The Broken Shore (3 page)

She fetched a big yellow cloth bag from a table at the far end of the room, unzipped it. ‘You want to dig around?’

‘No.’

She tipped the contents onto the table: a purse, two sets of keys, a glasses case, makeup, tissues, other innocent things.

‘Thanks,’ Cashin said. ‘Touch anything in there?’

‘No. I just put the bag down, went to the sitting room to fetch the whisky glass. Then I rang. From outside.’

Now they went outside. Cashin’s mobile rang.

‘Hopgood. What’s happening?’ He was the criminal investigation unit boss in Cromarty.

‘Charles Bourgoyne’s been bashed,’ he said. ‘Badly. Medics working on him.’

‘I’ll be there in a few minutes. No one touches anything, no one leaves, okay?’

‘Gee,’ Cashin said. ‘I was going to send everyone home, get everything nice and clean for forensic.’

‘Don’t be clever,’ said Hopgood. ‘Not a fucking joking matter this.’

Carol Gehrig was sitting on the second of the four broad stone steps that led to the front door. Cashin took the clipboard and went to sit beside her. Beyond the gravel expanse and the box hedges, a row of tall pencil pines was moving in the wind, swaying in unison like a chorus line of fat-bellied dancers. He had driven past this house hundreds of times and never seen more than the tall, ornate chimneys, sections of the red pantiled roof. The brass plate on a gate pillar said The Heights, but the locals called it Bourgoyne’s.

‘I’m Joe Cashin,’ he said. ‘You’d be related to Barry Gehrig.’

‘My cousin.’

Cashin remembered his fight with Barry Gehrig in primary school. He was nine or ten. Barry won that one, he made amends later. He sat on Barry’s shoulders and ground his pale face into the playground dirt.

‘What happened to him?’

‘Dead,’ she said. ‘Drove his truck off a bridge thing near Benalla. Overpass.’

‘I’m sorry. Didn’t hear about that.’

‘He was a deadshit, always drugged up. I’m sorry for the people in the car he landed on, squashed them.’

She found cigarettes, offered. He wanted one. He said no.

‘Worked here long?’

‘Twenty-six years. I can’t believe it. Seventeen when I started.’

‘Any idea what happened?’

‘Not a clue. No.’

‘Who might attack him?’

‘I’m saying, no idea. He’s got no enemies, Mr B.’

‘How old is Mr Bourgoyne?’

‘Seventy something. Seventy-five, maybe.’

‘Who lives here? Apart from him?’

‘No one. The step-daughter was here the day before yesterday. Hasn’t been here for a long time. Years.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Erica.’

‘Know how to contact her?’

‘No idea. Ask Mrs Addison in Port Monro, the lawyer. She looks after business for Mr Bourgoyne.’

‘Anyone else work here?’

‘Bruce Starkey.’

Cashin knew the name. ‘The football player?’

‘Him. He does all the outside.’ She waved at the raked gravel, the trimmed hedges. ‘Well, now his boy Tay does. Bit simple, Tay, never says a word. Bruce sits on his arse and smokes mostly. They come Monday, Wednesday and Friday. And when he drives Mr B. Sue Dance makes lunch and dinner. Gets here about twelve, cooks lunch, cooks dinner, leaves it for him to heat up. Tony Crosby might as well be on a wage too, always something wrong with the plumbing.’

The male paramedic came out. ‘There’s a chopper coming,’ he said. ‘Where’s the best place to land?’

‘The paddock behind the stables,’ said Carol. ‘At the back of the house.’

‘How’s he doing?’ Cashin said.

The man shrugged. ‘Probably should be dead.’

He went back inside.

‘Bourgoyne’s watch,’ said Cashin. ‘Know what kind it was?’

‘Breitling,’ said Carol. ‘Smart watch. Had a crocodile-skin strap.’

‘How do you spell that?’

‘B-R-E-I-T-L-I-N-G.’

Cashin went to the cruiser, got Hopgood again. ‘They’re taking him to Melbourne. You might want to have a yarn with a Bruce Starkey and his young fella.’

‘What about?’

‘They’re both part-time here.’

‘So?’

‘Thought I’d draw it to your attention. And Bourgoyne’s watch’s probably stolen.’ He told him what Carol had said.

‘Okay. Be there in a couple of minutes. There’s three cars coming. Forensic can’t get a chopper till about 10.30.’

‘The step-daughter needs to be told,’ Cashin said. ‘She was here the day before yesterday. You can probably get an address from Cecily Addison in Port Monro, that’s Woodward, Addison & Cameron.’

‘I know who Cecily Addison is.’

‘Of course.’

Cashin went back to Carol. ‘Lots of cops coming,’ he said. ‘Going to be a long morning.’

