The Broken Shore (34 page)

‘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.

‘Yeah, that’s it,’ Starkey said.

‘He was wearing that watch that day?’

‘Wore it every day.’

‘Thanks. Just a few other questions.’

‘What’s the problem? Daunt coons bashed him.’ Impassive face, grey marble eyes.

‘We’re not sure of that.’

‘Yeah? That fuckin little Coulter took the Kettle dive to have a swim? Guilty as shit.’

Starkey walked to the door and spat, wiped his lips, came back, planted himself, questioning head angle.

‘At home that night?’ said Cashin. ‘You and Tay?’

Starkey’s eyes narrowed, full of threat. ‘Answered that question already. What’s your fuckin problem?’

‘Come down to the station,’ said Cashin. ‘The two of you. Bring the toothbrushes, just in case.’

Starkey exercised his jaw, up and down, back and forth.

‘Know a cop called Hopgood?’ he said. ‘I know him. Mate.’

Cashin took out his mobile, held it out. ‘Ring him,’ he said.

‘In my own fuckin time.’

‘Want me to ring him? I’ll ring him for you.’

Starkey put his hands in his pockets. ‘We was at home, ask her. Don’t go out at night much. Just footy stuff.’

‘Still working at The Heights?’

‘Till it’s sold, yeah.’

‘Well-paid job, The Heights.’

‘That right?’

‘About four times what your gardener gets around here. Five, maybe.’

‘Two of us.’

‘Twice as much then.’

‘Twice as much fuckin work as anywhere else.’

‘You drove him around too.’

Starkey put a huge hand to his neck. ‘Didn’t drive him around. Took him to the bank, to the city. He didn’t like to drive anymore.’

‘Know someone called Arthur Pollard?’

‘No.’

‘Know this man?’ He showed him the full-face mugshot of Pollard, watched his eyes.

‘No.’

Cashin considered where to go, took the soft route. ‘Mr Starkey, I’ll tell you we don’t think the Daunt boys attacked Mr Bourgoyne. So if you can tell me anything you saw or heard, any feeling you might have…’

‘You don’t think?’

‘No.’

‘Why?’

‘Some things don’t add up.’

‘Charged that Coulter, didn’t ya?’

‘We thought he was involved, it was a holding action.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘What did you think when you heard about it?’

There was an instant, something in Starkey’s muddy eyes. ‘Well, shock, that’s it, yeah.’

‘That’s all?’

‘What else? Don’t happen around here that kind of thing, does it?’

‘Did you like him?’

‘He was all right. Yeah. Not likely to be mates, were we, him and me?’

‘Who could want to harm him?’

‘Apart from thievin scum?’

‘Yes.’

‘No idea.’

‘Had any visitors recently, Mr Bourgoyne? Apart from the stepdaughter?’

‘Nah. Not that I saw.’

‘What about burglaries at The Heights before this happened?’

‘Not in my time. Had some horses pinched once. They cut the wire, pinched three horses from the bottom paddock. You’d have the records, wouldn’t ya?’

‘If it was reported.’

‘Why wouldn’t it be reported?’

‘Crake. How’d you get on with him?’

Starkey shrugged. ‘Okay. Had his ways he wanted things done. I did em that way.’

‘He helped Bourgoyne with the kiln, didn’t he?’

‘Can’t remember that well.’

‘You worked at the Companions camp.’

Starkey scratched his head again, an uncertain look, averted his eyes. ‘Long time ago,’ he said.

‘So you knew Crake from the camp?’

‘Yeah. He was the boss.’

‘What was your job?’

‘Maintenance. Bit of footy coaching. Showed the kids the ropes.’

‘There on the night of the fire?’

The big hands were expressive now. ‘Nah. At the pub in Port.’

‘Tell me about driving him to the city. Where’d you go?’

‘The flat in Relly Street. He took taxis from there.’

‘Stay over?’

‘Hotel in St Kilda. Gedding’s Hotel.’

Cashin went over to the engines. ‘This one a generator?’ he said.

‘Made in ′56. Better than anything you can buy today.’

‘How much ground you got here?’

‘Thirty acres.’

‘Farm it?’

‘Nah. Put the house in the middle of the block. Didn’t wanna hear neighbours. Now the one bastard’s complaining about the engines.’

‘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:

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 Bourgoyne 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.