to plead guilty to something would be a good outcome.’
Cashin heard the door open.
‘Just you, sunshine?’ said Hopgood. ‘Where’s Cashin?’
Dove looked down. Hopgood came around the table and studied Cashin as if he were roadkill.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he said.
‘We missed you in court,’ said Cashin.
Hopgood’s chin went up. Cashin could see the hairs in his nose.
‘Not my fucking business.’
‘We need to talk to Donny’s mum.’
‘Thinking about going to the Daunt, are you?’
Cashin didn’t fancy the idea. ‘If we have to. Can’t see her presenting here.’
‘Well, it’s your business,’ Hopgood said. ‘Don’t call us.’
‘I need to talk to the Aboriginal liaison bloke.’
‘Ask the desk where he’s currently doing fuck all.’
A phone rang. Dove picked up one, wrong, tried another. ‘Dove,’ he said. ‘Good, boss, yeah. Went off okay, yeah. I’ll put him on.’
He offered Cashin the phone. ‘Inspector Villani,’ he said, impassive.
Cashin reached up. ‘Supreme commander,’ he said.
‘Joe, we are talking a cooling-off period,’ said Villani.
‘Meaning?’
‘Let things settle down. I saw your court crowd today, our television friends showed us their pictures for the evening news. The word is no more turbulence like that is wanted.’
‘Who said that?’
‘I can tell you I don’t quote the bloke at the servo.’
‘The kid’s been charged on close to zero. Now you’re saying you don’t want us to find any actual evidence or try to get a plea out of him?’
‘Nothing is to be done to inflame this situation.’
‘That’s a political order, is it?’
Villani expelled breath as a whistle. ‘Joe, can’t you see the sense?’ he said.
Cashin felt Dove and Hopgood looking at him, a man lying on the floor, talking on a phone, his calves on a chair.
‘I’d like to say, boss,’ he said, ‘that we have a short time here when we might shake something loose. We let that pass, we will need jackhammers.’
Silence.
Cashin focused on the ceiling, yellow, creased and spotted like the back of an elderly hand. ‘That is my common sense,’ he said. ‘For what it’s worth.’
Silence.
‘For what it’s worth, Joe,’ said Villani, ‘taking Shane Diab parking outside Rai Sarris’s place was your idea of common sense.’
Cashin felt the cold knife inside him, turning. ‘Moving on,’ he said. ‘How long is a cooling-off period? For example.’
‘I don’t know, Joe, a week, ten days, more.’ Villani spoke slowly, like someone talking to an obtuse child. ‘We’ll need to use our judgment.’
‘Right. Some of us will use our judgment.’ Cashin was looking at Dove. ‘In the meantime, what’s Paul Dove do?’
‘I need him back here for a while. I want you to take some time off. Handle that?’
‘Is that suspension again, boss?’
‘Don’t be a prick, Joe. I’ll call you later. Put Dove on.’
Cashin handed up the handset to Dove.
‘What’s he say?’ said Hopgood.
‘He says there’s a cooling-off period over Donny.’
‘Is that right?’ said Hopgood, something like a smirk in his voice, on his lips. ‘You won’t be needing this comforable office then.’
In light rain, Dove and Cashin walked up to the Regent, got beers in the bar and sat in the dim cooking-fat-scented bistro, the only customers.
Dove read the laminated menu, ran his index finger down the list.
‘Twelve main courses,’ he said. ‘You need at least three people in the kitchen to do that.’
‘In the city,’ said Cashin. ‘Three bludgers. Here we do it with a work-experience girl’
‘A steak sandwich,’ said Dove. ‘What can they do to that? How badly can they fuck that up?’
‘They meet any challenge.’
A worn woman in a green coverall came out of a back door and stood over them
with a notepad, sucked her teeth, sounds like the last dishwater going down a blocked drain.
‘Two steak sandwiches, please,’ said Cashin.
‘Only in the bar,’ she said, her gaze on the wall. ‘No sangers here. The bistro menu here.’
‘Cops,’ said Cashin. ‘Need a bit of privacy.’
She looked down, smiled at him, crooked teeth. ‘Right, well, that’s okay. Know all the cops. You here for the Bourgoyne thing then?’
‘Can’t talk about work.’
‘Black bastards,’ she said. ‘Two down, why don’t you nail the bloody lot of them? Bomb the place. Like that Baghdad.’
‘Could you cut the fat off?’ said Dove. ‘I’d appreciate that.’
‘Don’t like fat? No worries.’
‘And some tomato?’
‘On a steak sandwich?’
‘It’s a boong thing,’ said Dove.
At the kitchen door, she glanced back at Dove. Cashin saw the uncertainty in her eyes. Across the gloomy space, he saw it.
‘An attractive woman,’ said Dove. ‘So many attractive people around here, it must be something in the white gene pool.’ He looked around. ‘Stuff like the other night bother you? Still bother you? Ever bother you?’
‘What do you think?’
‘Well, you’re fairly hard to read, if I may say so. Except for the lying on the floor stuff, that’s a real window into the soul.’
Cashin considered telling him about the dreams. ‘It bothers me.’
‘Shooting the kid.’
‘Somebody shoots at you, what do you do?’
‘What I’m getting at,’ said Dove, ‘is whether the kid fired first. Did you tell them that?’
Cashin didn’t want to answer the question, didn’t want to consider the question. ‘You’ll know what I told them when we get to the coroner.’
‘Cross your mind we were set up? Hopgood puts us together in a dud car, claims he can’t hear the radio.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Leave himself and his boys a bit of slack if anything went wrong.’
‘That may be too far-sighted for Hopgood. You missing the feds?’
Dove shook his head in pity. They talked about nothing, the sandwiches came, the woman fussed over Cashin.
‘Could this be whale steak?’ said Dove after a bout of chewing. ‘I don’t suppose they honour the whaling treaty here.’