The Broken Shore

by Peter Temple

  ‘I’m going home after this,’ said Cashin. ‘Handpass the matter to the experts.’

  They crossed the city, nothing said until Dove pulled up on the service road across from the gallery. ‘You sulking?’ he said.

  ‘That’s cheeky,’ said Cashin.

  ‘What’s cheeky mean in homicide?’

  ‘If I was still homicide, it means I outrank you. And that a reject from the Canberra dregs and a proven slackarse should show respect. That’s part of what cheeky means.’

  ‘I see. I’ll get a description of the watches.’

  ‘You never ran the name Pollard when you checked those Addison payments?’

  Dove sucked in his nostrils. ‘I was doing you a favour. Anyway, it was three days ago. Pollard was dead.’

  Cashin looked at the traffic.

  ‘You’re allowed to fuck up,’ said Dove. ‘Let Hopgood run it that night and kill the boys and you’re still okay. The mates look after you.’

  ‘Get the watch descriptions,’ Cashin said. ‘And see if Sydney got a description from the pawnbroker, whatever he calls himself. Either way, we want it now and that is this very day.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cashin crossed the road to the gallery, dodging traffic and a tram. In the foyer, he looked up and, in the way of it, met the eyes of Erica Bourgoyne. She was leaning on the rail. He went upstairs, found her seated.

  ‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Is this private enough for you?’

  ‘If you don’t shout.’ She was in dark grey, drinking black coffee, didn’t offer. ‘What line of investigation is this?’

  ‘Just a chat.’

  A downturned mouth. ‘I’m not available for chats. What’s the point? My step-father’s dead, the suspects are dead.’

  Cashin thought of Singo, the grey eyes under eyebrows like stick insects. ‘Our obligation is to the dead,’ he said. ‘Your step-father paid money every month to a man called Arthur Pollard.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘You don’t know Pollard?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  A group of Japanese tourists were trying to leave the gallery through the entrance. The attendant was redirecting them and they either didn’t understand or thought he was an idiot.

  ‘He was murdered a few days ago. In a building owned by your step-father.’

  ‘Christ. What building?’

  ‘A hall in North Melbourne. It used to be a theatre. Did you know he owned it?’

  ‘No. I don’t know what he owns. Owned. What has this to do with Charles?’

  ‘There are similarities.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  Cashin saw the man, black turtleneck, three tables away, turning a page of a newspaper, a tabloid. ‘We’re still working on it,’ he said. ‘Do you know anything about the Moral Companions? The camp at Port Monro?’

  ‘I remember the camp, yes. There was a fire there. Why?’

  ‘This hall was the Companions’ headquarters.’

  ‘To be clear here,’ said Erica. ‘You’re saying the Daunt boys didn’t bash Charles?’

  Cashin looked away, at the water running down the huge plateglass window. Two blurred figures outside were running fingertips across the stream, making wavy transient lines. ‘That’s possible,’ he said.

  ‘What about the watch?’

  ‘Never conclusive.’

  ‘Just because Charles gave this man money doesn’t link the attacks,’ said Erica. ‘Who knows how many people Charles gave money to?’

  ‘I do.’

  She sat back, hands on the table, linked them, parted them. ‘So you know everything and you say nothing. What can I possibly tell you that you don’t know?’

  ‘I thought you might think of something to tell me.’

  Erica looked at him, a steady gaze, blue-grey eyes. She touched the slim silver choker around her neck, ran a finger behind it. ‘I have nothing else to tell you and I have a meeting to go to.’

  Cashin did not know why he had waited to say it. ‘Pollard was a paedophile,’ he said. ‘Fucked boys. Children.’

  She shook her head as if mystified. Colour came to her cheekbones, she could not stop that. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that information is useful to you, but…’

  ‘It’s not useful to you?’

  ‘Why should it be? Are you scratching around because it’s going to be embarrassing if the Daunt boys are innocent?’

  ‘We’ll wear that.’ He looked away and, at the edge of his vision, he saw the man in the black turtleneck flexing his right hand. ‘What are you scared of, Ms Bourgoyne?’

  For an instant, he thought she was going to tell him. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The bodyguard.’

  ‘If I was scared of anything that fell in your area of concern, detective, I’d tell you. Now I have my meeting.’

