The Broken Shore (9 page)

‘Everyone gets low. Life’s a seesaw. Up, down, brief level bit if you’re lucky.’

‘Rubbish, Joseph. I know him. Will you ring? Have a chat?’

‘What do I say? Your mother asked me to ring you? We don’t have chats. We don’t have any chat.’

Silence. A windsurfer was in the air, hanging beneath his board. He disconnected, man and board vanished behind the wave as if dropping into a slot.

‘Joe.’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s Mum, not your mother. I brought both of you into the world. Will you do that for me? Ring him?’

‘Give me the number.’

‘Hang on, I’ll find it. Got a pen?’

He wrote the number in his book, said goodbye. The windsurfer had reappeared. I’ll ring Michael later, he said to himself. After a few drinks, I’ll make up a reason. We’ll have a chat, whatever the fuck that is.

In the main street, Cashin bought groceries, milk, onions and carrots, half a pumpkin and four oranges and a hand of bananas. He put the bags in the vehicle, walked down to the newsagency. It was empty except for Cecily Addison looking at a magazine. She saw him, replaced it on the stand.

‘Well, what’s happening?’ she said. ‘What’s taking you so long?’

‘Investigation progressing.’ Cashin picked up the Cromarty
Herald.
The front-page said:

RESORT COULD BRING 200 NEW JOBS

‘They call the man a developer,’ said Cecily. ‘Might as well call hyenas developers. Hitler, there’s a developer for you. Wanted to develop Europe, England, the whole damn world.’

Cashin had learned that when Cecily got going, you didn’t have to say anything. Not even in response to questions.

‘Going to the mouth since I don’t know when,’ said Cecily. ‘My
dear old dad made little cane rods for us, two bricks and a biscuit high the two of us. There’s that little spit there, a bit of sand, perfect to cast a line. Mind you, you had a walk. Park the Dodge at the Companions camp, best part of twenty minutes over the dunes. Seemed like a whole day. Worth it, I can tell you.’

She paused to breathe. ‘What do you think this Fyfe jackal is slinging the pinkos?’

‘I’m not quite with you, Mrs Addison.’

Cecily pointed at the newspaper.

‘Read that and weep. The socialists are talking about letting Adrian Fyfe build at Stone’s Creek mouth. Hotel, golf course, houses, brothel, casino, you name it. If that’s not enough, this morning I find my firm, my firm, is acting for the mongrel. No wonder people think we’re lower than snakes’ bellies.’

‘Why does he need lawyers?’

‘Everyone needs lawyers. He’ll have to buy the Companions camp from Charles Bourgoyne. Well, could be the estate of Charles Bourgoyne now. What this rag doesn’t say is buying Stone’s Creek mouth’s no use unless you can get to it. And the only way’s through the nature reserve or through the camp.’

‘Bourgoyne owns the camp?’

‘His dad gave the Companions a forty-year lease. Peppercorn. That’s history, been nothing there since the fire. Companions are history too.’

Cashin’s mobile rang. He went outside. Villani.

‘Joe, Bourgoyne. Two kids tried to sell a Breitling watch in Sydney yesterday.’

CASHIN SAT at a pavement table. ‘You heard this when?’ he said.

‘Five minutes ago,’ said Villani. ‘Cash Converters kind of place. Your pawnshop, basically. The manager did the right thing, sent his offsider out after them and he got a rego, reported it. And that lay on some dope’s desk till now.’

‘So?’

‘Toyota ute, twincab. Martin Frazer Gettigan, 14 Holt Street, Cromarty.’

‘Jesus,’ said Cashin, ‘not another Gettigan.’

‘Yes?’

‘A clan. Lots of Gettigans.’

‘What are we talking? Aboriginal?’

‘Some are, some aren’t.’

‘Like Italians. Find out about this ute without spooking anybody? Can’t trust the Cromarty turkeys. Turkeys and thugs.’

Cashin thought about the building site, the trembling panel van. ‘I’ll have a go.’

‘From a distance, understand?’

‘Not capiche? Out of fashion, is it?’

Villani said, ‘Don’t take too long about this. Minutes, I’m talking.’

‘Whatever it takes,’ said Cashin.

He rang the station, got Kendall. ‘Listen, there’s an incident report on Allan James Morris, me, complaint from the primary school. His
mobile number’s there.’

It took more than a minute for Morris to answer. Pulling up his pants on a building site somewhere, thought Cashin.

‘Yeah.’

‘Allan?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Detective Sergeant Cashin from Port Monro. Remember me?’

‘Yeeaah?’

‘You can help me with something. Okay?’

‘What?’

‘Martin Frazer Gettigan, 14 Holt Street. Know him?

‘Why?’

