Authors: Peter Temple
Leon raised his right arm in a theatrical way, drew fingers across his forehead as if wiping away sweat. ‘I take it you don’t require sheep-milk fetta with semi-dried organic tomatoes on sourdough artisan bread?’
‘No.’
‘I suppose I can find a gassed tomato, some rat-trap cheese and a couple of slices of tissue-paper white.’
Cashin bought the city newspaper and drove to Open Beach. One surfer out on a big, heaving sea. The headline on page three said:
TWO DIE IN CHASE
CRASH, GUNFIGHT
It had happened too late for the previous morning’s newspaper. The three youths were much younger in the photographs. The captions didn’t mention that. And the reporter didn’t buy the interception line. It was a chase gone wrong. Luke Ericsen, he said, ‘apparently died in a hail of gunfire’. The conduct of seven officers was under investigation.
Another story was headlined:
UNITED AUSTRALIA LEADER SLAMS POLICE
Bobby Walshe was quoted:
Shock and grief, they are my emotions. Luke Ericsen is my sister’s boy, a bright boy, everyone had great hopes for him. I don’t know exactly what happened but that doesn’t really matter. Two youngsters are dead. That’s a tragedy. And there’s been far too many of these tragedies. Right across Australia, it’s a police culture problem. Indigenous people get the sharp end. Who needs courts when you can hand out punishments yourself? And I’m not surprised this happened in Cromarty. The present federal treasurer entrenched the culture there when he was state police minister. He helped the local police to cover up two Aboriginal cell deaths. I’ll remind him of that disgraceful episode in the election campaign. Often. That’s a promise.
The toasted sandwich wasn’t bad. Flat and tanned, leaking cheese, something yellow anyway.
Would Derry Callahan complain? Punched with a can of dog food. Cashin thought that he didn’t care. Hitting him was worth the damage to his fingers. He should have kicked him too, it would have been a good feeling.
His mobile rang. It took time to find it.
‘Taking it easy?’ said Villani. ‘Lying on the beach in the thermal gear. The striped long johns.’
‘I’m reading the paper. Full of good news.’
‘I’ll give you good news. The pawnshop bloke, he’s ID’d Pascoe and Donny.’
The surfer paddled on a great wall of water. It seemed unwilling to break, then it curled, he stood, an upsurge from a sandbar caused it to crash. He shot out the back, towed by his board.
‘I just talked to the commissioner,’ said Villani. ‘Actually, he talked to me. Non-stop. The spin doctors say we’re playing into our enemies’ hands. I think that means Bobby Walshe and the media. So it’s just Lloyd and Steggles suspended. You are no longer on holiday. And Dove’s coming back to you, he’ll be your offsider.’
‘What about the rest?’
‘Preston to Shepparton, Kelly goes to Bairnsdale.’
‘And Hopgood?’
‘Stays on the job.’
‘So the idea is to load the other ranks?’
‘The commissioner’s decision, Joe. He’s taken advice.’
‘That’s what I call leadership. In Sydney, the pawnshop, it was just Pascoe and Donny?’
‘Ericsen was probably waiting outside.’
‘So what happens to Donny?’
‘He’s still in hospital, under observation, but he’s okay, bruises, cuts. He’ll be charged with attempted murder, interview at 10 am, lawyer present.’
‘On this? Well, excuse fucking me, that’s a pretty thin brief.’
‘With luck, he’ll plead it,’ said Villani. ‘If not, we’ll see. You’ll see.’
‘This is the post-Singo attitude? Winging it?’
‘It’s what we have to do, Joe,’ said Villani, a flatness in his tone.
THEY SAT in the interview room, waiting. Cashin hadn’t worn a suit since coming to Port Monro.
‘In a very short time, I’ve grown to hate this town,’ said Dove. His forearms were on the table, cuffs showing, silver cufflinks, little bars. He was looking at his hands, his long fingers stretched.
‘The weather’s not great,’ said Cashin.
‘Not the weather. Weather’s weather. There’s something wrong with the place.’
‘Big country town, that’s all.’
‘No, it’s not a big country town. It’s a shrunken city, shrunk down to the shit, all the shit without the benefits. What’s the hold-up here? Since when do you sit around waiting for the prisoner?’
