by Peter Temple
Cashin opened another beer. He stood at the counter, bottle in hand, pictures in his mind.
An old man roused from his bed, made to crawl down a long passage over a rough carpet.
A half-naked old man on his knees, someone slapping him, jerking his head from side to side, slapping him with fingers and palm, then backhand with the knuckles.
Then someone caning him across his back. Ten strokes.
Finally, he fell forward, hit his head on the stone hearth.
Cashin opened a can of tomato soup and shook the contents into a pot, added milk. Soup eaten with bread and butter. It had been a standard winter evening meal at the Doogues, home-made soup though, full of solid bits, they emptied their bowls.
He should make some proper soup. How hard could it be?
He thought about catching the bus to Cromarty every school day with Bern and Joannie and Craig and Frank, seven of them spread across the back seat, their seat. On the way there, Bern and Barry and Pat mucked around, he finished his homework, Joannie and Craig, the twins, whispered and bickered. On the way home, they were all in high spirits. Then, one by one, Barry, Pat and Bern dropped out and it was just the three of them.
Cashin took the beer back to the chair, wished he had a smoke. How long did the craving last? It would last forever if he kept chipping every chance he got.
He thought about that morning at The Heights—the old man on the floor, the blood, the sour smell. What was the smell? It wasn’t one of the smells of homicide. Blood and piss and shit and alcohol and vomit, they were the smells of homicide.
Why was the painting slashed? What was that about? Why would you bother?
He got up, found Carol Gehrig’s number in his notebook. It rang for no more than three seconds.
‘Hi, Alice here.’
A girl, a teenager, bright voice. She was hoping for a call, hanging out.
‘Is Carol Gehrig in?’
A disappointed silence. ‘Yeah. Mum! Phone.’
There were sounds and then Carol said hello.
‘Joe Cashin. Sorry to bother you again.’
‘No bother.’
‘Carol, the painting at Bourgoyne’s, the cut painting.’
‘Yeah?’ Another disappointed person.
‘Is it still on the wall?’
‘No. I got Starkey to take it down.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I told him to put it in the storeroom.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘Next to the old stables. You go through the studio.’
‘Did they ask you about the painting?’
‘The cops? No. I don’t think so.’
‘Why would anyone cut that painting?’
‘Beats me. Pretty awful picture. Sad, sort of.’
MRS MCKENDRICK was in her seventies, gaunt, long-nosed, with grey hair scraped back. On her desk stood a computer. To her left, at eye level, was an easel holding her shorthand notebook. To the right, on the desk in two rows, were containers holding paper clips, split pins, pencils, a stapler, a hole punch, sealing wax.
‘If she hasn’t got anyone with her,’ said Cashin, ‘it’ll only take a few minutes.’
‘This firm asks visitors to make appointments,’ she said, stroking the keyboard.
Cashin looked around the dark room, the prints of stags at bay, lonely waterfalls and hairy highland cattle grazing in the glens, and he found no patience.
‘I’m not a visitor,’ he said. ‘I’m the police. Would you mind leaving the decision to Mrs Addison?’
The tapping stopped. Grey eyes turned on Cashin. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Cecily Addison appeared behind Mrs McKendrick. ‘What’s all this?’ she said. ‘Come in, Joe.’
Cashin followed Cecily into her office. She crossed to the fireplace wall and leaned against the small bookcase, moved around, not much flesh to cushion her weight but no great weight to cushion. ‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘What’s the problem?’
He handed her the payments statement. ‘The ones I’ve ringed.’
Cecily’s gaze went down the list. She frowned. ‘Wages, most of these. This I think is the turf club membership. The Melbourne Club this, goes up every year. Credit card bill. Small these days, used to be huge. This is…oh, yes, rates for the North Melbourne property. Wood Street. They go up every year too, don’t know why he hangs onto it. The Companions used the place. I did the conveyance for that.’
‘What kind of place?’
‘It’s a hall. They had concerts there in the beginning, I gather. Music. Plays. It was Companions headquarters.’