‘I’m in a hurry, son. Know him?’

‘Know him, yeah.’

‘Is he in town?’

‘Dunno. Don’t see him much.’

Cashin said, ‘Allan, I want you to do something for me.’

‘Jeez, mate, I’m not doin fuckin cop’s work…’

‘Allan, two words. Someone’s grand-daughter.’

Cashin heard the sounds of a building site: a nailgun firing, hammer blows, a shouted exchange.

‘What?’ said Morris.

‘I want to know who’s driving Martin’s Toyota ute.’

‘How’m I supposed to fuckin…’

‘Do it. You’ve got five minutes.’

Cashin drove to Callahan’s garage at the Kenmare crossroads, filled up. Derry Callahan came out of the service bay, cap pulled down to his eyebrows, unshaven. Cashin knew him from primary school.

‘You blokes got nothin to do except drive around?’ he said. He wiped a finger under his nose, darkened the existing oil smear. ‘What’s happenin with the Bourgoyne business?’

‘Investigation proceeding.’

‘Proceeding? You checkin out the boongs? Curfew on the whole fuckin Daunt, that’s what I say. Barbed wire around it, be a start. Check em comin and goin.’

‘Lateral thinking,’ said Cashin. ‘Why don’t you write a letter to the
prime minister? Well, spelling’d be a problem. You could phone it in.’

Derry’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his cap. ‘They got that?’ he said. ‘Talkback?’

The mobile rang while Cashin was paying Derry’s sister, fat Robyn, slit eyes, mouth permanently hooked into a sneer. He let it ring, took his change and went into the cold, stood at the vehicle, in the wind, looking across the highway at the flat land, the bent grass, pressed the button on the phone.

‘Well, he’s here,’ said Allan Morris. ‘Workin over at his old man’s place.’

‘The ute?’

‘Had to make up a fuckin stupid story.’

‘Yes?’

‘Says he lent it to Barry Coulter and Barry’s kid buggered off in it. He’s not fuckin happy, I kin tell you.’

A sliver of pain up from his left leg, the upper thigh, into his hip. He knew the feeling well, an old friend. He shifted his weight. ‘What’s the kid’s name?’

‘Donny.’

‘That’s Donny Coulter?’

‘What else?’

‘Buggered off where?’

‘Sydney. He rang. Got another kid with him, Luke Ericsen. He’s the driver. They’re cousins. Sort of. Donny’s not too bright.’

‘Been in trouble, these kids?’

‘Black kids? In this town? Ya phonin from Mars?’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Dunno.’

‘We never had this talk,’ said Cashin.

‘Shit. And I’m plannin to go around tellin everyone about it.’

Cashin rang Cromarty station, got Hopgood, gave him the names.

‘Donny Coulter, Luke Ericsen,’ said Hopgood. ‘I’ll talk to the boong affairs adviser. Call you back.’

Cashin pulled away from the pumps, parked at the roadside, waited in the vehicle thinking about a smoke, about having another try at getting Vickie to let him see the boy. Did she doubt the boy was his?
She wouldn’t discuss the subject. He’s got a father, that was all she said. When they had their last, unexpected one-night stand, she was seeing Don, the man she married. Seeing, screwing, there were men’s clothes in the laundry, muddy boots outside the back door. A vegetable patch had been dug in the clay, seed packet labels impaled on sticks—that sure as hell wasn’t Vickie.

You’d have to be blind not to know who the father was. The boy had Cashin written on his forehead.

His mobile.

‘Typical Daunt black trash,’ said Hopgood. ‘They’ve got some minor form. Suspected of doing some burgs together. Means they did them. Luke’s older, he fancies he’s a fighter. Donny’s a retard, tags along. Luke’s Bobby Walshe’s nephew.’

‘How old?’

‘Donny seventeen, Luke nineteen. I’m told they might be brothers. Luke’s old man fucked anything moving. Par for the boong course. What’s the interest?’

‘Looks like one of them tried to sell a watch like Bourgoyne’s in Sydney.’

A pause, a whistle. ‘Might have fucking known it.’

‘New South’s got an alert for a Toyota ute registered to Martin Gettigan, 14 Holt Street. The boys are in it.’

‘Well, well. Might go around and see Martin,’ said Hopgood.

‘That would be seriously fucking stupid.’

‘You’re telling me what’s stupid?’

‘I’m conveying a message.’

‘From on fucking high. Suit yourself.’

‘I’ll keep you posted,’ said Cashin.

‘Gee, thanks,’ said Hopgood. ‘Do so like to be in the fucking loop.’

Cashin rang Villani.

‘Jesus,’ said Villani. ‘Plugged in down there, aren’t you? I’ve got news. Vehicle sighted in Goulburn, three occupants. Looks like your boys are coming home.’