  ‘Thank you for your time.’

  Cashin watched her go. She had good legs. At the escalator, she looked back and caught his eyes, held them a moment longer than necessary. Then the bodyguard blocked his view.

  ‘THE FIRST watch Bourgoyne bought from Cozzen’s,’ said Dove, ‘is this model.’ He pointed to a picture in a brochure. ‘The receipt is 14 September 1986.’

  ‘Very nice. Time yourself going down the Cresta Run.’ It was a technical-looking watch, black face, three white dials, three bevelled winders, recessed, a crocodile strap.

  ‘It’s called the Navitimer, still in production.’ Dove’s speech was clipped, he radiated antagonism. ‘Here’s the second one he bought, another Navitimer, 14 March 2000.’

  It had a plain white face, three small dials, also on a crocodile leather strap.

  Cashin thought about the morning at The Heights. A smart watch, Carol Gehrig said. A crocodile skin strap. ‘What’s the pawnbroker say?’

  ‘He made a statement at the time,’ said Dove. ‘Sydney sent it but in the excitement it seems to have fallen into a hole.’

  Cashin felt as if he had missed a night’s sleep somewhere. ‘What did he say at the time then?’

  ‘He said, I quote: “It was a Breitling. A Maritimer. It’s a collectable. Very expensive. The one with three small dials, black face, crocodile strap.”’

  Cashin got up, full of pain, went to the window and looked at the school grounds, the public gardens, all soft in the misty rain. He found Helen Castleman’s direct number.

  ‘Helen Castleman.’

  ‘Joe Cashin.’

  A moment.

  ‘I’ve tried to call you,’ she said. ‘Your home phone just rings, your mobile number appears to be off.’

  ‘I’m using another one. I’m in the city.’

  ‘I don’t know what I should say. You were so insulting. Arrogant. Dismissive.’

  ‘Got the right person? Listen, I need a description of the watch Susie saw. She gave me the name but I need a description from her. Can you get that?’

  ‘This is because the case is still under investigation?’

  ‘It always has been. Can you get that soonest?’

  ‘I’ll see. Give me your number.’

  Cashin sat down, looked at Dove. Dove didn’t want to look at him.

  ‘Hopgood says there’s no record of the messages to him that night,’ said Cashin.

  Now Dove looked. ‘The cunts,’ he said. ‘They’ve wiped them. They’ve wiped the fucking record.’

  ‘It could be at our end, a technical thing.’

  Dove shook his head, the overhead light blinked in his round lenses. ‘Well, then you can blame me at the inquest,’ he said. ‘Didn’t press the right buttons. Just fucked it up. As a boong does.’

  Cashin rose, sitting was worse than standing, went back to the window. He said, ‘Hopgood said, and I quote him, “You two boongs making up stories now?”’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He said, you two boongs making up stories now.’

  ‘That’s us?’

  ‘I took him to mean that, yes.’

  Dove laughed,
real pleasure. ‘Welcome to Boongland,’ he said. ‘Listen, bro, want to get some lunch round the corner? Grub sandwich?’

  ‘Had it with round the corner,’ said Cashin. ‘Had it for six years and I’ve had it.’

  ‘There’s a Brunetti’s at the arts centre,’ said Dove. ‘Know Brunetti’s in Carlton?’

  ‘You fucking blow-in, you don’t know Brunetti’s from Donetti’s.’

  Finucane joined them in the lift, gave them a ride down St Kilda Road.

  ‘Fin, looking at you,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m giving you a nine point six on the over-worked, under-slept, generally-fucked-over scale.’

  Finucane smiled the small modest smile of a man whose efforts had been recognised. ‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.

  ‘Want a transfer to Port Monro?’ said Cashin. ‘Just pub fights and sheep-shagging, the odd cunt nicks his neighbour’s hydroponic gear officially used to grow vine-ripened tomatoes. It’s a nice place to bring up kids.’

  ‘Too exciting,’ said Finucane. ‘I’ve got six blokes to see on Pollard. This one in Footscray, he says he goes back a long way. Probably turn out he rang from his deaf and dumb auntie’s house where he isn’t and doesn’t live.’

  At Brunetti’s, they queued behind black-clad office workers and backpackers and four women from the country who were overwhelmed by the choices. Cashin bought a calzone, Dove had a roll with duck and olives and capsicum relish and five kinds of leaves. They were drinking coffee when Cashin’s mobile rang. He went outside.