A knock, a cop came in, followed by the youth Cashin had seen in the passenger seat of the ute at the fatal crossroads, then another cop. Donny Coulter had a thin, sad face, a snub nose, down on his upper lip. It was a child’s face, scared. He was puffy-eyed, nervous, licking his lips.
‘Sit down, Donny.’
Another knock, the door was behind Cashin.
‘Come in,’ he said.
‘Helen Castleman, for the Aboriginal Legal Service. I represent Donny.’
Cashin turned. She was a youngish woman, slim, dark hair pulled
back. They looked at each other. ‘Well, hello,’ he said. ‘It’s been a while.’
She frowned.
‘Joe Cashin,’ he said. ‘From school.’
‘Oh, of course,’ she said, unsmiling. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’
They shook hands, awkward.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Dove,’ said Cashin.
She nodded to Dove.
‘I didn’t know you lived here,’ said Cashin.
‘I haven’t been back long. What about you?’
‘I’m in Port Monro.’
‘Right. So who’s in charge of this?’
‘I am. You’ve had an opportunity to speak to your client in private.’
‘I have.’
‘Like to get going then?’
‘I would.’
Cashin sat opposite Donny. Dove switched on the equipment and put on record the date, the time, those present.
‘You are Donald Charles Coulter of 27 Fraser Street, Daunt Settlement, Cromarty?’
‘Yes.’
‘Donny,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m going to tell you what rights you have in this interview. I must tell you that you are not obliged to do or say anything but that anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand what I’ve said?’
Donny’s eyes were on the table.
‘I’ll say it again,’ said Cashin. ‘You don’t have to answer my questions or tell me anything. But if you do, we can tell the court what you said. Understand, Donny?’
He wouldn’t look up. He licked his lips.
‘Ms Castleman,’ said Cashin.
‘Donny,’ she said. ‘Do you understand what the policeman said? Do you remember what I told you? That you don’t have to tell them anything.’
Donny looked at her, nodded.
‘Will you say that you understand, please, Donny,’ said Cashin.
‘Understand.’ He was drumming his knuckles on the table.
‘I must also tell you of the following rights,’ said Cashin. ‘You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a friend or a relative to inform that person of your whereabouts. You may communicate with or attempt to communicate with a legal practitioner.’
‘At this point,’ said Helen Castleman, ‘I’d like to say that my client has exercised those rights and he will not be answering any further questions in this interview.’
‘Interview suspended 9.47 am,’ said Cashin.
Dove switched off the equipment.
‘Short and sweet,’ Cashin said. ‘Would you care to step outside with me for a moment, Ms Castleman?’
They went into the corridor. ‘Bail hearing at 12.15,’ Cashin said. ‘If Donny was to tell his story, there might not be opposition to bail.’
Her eyes were different colours, one grey, one blue. It gave her a look somehow fierce and aloof. Cashin remembered studying her face in the year twelve class photograph long after he left school.
‘I’ll need to get instructions,’ she said.
Dove and Cashin went down the street and bought coffee at a place called Aunty Jemimah’s. It had checked tablecloths and Peter Rabbit pictures on the walls.
‘Old school mates,’ said Dove. ‘Lucky you.’
‘She was too good for me,’ said Cashin. ‘Old Cromarty money. Her father was a doctor. The family used to own the newspaper. And the iceworks. The only reason she didn’t go to boarding school was she wouldn’t leave her horses.’
On the way back, Dove opened his cup and sipped. ‘Jesus, what is this stuff?’ he said.
‘Some of the shit you get without the benefits.’
Helen Castleman was outside the station, talking on her mobile. She watched them coming, looked at them steadily. They were near the steps when she said, ‘Detective Cashin.’
‘Ms Castleman.’
‘Donny’s mother says he was at home on the night of the Bourgoyne attack. I’ll see you in court.’
‘Look forward to it.’ Cashin went in and rang the prosecutor. ‘Bail
is strenuously opposed,’ he said. ‘Investigations incomplete. Real danger accused will interfere with witnesses or abscond.’
At 11.15, Dove and Cashin headed for the station door.
‘Phone for you,’ said the cop on the desk. ‘Inspector Villani.’
‘What’s wrong with your mobile?’ Villani said.
‘Sorry. Switched off.’
‘Listen, the kid gets bail.’
‘Why?’
‘Because that’s what the minister told the chief commissioner, who told the crime commissioner, who told me. It’s political. They don’t want to take the chance Donny so much as gets a nosebleed in jail.’