‘Three?’

‘Given someone a lift, who knows.’

‘You should know Luke Ericsen is Bobby Walshe’s nephew.’

‘Yes? So what?’

‘I’m just telling you. Going to pick them up?’

‘I don’t want any hot-pursuit shit,’ said Villani. ‘Next thing they’re doing one-eighty on the Hume, they wipe out a family in the Commodore wagon. Only the dog survives. Then it’s my fault.’

‘So?’

‘We’ll track them all the way, if I can get these rural dorks to take KALOF seriously and not spend the shift keeping a look out for skirt to pull over.’

‘If they come back here,’ said Cashin, ‘it’ll be Hopgood’s job.’

‘No,’ said Villani. ‘You’re in charge. You’ve done enough malingering. I want to avoid a Waco-style operation by people watched too much television. Understand?’

‘Capiche,’ said Cashin. ‘Whatever that means.’

‘Don’t ask me. I’m a boy from Shepparton.’

AT 3 PM, Hopgood rang.

Cashin was in Port Monro, looking at the gulls scrapping in the backyard, no dogs to chase them away.

‘These Daunt coons are on their way,’ Hopgood said. ‘Don’t stop somewhere for a bong, they should be here about midnight.’ He paused. ‘I gather you’re the boss.’

‘In theory,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll be there in an hour or so.’

He went home, fed the dogs. They didn’t like the change in routine; food came after the walk, that was the order of things. There was no sign of Rebb. He left a note about the dogs, drove to Cromarty.

Hopgood was in his office, a tidy room, files on shelves, neat in and out trays. He was in shirtsleeves, a white shirt, buttoned at the cuffs. ‘Sit,’ he said.

Cashin sat.

‘So how do you want this done?’ Hopgood affected boredom.

‘I’ll listen to advice.’

‘You’re the fucking boss, you tell me.’

Cashin’s mobile rang. He went into the passage.

‘Bobby Walshe’s nephew,’ said Villani. ‘I take your point. We do this thing by the book. There’s a bloke coming down to you, on his way now. Paul Dove, detective sergeant. Transferred from the feds, done soft stuff, no one wanted him but he’s smart so I took him. He’s learning, takes the pains.’

Takes the pains.
That was a Singo expression. They were both Singo’s children, they used his words without thinking.

‘He’s taking over?’ said Cashin.

‘No, no, you’re the boss.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes what?’

‘Oh come on,’ said Cashin.

‘He’s Aboriginal. The commissioner wants him there.’

‘I’m lost here. Night has fallen.’

‘Don’t come the naïve shit with me, kid,’ said Villani. ‘You told me about Bobby Walshe. Plus Cromarty’s record’s fucking appalling. Two deaths in cells, lots of other suspicious stuff.’

‘Go on.’

‘So. When these boys get there, they’ll be knackered. Let them go home. You want them asleep. Go in two hours after they pack it in, more. Gently. I cannot say that too strongly.’

The conversation ended. Cashin went back into Hopgood’s office.

‘Villani,’ he said. ‘He wants the boys lifted at home.’

‘What?’

‘At home. After they’ve gone to bed.’

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Hopgood, running both hands over his hair. ‘Heard everything now. You don’t just go into the fucking Daunt at night and arrest people. It’s Indian territory. Excellent chance we end up being attacked by the whole fucking street, the whole fucking Daunt, hundreds of coons off their fucking faces.’

Hopgood got up, went to the window, hands in pockets. ‘Tell your wog mate I want confirmation that he’s taking all responsibility for this course of action. The two of you both.’

‘What’s your advice?’ said Cashin.

‘Lift the cunts on the way into town, that’s no risk, no problem.’

Cashin left the room and rang Villani. ‘The local wisdom,’ he said, ‘is that going into the Daunt for something like this is inviting a small Blackhawk Down. Hopgood says to lift them on the way in is easy. I say let him run it.’

Villani sighed, a sad sound. ‘You sure?’

‘How can I be sure? The Daunt’s not the place it was when I was a kid.’

‘Joe, the commissioner’s on my hammer.’

Cashin was thinking that he wanted to be somewhere else. ‘I think you might be over-dramatising,’ he said. ‘It’s just three kids in a ute. Can’t be that hard to do.’

‘So you’ll be the one on television explaining what happened to Bobby Walshe’s relation?’

‘No,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ll be the one hiding in a cupboard and letting your man Dove explain.’

‘Fuck you,’ said Villani. ‘I say that in a nice way. Do it then.’

Cashin told Hopgood.

‘Some sense,’ said Hopgood, face in profile. ‘That’s new.’

‘They’re sending someone down. The commissioner wants an Aboriginal officer present.’