Cecily began the search for her cigarettes. Today, a quick find, in a handbag. She plucked one, found the Ronson, it fired at the first click. A deep draw, a grey expulsion, a bout of coughing.
‘Tell me a bit about the Companions,’ said Cashin.
‘Well, the money came from Andrew Beecham. Mean anything?’
‘No.’
‘Andrew’s grandfather owned half of St Kilda at one point. Lords of the city, the Beechams. And the country, a huge property other side Hamilton. It’s broken up now, cut into four, five. They had royals there. The English aristocracy. Sirs and the Honourables. Playing polo.’
Cecily looked at her cigarette, turned her palm upwards, reversed it.
‘Educated in England, the Beechams,’ she said. ‘Nothing else good enough. Not Melbourne Grammar, not Melbourne Uni. Andrew never did a day’s work in his life. Mind you, he won an MC in the war. Then he married a McCutcheon girl, nearly as rich as he was, half his age. She hanged herself in the mansion in Hawthorn and Beecham had a stroke the same day. Paralysed down one side, gimpy leg, gimpy arm. Ended up marrying a nurse from the hospital. After a decent interval, of course.’
Cashin thought that he could understand marrying the nurse from the hospital.
Cecily was looking out of the window. ‘They come to you like angels, nurses,’ she said. ‘I remember my op, waking up, could’ve been on Mars, first thing I saw was this apparition in white…’
Silence.
‘Mrs Addison, the Companions,’ said Cashin.
‘Yes. Raphael Morrison. Heard of him?’
‘No.’
‘He was a bomber pilot, bombed the Germans, Dresden, Hamburg, you know, fried them like ants, women and kids and the old, not many soldiers there. He came home and he had a vision. Teach the young not to make the same mistakes, new world, that kind of thing. Moral improvement. So he started the Companions.’
Cecily covered a yawn with fingertips. ‘Anyhow, Andrew Beecham heard about the Companions from Jock Cameron, they were in the war together. Jock introduced Andrew and Morrison to old man Bourgoyne and he got the bug because of his dead older boys, and that’s why the camp’s where it is. On Bourgoyne land. In the late fifties, I was in the firm then.’
‘Bit lost here. Who’s Jock Cameron?’
‘Pillar of this firm for forty years. Jock got wounded crossing the Rhine. Came out here for his health.’
Cecily stared at Cashin. ‘You look a bit like Charles Bourgoyne,’ she said.
‘So, the Companions.’
‘Lovely family, Jock’s,’ she said. ‘Met them in ′67, we went to England on the Dunedin Star. Never forget those stewards, pillowbiters to a man. They’d come along these narrow passages and rub against my Harry. He didn’t take kindly, I can tell you.’
Cashin looked away, embarrassed. ‘Something else. Jamie Bourgoyne apparently drowned in Tasmania.’
‘Another family tragedy,’ she said, not much breath. ‘First his mother’s death so young.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘She fell down the stairs. The doctor said she was affected by sleeping pills. Tranquillisers, it might have been tranquillisers, I can’t recall. Same night as the Companions fire. Double tragedy.’
‘So Bourgoyne brought up the step-kids?’
‘Well, brought up’s not quite the term. Erica was at school in Melbourne then. Jamie had his own
teacher till he was about twelve, I think.’
‘And then?’
‘School in Melbourne. I suppose they came home in the holidays, I don’t know.’
Cashin said his thanks, went out into the day. Ice rain was slanting in under the deep verandahs, almost reaching the shopfronts, soaking the shoes of the few wall-hugging pedestrians. He drove around to the station. Dove’s faxes were on his desk and he started reading.
The phone rang. He heard Wexler being polite.
‘Look after business for ten or so, boss?’ said Wexler, behind him. ‘Shoplift at the super.’
‘I need the union,’ said Cashin. ‘On leave, I can’t come in here without being exploited.’
He was on the sixth page when Wexler returned, looking pleased.
‘Took a while, boss,’ he said. ‘This woman, she’s got no idea the two little kiddies in the cart got stuff up their anoraks, chockies and that. The owners, they jump on her like she’s some…’
‘Sores?’ said Cashin. He couldn’t remember her name. He touched the corners of his mouth.
