by Peter Temple
‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘tell him you’ll connect him up if the power fails. I could use a generator. Sell them?’
‘Don’t sell, not a business,’ said Starkey. ‘Only restore ones my granddad and my dad finished off. They punched their initials under the number.’
‘How do you find them?’
‘Advertise, Queensland, WA, Northern Territory. I got auctioneers keep a lookout at clearing sales, that kind of thing. Found one in Fiji, rusted to buggery. Cost a bit to bring it home.’
‘And you’ve found four?’
‘Thirteen. Got another shed for em.’
‘Where do you stop?’
‘Stop?’
‘Collecting them.’
‘Don’t have to stop.’
There was no point in asking why. It was a pretty useless question most of the time. The answer was either obvious or too complicated to understand. Cashin looked for the engine number. ‘Ever drive Bourgoyne to a house in North Melbourne?’
‘North… no. Only took him to Relly Street.’
The fortress had a crack, a hairline fracture. He didn’t look at Starkey. ‘A hall in North Melbourne, you drove him there.’
‘A hall? Just Relly Street.’
‘The Companions hall. You know it, don’t bullshit me, Mr Starkey.’
‘No, don’t know it.’
Cashin went to another engine. They were simple machines, he could probably learn to fix one. Easier than making a decent soup. ‘Your dad, he’d have been pretty pissed off when they sold the factory.’
Silence. Starkey coughed, off balance. ‘Never said a word. Mum told me that.’
‘What’d he do afterwards?’
‘Nothin. Died before the payout. Some serious brain thing.’
‘That’s sad.’ Cashin didn’t look at him. ‘I’ll tell you what’s a serious brain thing, Mr Starkey. Bullshitting me. That’s a seriously bad brain thing. Tell me about the hall.’
‘Don’t know no hall.’
‘I’ll need to talk to Tay,’ said Cashin. ‘By himself.’
‘Why?’
‘He might have seen something. Heard something.’
Starkey stared at Cashin. ‘He wouldn’t know nothin, mate. Always with me.’
Cashin shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’
‘Listen,’ said Starkey, a different voice. ‘Boy’s not the brightest. She dropped him on the lid when he was tiny. Short-circuited the little bugger. No use at school.’
‘Get him in here.’
Starkey scratched his scalp, slowly, urgently. ‘Do me a favour, mate,’ he said. ‘Let him alone. Gets nightmares. Screams.’
The felt moment of power. Cashin could see Starkey’s fear. ‘That’s really tough. Get him.’
‘Mate, please.’
‘Just get him.’
‘I’m gonna ring Hopgood.’
‘Listen, Starkey,’ said Cashin. ‘Hopgood can’t protect you. This is a city matter. And now, because you’re so fucking obstructive, I’m not going to talk to Tay here, not going to talk to him at the station. I’m taking him to Melbourne. Pack his toothbrush and his jarmies and a couple of biscuits. What kind of bickies does he like?’
He saw hate in Starkey’s eyes, and he saw pure shining fear, fear and panic.
‘Can’t do that, mate. I ask you, please, I ask you…’
‘North Melbourne. The house in Collett Street. You drove him there?’
‘No, I didn’t, you gotta…’
‘Wasting my time. Got a trip ahead of me. Tell me the truth or get Tay. Now.’
Starkey looked around the shed as if the answer might be written on a wall, he could read it out. ‘Okay. Took him there.’
‘When last?’
‘Five, six years, I dunno.’
‘How many times?’
‘Few.’
‘Every time you went to Melbourne?’
‘I suppose.’
‘How often was that?’
Starkey swallowed. ‘Four, five times a year.’
‘And the hall?’
‘Don’t know the hall.’
Cashin caught the tinny sound in the big man’s voice.
He took out the mugshot of Pollard, didn’t show it. ‘I’m asking you again. Do you know this man?’
‘I know him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Arthur Pollard. He used to come to the camp.’
‘Where else do you know him from?’
‘Collett Street. I seen him there.’
Cashin walked to the work bench, ran a finger over the piece of metal Tay had been filing. It was a part of some sort. ‘Pollard’s a perv,’ he said. ‘Know that? He likes boys. Small boys. Fucks them. And the rest. Lots of the rest, I can tell you. Know about that do you, Mr Starkey?’