  ‘I hear traffic,’ said Helen. ‘Makes me nostalgic. Where are you?’

  ‘Near the arts centre.’

  ‘So cultured—opera, art galleries.’

  ‘Get hold of Susie?’ Cashin was watching a man coming down the pavement on a unicycle, a small white dog perched on each shoulder. The dogs had the resigned air of passengers on a long-distance bus.

  ‘She says the watch had a big black face and two or three little white dials.’

  Cashin closed his eyes. He thought that he should say thanks for your help and goodbye. That was what he should do. That was what the police minister and the chief commissioner and the assistant crime commissioner and very possibly Villani would want him to do.

  It wasn’t the right thing to do. He should tell her that the watch the boys tried to sell in Sydney wasn’t the watch Bourgoyne was wearing on the night he was attacked.

  ‘Still there?’ said Helen.

  ‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘Well, goodbye.’

  They finished their coffee and walked back. Cashin had to wait twenty minutes to see Villani. ‘Bourgoyne wasn’t wearing the watch the boys tried to sell in Sydney,’ he said.

  ‘How do you know?’

  Cashin told him.

  ‘Could’ve pinched that one from the house too. Pinched both watches.’

  ‘No. Corey Pascoe’s sister saw the fancy watch about a year ago. Corey had it before he went to Sydney. I’ve spoken to her.’

  ‘Well that could be bullshit.’

  ‘I believe her.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She knew the name. She’s described the watch.’

  ‘Fuck,’ said Villani. ‘Fuck. This is not looking good.’

  ‘No. What’s showing on Pollard?’

  ‘A woman down the street from the hall’s ID’d him. Seen in the vicinity a few times. Once with a kid. About twenty victims to interview. The computer stuff will take forever. Thousands of images. I don’t fancy our chances. Just be happy he’s dead. Like these drug scumbags we’re trying to get justice for.’

  ‘Anyway, I’m off,’ said Cashin. ‘Going home. I’m on enforced holiday. Over and out.’

  ‘Just when you were settling in again. Want to end this secondment shit? There’s fuck all wrong with you.’

  ‘I’m over homicide,’ said Cashin. ‘I don’t want to see any more dead people. Except for Rai Sarris. I want to see the dead Rai Sarris. And Hopgood. I’ll make an exception for Hopgood too.’

  ‘Unprofessional attitude. The vinegar smell. You sure about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Villani walked with him to the lifts. ‘I should say,’ he said, he looked down the corridor. ‘I want to say I’ve been squeezed on this. I’m not happy with my conduct. Not proud. I am considering my position.’

  Cashin didn’t know what to say. The lift doors opened. He touched Villani’s sleeve. ‘Take it easy,’ he said. ‘Don’t obsess.’

  LONG BEFORE he’d cleared the city, the mobile rang. Cashin pulled over.

  ‘Boss, Fin. This bloke rang in…’

  ‘Yes. Footscray.’

  ‘You should talk to him, boss.’

  ‘Out of this, Fin, I’m on my way home.’

  The traffic was picking up, the early leavers, commuters to the satellite towns, lots of four-wheel-drives, trade utes, trucks.

  ‘Yeah, well, the boss says to ask you, boss.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well, this one’s pretty fucked up. He drifts off the station, know what I mean?’

  ‘What’s the station?’

  ‘He knows Pollard. He hates Pollard. Hates everyone, everything, actually, spit going everywhere, you need a riot shield.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Not old old. It’s hard to say, shaven head, buggered teeth, maybe forties. Yeah. Major drug problem, no doubt.’

  ‘Get a statement?’

  ‘Boss, this is not statement territory. This is door-punching territory.’

  ‘Door-punching?’

  ‘I was trying to get through to him, he went quiet and then he came out of the fucking chair and he ran across the room, punched the door, two shots. The second one, his hand’s stuck in the door, blood everywhere.’

  ‘His name?’ said Cashin.

  ‘David Vincent.’

  Cashin expelled breath. ‘What’s the address? I’m close.’

  Finucane was waiting for him, parked in a street of rotting weatherboards, dumped cars and thin front yards silting up with junk mail. Cashin walked over, stood at the car window, hands in his pockets.