Wexler blinked. ‘Yeah. Like little blisters, yeah.’
The first name came. ‘Jadeen something?’
Eyes widened. ‘Jadeen Reed.’
‘Jadeen’s just run out of supermarkets in this town. Shopping’s in Cromarty from now on.’
Wexler kept blinking. ‘Get it wrong, did I, boss?’
‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘Jadeen might have enough problems without a shoplifting charge.’
He left the station, bought the papers at the newsagent, avoided conversation, walked down to the Dublin. Two short-haired elderly women were at the counter, paying. They nodded and smiled at him. Either they were on the march or they’d seen him on television or both.
Leon thanked them for their patronage. When the door closed, he said, ‘So, now retired due to post-traumatic stress caused by the march of toddlers and the aged? Looking forward to a life on the disability pension?’
‘Long black, please. Long and strong.’
At the machine, Leon said, ‘On that note, I see you and Bobby Walshe are school chums.’
‘Kenmare Primary. Survivors.’
‘And on to Cromarty High, you two boys?’
‘Bobby left. Went to Sydney.’
‘So you’ll be voting for your other spunky school chum. Helen of Troilism.’
‘Of what?’
‘Troilism. Threesomes.’ Leon was admiring the crema on his creation. ‘Try under T in the cop manual. It’s probably a crime in Queensland. She’s standing in Cromarty for Bobby’s all-purpose party.’
‘You see that where?’
‘The local rag. I’ve got it here.’
Leon found a copy of the newspaper, opened it to the page. There was a small photograph of Helen Castleman. It did not flatter. The headline said:
SOLICITOR TO STAND FOR NEW PARTY
‘Did it cross your mind,’ Leon said, leaning on the counter, ‘that our lives are just like stories kids tell you? They get the and-then-and-then right, and then they run out of steam and just stop.’
‘You’ve got kids?’ It had not occurred to Cashin.
‘Two,’ said Leon.
Cashin felt a sense of unfairness. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t think about your life that way. Maybe you shouldn’t think about your life at all. Just make the coffee.’
‘I can’t help thinking about it,’ said Leon. ‘When I was growing up I was going to be a doctor, do good things, save lives. A life with a purpose. I wasn’t going to be like my father.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘He was an accountant. Dudded his clients, the little old ladies, the pensioners. One day he didn’t come home. I was nine, he didn’t come back till I was fourteen. Not a single word from him. I used to hope he’d come on my birthday. Then he arrived…anyway, forget it, I get maudlin in winter. Vitamin D deficiency, drink too much.’
‘Why can’t dentists have a purpose?’
Leon shook his head. ‘Ever heard anyone appeal for a dentist to come forward?’
‘My feeling,’ said Cashin, ‘is that you’re being a bit hard on yourself.’
CASHIN WAS looking into the fridge, thinking about what to cook for supper when the phone on the counter rang.
‘Get anywhere with the matter we discussed?’ said Helen Castleman.
‘I had the chat with them, yes,’ said Cashin.
‘So?’
‘It’s worth thinking about.’
‘Just thinking?’
‘A manner of speaking.’
Silence.
‘I don’t know how to take you, detective,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know whether you want the right result.’
‘What’s the right result?’
‘The truth’s the right result.’
Cashin looked at the dogs, splendid before the fire. They felt his gaze, raised heads, looked at him, sighed and sagged.
‘You’d be good in parliament,’ said Cashin. ‘Raise all the standards. The looks, the average IQ.’
‘Blind Freddy’s dog’s got a better chance of getting into parliament,’ she said. ‘I’m standing to give some choice in this redneck town. Moving on. What are you doing then?’
‘Working on the matter.’
‘Is that you or the homicide squad?’
‘I can’t speak for the homicide squad. There’s no great…’
‘Great what?’
‘I forget. Interrupting me does that. I’m on leave. Out of touch.’
‘And you’ve no doubt worn a path between your mansion and the illegal fence on my property.’