Silence. Cashin didn’t look at Starkey. ‘Didn’t drop your boy off in Collett Street, did you, Mr Starkey? Feed him to Pollard?’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Starkey said slowly, voice thick. ‘Say that again, I’ll fuckin kill you.’
Cashin turned. ‘Tell me about Bourgoyne.’
Starkey had a hand on his chest. His face was orange, he was trying to control his breathing. ‘Never saw anything. Nothin. So help me, I never saw anythin.’
‘What about the hall?’
‘Just the once. Picked up a lot of stuff, files and that. He said to burn it.’
‘Bourgoyne?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where’d you burn it?
‘Nowhere to burn there. Brought the stuff back here to burn.’
‘Dad.’
Tay was in the door, chin near his chest, looking through a comb of pale hair that touched the bridge of his nose.
‘What?’
‘Mum says spaggy bol okay for tea?’
‘Tell her to go for it, son.’
Tay went. Cashin walked to the door, turned. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty more we want to know. And don’t mention this little talk to anyone. You go running to fucking Hopgood, running anywhere, I’m coming back for you and Tay, you’ll both rot in remand in Melbourne. Not together either. He’ll be in with blokes fuck dogs. And so will you.’
‘Didn’t burn the stuff,’ said Starkey quietly.
CASHIN SAT at the table and sifted through the contents of Starkey’s cardboard boxes. It was half an hour before he came upon the clipping of a photograph from the Cromarty Herald. The date at the top of the page was 12 August 1977.
A strapline above the picture said:
CLEAN AIR IS A KICK FOR CITY BOYS
The caption read:
Coach Rob Starkey, North Cromarty star half-forward, fires up the Companions Camp under-15 side at half-time in their game against St Stephen’s on Saturday morning. The city boys, having a much-needed holiday at the Port Monro camp thanks to the Moral Companions, went down 167–43. But the score didn’t matter. The point was to have a good run around in the bracing air.
The black-and-white photograph showed boys in muddy white shorts and dark football jumpers facing a big man. He was holding the ball horizontally and he was saying something. The boys, hair close-cut back and sides, were eating orange quarters—sour oranges, said the nearest boy’s puckered face, his closed eyes.
In the background were spectators, all but two of them men, rugged up against the cold. To the right were two men in overcoats and, in front of them, a small boy. The men were smoking cigarettes.
Cashin got up from the table and took the clipping to the window, held it to the dying light. He recognised the man in the centre wearing a camel overcoat from the photographs at The Heights: Charles Bourgoyne. He had long fingers. The man on his right could be Percy Crake—he had a small moustache.
Cashin looked at the other spectators: middle-aged men, a sharp-nosed woman wearing a headscarf, a laughing woman of indeterminate age. The face behind Bourgoyne was turned away, a young man, short hair combed back, something about him.
Was the boy with Bo
urgoyne and Crake? He was frowning. He seemed to be looking at the camera. Something in the small face nagged at Cashin. He closed his eyes and he saw Erica Bourgoyne across the table from him at the gallery.
James Bourgoyne. The boy with the sad face might be the drowned Jamie, Erica’s brother, Bourgoyne’s step-son.
Cashin went back to the papers and looked for other photographs. In a folder, he found more than a dozen 8 × 10 prints. They were all the same: boys lined up in three rows of nine or ten, tallest at the back, the front row on one knee. They wore singlets and dark shorts, tennis shoes with short socks. The man with the moustache was in all of them, dressed like the boys, standing to the right, apart. His arms were folded, fists beneath his biceps, bulging them. He had hairy legs, big thighs and muscular calves. At the left stood two other men in track-suits. One of them, a stocky dark man wearing glasses, was in all the photographs. The other one—tall, thin, long-nosed—was in five or six.
He turned a photograph over: Companions Camp 1979.
The names were written in pencil in a loose hand: back row, middle row, front row. At left: Mr Percy Crake. At right: Mr Robin Bonney, Mr Duncan Vallins.