  ‘He’ll be happy to see you again?’

  Finucane scratched his head. ‘No. He told me to fuck off. But he’s not aggro about me. It’s the world that’s the problem.’

  ‘Live alone?’

  ‘There’s no one else there now.’

  ‘Let’s go.’

  It took several bouts of knocking before the door opened. Cashin could see a veined eye.

  ‘Mr Vincent,’ said Finucane, ‘A senior police officer would like a little chat about the things worrying you.’

  The door opened enough to show both eyes and a discoloured nose broken more than once, broken and shifted sideways. The eyes were the colour of washing powder. ‘Nothing’s fuckin worrying me,’ Vincent said. ‘Where’d you get that crap?’

  ‘Can we come in, Mr Vincent?’ said Cashin.

  ‘Fuck off. Said what I wanted.’

  ‘I understand you know Arthur Pollard?’

  ‘That’s what I fuckin said. CrimeStoppers. Told the fuckin idiot. Give him the name.’

  Cashin smiled at him. ‘We’re very grateful for that, Mr Vincent. Thank you. Just a few other things we’d like to know.’

  ‘Nah. I’m busy. Got a lot on.’

  ‘Right,’ said Cashin. ‘Well, we’d really appreciate your help. There’s a man murdered, an innocent man…’

  Vincent pulled the door open, smashed it against the passage wall, jarred the whole building. ‘Innocent? You fuckin mad? The fuckin bastard, shoulda killed the fuckin cunt myself…’

  Cashin looked away. He hadn’t meant Pollard, he’d been thinking of Bourgoyne.

  A woman had come out of the house next door. She was of unguessable age, wearing a pink turban and wrapped in what looked like an ancient embossed velvet curtain, faded and moulting.

  ‘Dint I tell you to bugger off
last time?’ she shouted. ‘Comin around with yer bloody Yank religion, yer bloody tower of Pisa, leanin bloody watchtower, whatbloodyever.’

  ‘Police,’ said Finucane.

  She went backwards at speed. Cashin looked at Vincent. The rage had left his face as if the outburst had drained some poison from him. He was a big man but stooped and gone to fat, rolls at his neck.

  ‘Woman’s mad,’ said Vincent in a calm voice. ‘Completely out of her tree. Come in.’

  They followed him into a dim passage and a small room with a collapsed sofa, two moulded plastic restroom chairs and a metal-legged coffee table with five beer cans on it. A television set stood on two stacked milk crates. Vincent sat on the sofa and lit a cigarette, holding the lighter in both hands, shaking badly. Blood was caked on the fingers and knuckles of his right hand.

  Cashin and Finucane sat on the plastic chairs.

  ‘So you know Arthur Pollard, Mr Vincent?’ said Cashin.

  Vincent picked up a beer can, shook it, tested another one, found one with liquid in it. ‘Many fuckin times you want me to say it? Know the cunt, know the cunt, know the…’

  Cashin held up a hand. ‘Sorry. Where do you know him from, Mr Vincent?’

  Vincent drank, looked down at the floor, drew on the cigarette. His left shoulder was jerking. ‘From the fuckin holidays.’

  ‘What holidays, Mr Vincent?’

  ‘The fuckin holidays, you know, the holidays.’ He raised his head, fixed his gaze on Cashin. ‘Tried to tell em, y’know. It wasn’t just me. Oh no. Nearly, poor little bugger, saw em. Saw em.’

  ‘Tell them what, Mr Vincent?’

  ‘Don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘What holidays are you talking about?’

  ‘Givin me that fuckin look, I know that fuckin look, HATE THAT FUCKIN LOOK.’

  ‘Steady on,’ said Cashin.

  ‘Piss off. Piss off. Got nothing to say to you cunts, all the same, you’re all fuckin in it, bastards kill a kid, you, you…you can just fuck off.’

  ‘Spare a smoke?’ said Cashin.

  ‘What?’

  Cashin mimed smoking. ‘Give us a smoke?’

  Vincent’s eyes flicked from Cashin to Finucane and back. He put a hand into his dirty cotton top and took out a packet of Leisure Lights, opened it with a black-rimmed thumbnail, offered it, shaking. Cashin took. Vincent offered the box to Finucane.