‘I’m paid for four hours.’

‘Should be enough. What was he like?’

‘Fine. Good boss. I knew what he wanted, did the job. Bonus at Christmas. Month’s pay.’

‘No problems?’

Eyes on him, yellow flecks in the brown. ‘I keep the place like a hospital,’ she said. ‘No problems at all.’

‘You wouldn’t have any reason to try to kill him, would you?’

Carol made a sound, not quite a laugh. ‘Me? Like I’d kill my job? I’m a late starter, still got two kids on the tit, mate. There’s no work around here.’

They sat on the steps in the still enclosure, an early winter morning, quiet, just birdsounds, cars on the highway, and a coarse tractor somewhere.

‘Jesus,’ said Carol, ‘I feel so, it’s just getting to me… I could make us some coffee.’

Cashin was tempted. ‘Better not,’ he said. ‘Can’t touch anything. They’d come down on me like a tanker of pigshit. But I’ll take a
smoke off you.’

Weakness, smoking. Life was weakness, strength was the exception. Their smoke hung in sheets, golden where it caught the sun.

A sound, just a pinprick at first. The dickheads, thought Cashin. They were coming with sirens.

‘Cromarty cops’ll take a full statement, Carol,’ he said. ‘They’ll be in charge of this but ring me if there’s anything you want to talk about, okay?’

‘Okay.’

They sat.

‘If he lives,’ said Cashin, ‘it’s because you got to work on time.’

Carol didn’t say anything for a while. ‘Reckon I’ll keep getting paid?’

‘Till things are settled, sure.’

They listened to the sirens coming up the hill, turning into the driveway, getting louder. Three squad cars, much too close together, came into the forecourt, braked, sent gravel flying.

The passenger door of the first car opened and a middle-aged man got out. He was tall, dark hair combed back. Senior Detective Rick Hopgood. Cashin had met him twice, civil exchanges. He walked towards them. Cashin stood.

The whupping of a helicopter, coming out of the east.

‘End of shift,’ said Hopgood. ‘You can get back to Port.’

Irrational heat behind his eyes. Cashin wanted to punch him. He didn’t say anything, looked for the chopper, walked around the house to the far hedge and watched it settle on the paddock, a hard surface, a dry autumn in a dry year. The local male medic was waiting. Three men got out, unloaded a stretcher. They went around the stables and into the house through a side door.

‘Take offence?’

Hopgood, behind him.

‘At what?’ said Cashin.

‘Didn’t mean to be short,’ said Hopgood.

Cashin looked at him. Hopgood offered a smile, yellowing teeth, big canines.

‘No offence taken,’ said Cashin.

‘Good on you,’ said Hopgood. ‘Draw on your expertise if needed?’

‘It’s one police force,’ said Cashin.

‘That’s the attitude,’ said Hopgood. ‘Be in touch.’

The medics came out with the stretcher, tubes in Bourgoyne. They didn’t hurry. What could be done had been done. After the stretcher was loaded, the local woman said a few words to one of the city team, both impassive. He would be the doctor.

The doctor got in. The machine rose, turned for the metropolis, flashed light.

Cashin said goodbye to Carol Gehrig, drove down the curving avenue of Lombardy poplars.

‘CAUGHT him yet?’

‘Not as far as I know, Mrs Addison,’ said Cashin. ‘How did you hear?’

‘The radio, my dear. What’s happening to this country? Man attacked in his bed in the peaceful countryside. Never used to happen.’

Cecily Addison was in her after-lunch position in front of the fireplace in her office, left hand waving a cigarette, right hand touching her long nose, her brushed-back white hair. Cecily had been put out to graze in Port Monro by her firm in Cromarty. She arrived at work at 9.30 am, read the newspapers, drank the first of many cups of tea, saw a few clients, mostly about wills, bothered people, walked home for lunch and a few glasses of wine.

On the way back to the office, she dropped in on anyone who wasn’t quick enough to disappear.

‘Sit down,’ she said. ‘Don’t know what the world’s coming to. Read the paper today?’ She pointed at her desk.

Cashin reached for the Cromarty
Herald.
The front-page headlines said:

ANGER MOUNTS
ON CRIME WAVE
Community calls for curfew

‘Curfew, mind you,’ said Cecily. ‘That’s not the way we want to go. Can’t have Neighbourhood Watch calling the shots. Old buggers with
nothing better to do than stickybeak. Neighbourhood bloody Nazis.’

Cashin read the story. Outrage at public meeting. Call for curfew on teenagers. Epidemic of burglaries and car thefts. Five armed robberies in two months. Sharp rise in assaults. Shop windows broken in the Whalers Mall. Lawless element in community. Time for firm action.