Vallins was the tall man, Bonney the dark, solid one.
Cashin looked for the name and he found it in 1977.
David Vincent was in the middle row, a skinny, pale boy, long-necked, his adam’s apple and the bumps on his shoulders visible. His head was turned away slightly, apprehensively, as if he feared some physical harm from the photographer.
Cashin read the other names, looked at the faces, looked away and thought. He fetched the telephone and dialled, listened, eyes closed. David Vincent was out or out of it. He rang Melbourne, had to wait for Tracy.
‘Two names,’ he said. ‘Robin Bonney. Duncan Vallins. Appreciate and so on.’
‘You are Singo’s clones,’ she said. ‘You and the boss. Have people told you that?’
‘They’ve told me young Clint Eastwood. Does that square with you?’
‘And so on. You going to actually speak to me the next time you come in here? As opposed to acknowledging my existence?’
A dog rose on the sofa and, in an indolent manner, put its paws on the floor and did a stretch, backside high above its head. The other dog followed suit, an offended look.
‘Preoccupied then,’ said Cashin. ‘I’m sorry. Still married to that bloke in moving?’
‘No. Divorced.’
‘Right. Moved on. Well, next time I’m in we can exchange some more personal information. Blood types, that kind of thing.’
‘I’m holding my breath. Got a Robin Gray Bonney here. Age fifty-seven. Possibility?’
‘About right.’
‘Former social worker. Form is child sex offender. Suspended sentence on two charges. Then he did four years of a six.’
‘More and more right.’
‘Well, he’s dead. Multiple stab wounds, castrated, mutilated and strangled. In Sydney. Marrickville. That’s, that’s two days ago. No arrest.’
Cashin tried to do the front stretch exercise, the opening of the shoulderblades, felt all the muscles resist.
‘Here we go,’ said Tracy. ‘Vallins, Duncan Grant, age fifty-three. Anglican priest, address in Brisbane, Fortitude Valley but that’s 1994. Child sex form, suspended sentence 1987. Did a year in 1994–95. I presume he’s a former priest now.’
‘Why would you presume that? Trace, three things. All the details on Bonney. The mutilation. Two, on Vallins, beg Brisbane to check that address and stress we don’t want him spooked. Three, tell Dove we need the coroner’s report on a fire at the Companions camp, Port Monro, in 1983.’
He was at the window. Ragged-edged ribbons of pink ran down the sky, died on the black hill.
Same night as the fire. Double tragedy.
Cecily Addison’s words. Bourgoyne’s wife fell down the stairs on the night of the fire. Tranquillisers blamed.
‘Now that I think about it,’ he said, ‘I might come to town. Pass that on to the boss, will you?’
‘I’ll pass it on to all the lovesick in this building. Dove’s here, want to talk to him?’
‘No, but put him on anyway.’
Clicks.
‘Good day,’ said Dove. ‘The CrimeStoppers log on Bourgoyne. You looked at it?’
‘How the fuck would I have looked at it?’
‘I don’t think anyone’s looked at it. On the night it was on television, a woman rang. She saw it, rang straight away. Mrs Moira Laidlaw. Her words are, I suggest you investigate Jamie Bourgoyne.’
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, Jamie’s dead. Drowned in Tasmania.’
‘You don’t have to drown to be dead in Tasmania, but I thought this was worth a sniff. Is that it? Sniff? Snuff?’
‘You’ve talked to her?’
‘This is ten minutes old. I rang but you were busy.’
‘Get the full sweep on the dead Jamie. Tracy’ll tell you what else. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Cashin knew he should go immediately, tell Villani, get in the vehicle and go. He knew he wouldn’t. What did it matter now?
‘I SAW HIM quite clearly,’ said the old woman in a dry and precise voice. ‘I was waiting at the lights in Toorak Road and they changed and a car stopped. For some reason, I looked and Jamie was in the passenger seat.’
‘You knew him well, Mrs Laidlaw?’ said Cashin.
‘Of course. He’s my nephew, my sister’s child. He lived with us for a time.’
‘Right. And you saw him when?’
‘About six weeks ago. On a Friday. I go shopping and have lunch with friends on Fridays.’