‘There’s a pre-existing path. Historical path to the historical boundary.’
‘Well, I’m coming up it,’ Helen said. ‘I want to see your eyes when you talk this vague bullshit.’
‘That’s also a manner of speaking, is it?’ said Cashin.
‘It is not. I’ll be there in… in however long it takes. I’ll be inspecting my boundary on the way.’
‘What, now?’
‘Setting out this very minute.’
‘Dark soon.’
‘Not that soon. And I’ve got a torch.’
‘Snakes are a problem.’
‘I’m not scared of snakes. Mate.’
‘Rats. Big water rats. And land rats.’
‘Well, eek, eek, bloody eek. Four-legged rats don’t scare me. I’m on my way.’
IN THE FADING afternoon, he saw the red jacket a long way off, a matchflare in the gathering gloom. Then the dogs sniffed her on the wind and took off, ran dead straight. They monstered her but she kept her hands in her pockets, no more scared of dogs than of snakes or rats.
When they met, Helen offered a hand in a formal way. She looked scrubbed, fresh out of the shower, colour on her cheekbones. ‘I suppose you could charge me with trespass,’ she said.
‘I’ll keep that in reserve,’ said Cashin. ‘Let me walk in front, lots of holes. I don’t want to be sued.’
He turned and walked.
‘Very legalistic meeting this,’ said Helen.
‘I don’t know about a meeting. More like an interview.’
They walked up the slope in silence. At the gate, Cashin whistled the dogs in and they appeared from different directions.
‘Highly trained animals,’ she said.
‘Hungry animals. It’s supper time.’
At the back door, he said, ‘I’m not apologising for the place. It’s a ruin. I live in a ruin.’
They went in, down the passage to the big room.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘What room is this?’
‘The ballroom. I have the balls in here.’
Cashin shunted the dogs into the kitchen, led the way to the rooms he lived in, cringed at the half-stripped wallpaper, the cracked plaster, the piles of newspapers.
‘This is where you go after the balls,’ said Helen. ‘The less formal room. It’s warm.�
��
‘This is where we withdraw to,’ he said. ‘The withdrawing room.’ He had read the term somewhere, hadn’t known it before Rai Sarris, that was certain.
Helen looked at him, nodding in an appraising way, biting her lower lip. ‘My embarrassment about this visit has been growing,’ she said. ‘I get so angry.’
Cashin cleared newspapers from a chair, dropped them on the floor. ‘Now that you’re here,’ he said, ‘have a seat.’
She sat down.
He didn’t know what to do next. He said, awkward, ‘Time to feed the dogs. Tea, coffee? A drink?’
‘Is that the choice for the dogs? Do I get to choose? Give them tea. And a bickie.’
‘Right. What about you?’
‘A drink like what?’ She was taking off her coat, looking around the room, at the sound equipment, the CD racks, the bookshelf.
‘Well, beer. Red wine. Rum, there’s Bundy. Coffee with Bundy is good on a cold day, that’s every day. With a small shot. A big shot, that’s good too.’
‘A medium shot. Do you do that?’
‘We can try. Tend to extremes here. It’s coffee made in a plunger. Warmed up.’
The light caught her hair, shiny. ‘Very good. That’s a big advance on what I usually drink.’
By the time he’d fed the dogs, the coffee was hot. He poured big hits of rum into mugs and filled up with coffee, picked the mugs up in one hand, sugar in the other, went back.
Helen was looking at the CDs. ‘This is heavy stuff,’ she said.
‘For a cop, you mean?’
‘I was speaking for myself. My father played opera all the time. I hated it. Never listened properly, I suppose. I’m a bad listener.’
He gave her a mug. ‘A bit of sugar takes the edge off it,’ he said.
‘I’ll be guided by you.’
He spooned sugar into her mug, stirred, did his mug. ‘Cheers.’
She shuddered. ‘Wow,’ she said. ‘I like this.’
They sat.
‘It’s been a sad business,’ she said, eyes on the fire.
‘No question.’
‘I’m feeling bad about this because I think you think I’m trying to use you in some way.’