‘Aimed at the Abos,’ said Cecily, ‘always is. Every few years they get on to it again. You’d think the white trash were all at choir practice of a Saturday night. I can tell you, forty-four years in the courts in Cromarty, I’ve seen more Abos fitted up than I’ve had hot dinners.’

‘Not by the police, surely?’ said Cashin.

Cecily laughed herself into a coughing fit. Cashin waited.

‘I hate to say this,’ Cecily said, taking the newspaper. ‘Don’t mind telling you I’ve voted Liberal all my life. But since this rag changed hands its mission in life is to get the Libs back in Cromarty. And that means bagging blacks every chance they get.’

‘Interesting,’ said Cashin. ‘I want to ask you about Charles Bourgoyne. I gather you pay his bills.’

Cecily didn’t want to change the subject.

‘Never thought I’d say something like that,’ she said. ‘Hope my dad’s not listening. You know Bob Menzies didn’t have a house to live in when he left Canberra?’

‘I didn’t know that, no. I’m a bit short of time.’

A lie. Cashin knew how hard the ex-Prime Minister had done it because Cecily told him the story once or twice a month.

‘Paid for his own phone calls, Bob Menzies. Sitting up there in the Lodge in Canberra, when he rang his old mum, he put a coin in a box. Little money box. When it was full, he gave it to Treasury. Went into general revenue. Catch today’s pollies doing that? Take a coin out more likely. Rorters and shicers to a man. Did I tell you they wanted me to stand for Parliament? Told em, thanks very much, I’m already paid for being involved with crooks.’

‘Charles Bourgoyne,’ said Cashin. ‘I’ve come about him. You pay his bills.’

Cecily blinked. ‘Indeed I do. Known Charles for a very long time. Clients of the firm, Dick and Charles, Bourgoyne & Cromie, we did all their work.’

‘Bourgoyne & Cromie’s a bit before my time. Who’s Dick?’

‘Charles’s dad. Bit of a playboy, Dick, but he ran the firm like a corner shop, argue the toss over a couple of quid. Not that he needed to. Go anywhere in this country, all the Pacific, bloody New Zealand, B&C engines everywhere. Put the lights on all over the outback. Powered the shearing stands, made a mint after the war, I can tell you. Whole world crying out for generators.’

‘What happened?’

‘Dick kicked the bucket and Charles sold the business to these Pommy bastards. They never intended to keep the factory going. Just wanted to cut out the competition.’

Cecily was staring out of the window, smoke curling through her fingers. ‘Tragedy,’ she said. ‘I remember the day they told everyone. Half Cromarty out of work at one fell swoop. Never worked again, most of them.’

She scratched where an eyebrow had been. ‘Still, can’t blame Charles. They gave him assurances. No one blamed him.’

‘About the bills.’

‘Bills, yes. Since old Percy Crake had his stroke. Attend to matters on his behalf. Not that Charles couldn’t do it himself. Just likes to pretend he’s got better things to do.’

Cecily took a final vicious drag on her cigarette and, without looking, inserted the butt into the vase of flowers on the mantelpiece. A hiss, the sound of silk brushing silk. Mrs McKendrick, her ancient secretary, put flowers in the two rooms twice a week, first emptying urns full of foul beer-dark water and Cecily’s swollen cigarette ends.

‘Who’d try to kill him?’ said Cashin.

‘Some passing hoon, I suppose. Country’s turning into America. Kill people for a few dollars, kill them for nothing. Thrills.’ A bulge moved in her cheeks, suggested something trying to escape. ‘Drugs,’ she said. ‘I blame it on drugs.’

‘What about close to home? Someone who knew him?’

‘Around here? If Charles Bourgoyne departs, it’ll be the biggest funeral since old Dora Campbell kicked it, now that was a send-off. A lovely man, Charles Bourgoyne, lovely. They don’t make gentlemen like that any more. He was a catch, I can tell you. Still, the girls all had
long teeth by the time he married Susan Kingsley. They say old Dick told him to get married or kiss the fortune goodbye. Said he’d give it to the Cromarty old-age home.’

‘What happened to Erica’s father?’

‘Erica and Jamie’s father. Bobby Kingsley. Car smash. Had another woman with him unfortunately.’

‘Charles have enemies?’

‘Well, who knows? Bourgoyne Trust’s put hundreds of kids through uni. Plus Charles shells out to anyone comes along. Schools, art gallery, the Salvos, the RSL, you name it. Bailed out the footy club umpteen times.’

‘How does attending to Bourgoyne matters work?’

‘Work?’

‘The mechanics of it.’

‘Oh. Well, all the bills come here, credit card, everything. Every month, we send Charles a statement, he ticks them off, sends it back, we pay them out of a trust account. Pay the wages too.’