It was just past 4 pm but Cashin thought that it felt much later in the sitting room, the light dim outside, a row of raindrops waiting to fall from a thin branch framed in the French doors. ‘And you know that Jamie is said to have drowned in Tasmania in 1993?’ he said.
‘Yes. Well, obviously he didn’t because I saw him in Toorak Road.’
Cashin looked at Dove, passed to him that there was no point in questioning the identification.
‘May I ask why you thought we should investigate Jamie over the assault on his step-father?’ said Dove.
‘Because he’s alive and he’s capable of it. He hates Charles Bourgoyne.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I have no idea. Ask Erica.’ She turned her head and the light made her short hair gleam.
‘When last did you see Jamie?’ said Dove. ‘Before Toorak Road, I mean.’
‘He came to my husband’s funeral. Turned up at the church. God knows how he knew. Didn’t talk to anyone except Erica. Not a word to his step-father.’
‘He liked your husband?’ said Cashin.
She picked at nothing on her cardigan. ‘No. And my husband certainly wasn’t fond of him.’
‘Why was that?’
‘He didn’t like him.’
Cashin waited but nothing came. ‘Why didn’t he like him, Mrs Laidlaw?’
She looked down. A dove-grey cat had come into the room and was leaning against her right leg. It was staring at Cashin, eyes the colour of ash. ‘My husband never forgot his nephew’s death. His brother’s only son. Mark drowned in the pool when he was ten. Jamie was here. No one else.’
‘Was there a suspicion that Jamie was involved?’
‘No one said anything.’
‘But your husband thought he was?’
She blinked at Cashin. ‘Jamie was three years older than Mark, you see.’
Cashin felt the silken ankle-winding of the cat. ‘Was that important?’
‘He was supposed to be looking after Mark. We loved Mark very much. He’d been with us since he was six. He was like a son to us.’
‘I see. And Jamie came to your husband’s funeral?’
‘Yes. Out of the blue and dressed like some sort of hippy musician.’
‘When was that?’
‘In 1996. The twelfth of May 1996. H
e came here the next day.’
‘Why?’
‘He wanted a photograph of Mark. He asked if he could have one. He knew where the photographs were too, where we kept Mark’s things. He said he’d thought of Mark as a brother. Quite unbelievable, frankly.’
‘And you never saw him again?’
‘No. Not until Toorak Road. A cup of tea? I could make tea.’
‘No thank you, Mrs Laidlaw,’ said Dove. ‘How long did Jamie live with you?’
She took off her glasses, touched the corner of an eye carefully, replaced them. ‘Not very long. Less than two years. He came after he stopped boarding at the college. His step-father asked us.’
‘And that was here?’
‘Here?’
‘You lived in this house then?’ said Cashin.
Mrs Laidlaw looked at him as if he were not the full quid. ‘We’ve always lived here. I grew up here, my grandparents built this house.’
‘And after Jamie finished school…?’
‘He didn’t finish school. He left.’
‘He left school?’
‘Yes. And he left here. He was in year eleven and one day he just left.’
‘Where did he go?’
‘I don’t know. Erica told me he was in Queensland at one point.’
A telephone rang in the passage.
‘Excuse me.’
Cashin and Dove stood up with her. She walked slowly to the door and Cashin went to the French doors and looked at the garden, at the big bare trees—an oak, an elm, a tree he couldn’t identify. Their leaves had not been raked and they lay in soggy drifts. A stone retaining wall was leaning, blocks loose. Soon it would collapse, the worms would be revealed.
‘These charity calls,’ said Mrs Laidlaw. ‘I don’t really know what to say to the people. They sound so nice.’
She sat down in her chair. The cat elevated itself into her lap. Cashin and Dove sat.
‘Mrs Laidlaw, why did Jamie stop boarding at the school?’ said Cashin.
‘I didn’t hear the details. The school could tell you, I suppose.’
‘And the reason he left here?’
‘You might ask the school about that too. I’d be lying if I said his departure wasn’t a great relief.’
She stroked the cat, looking at it. ‘Jamie was a strange boy. He was very attached to his mother and I don’t think he got over her death. But there was something else about him…’