‘As their honours please.’
‘Donny’s bail not opposed,’ Cashin said to Dove.
‘Pissweak,’ said Dove. ‘That is capitulation, that is so pissweak.’
The desk cop pointed at the door. ‘Got a reception committee. Television.’
Cashin went cold. Somehow he hadn’t thought of this. ‘You speak to them,’ he said to Dove. ‘You’re from the city.’
Dove shook his head. ‘Hasn’t taken you long to turn into a flannelshirt, has it?’
They went out, into camera flashes and the shiny black eyes of television cameras, furry microphones on booms thrust at them. At least a dozen people came at them, jostling.
‘What’s Donny Coulter charged with?’ said a woman in black, blonde hair immobilised with spray.
‘No comment,’ said Dove. ‘All will soon be revealed.’
They made their way down the stairs and the camera crews ran ahead and filmed them walking down the winter street under a grey tumbling sky. Rounding the bend, they saw the crowd outside the court.
‘Ms Castleman’s spread the word,’ said Dove.
The crowd parted, allowed them a narrow corridor. They walked side by side between the hostile faces, silence until they neared the top of the stairs.
‘You murderers,’ said a man wearing a rolled-up balaclava on Cashin’s left. ‘All you cunts are good for, killin kids.’
‘Bastards,’ said a woman on Dove’s side. ‘Mongrels.’
The lobby was crowded, the small courtroom was full. They made their way to the prosecutor, a senior constable. ‘Change of mind,’ said Cashin. ‘Not opposing bail for Coulter.’
She nodded. ‘I heard.’
They took their places on the Crown’s seats. Dove looked around. ‘Just the two of us representing the forces of law and order,’ he said. ‘Where’s Hopgood, the friendly face of community policing?’
‘Probably on the firing range breaking in the replacements for KD and Preston,’ said Cashin.
Dove looked at him for a second, the round glasses flashed.
Helen Castleman arrived with an older woman. Cashin thought he saw a resemblance to Donny.
At 12.15 exactly, Donny was brought up from the cells to a hero’s welcome from the spectators. He didn’t look at anyone except the woman with Helen Castleman. She smiled at him, winked, a brave face.
The audience were told to be silent, then to stand. The magistrate came in and sat down. He had a chubby pink face and the grey strands combed over his bald scalp made him look like an infant suffering from a premature-ageing disease.
The prosecutor identified Donny, said he was charged with attempted murder. The audience had to be hushed again.
‘This is obviously a show-cause situation, your honour,’ she said, ‘but there is no objection to bail.’
The magistrate looked at Helen Castleman and nodded.
She rose. ‘Helen Castleman, your honour. I represent Mr Coulter and would like to apply for bail. My client has no criminal record, your honour. He has been charged in the most tragic circumstances imaginable. A few days ago, he saw his cousin and a close friend die in an incident involving the police…’
Applause from the gallery, a few shouts. More silencing by the clerk of the court.
‘In this court, Ms Castleman,’ said the magistrate, a baby with a gruff voice, ‘it is not a good idea to grandstand.’
Helen Castleman bowed her head. ‘That was not my intention,
your honour. My client is just an innocent boy, the victim of circumstances. He is traumatised by what has happened and he needs to be at home with his family. He will give and honour all undertakings the court may require. Thank you, your honour.’
The magistrate frowned. ‘Bail is granted,’ he said. ‘The accused is not to leave his place of residence between the hours of 9 pm and 6 am and must report to the Cromarty police once a day.’
Applause again, more shouts, more silencing.
Cashin looked at Helen Castleman. She tilted her head, gave him a suggestion of a smile, lips just parted. Cashin felt like the teenage boy he once was, full of lust and full of wonder that a beautiful and clever rich girl would kiss him.
THEY WALKED past Helen Castleman being interviewed on the court steps and the television crews caught up with them before they reached the station. Dove declined to answer questions.
‘There’s a room organised, boss,’ the desk cop said to Cashin. ‘Upstairs, turn left, last door on the right.’
When they got there, Dove looked around, shook his head. ‘Organised?’ he said. ‘They unlocked the fucking junk room, that’s organised?’
Tables pushed together, two computers, four bad chairs, piles of old newspapers, scrap paper, drifts of pizza boxes, hamburger clams, styro-foam cups, plastic spoons, uncapped ballpoints, crushed drink cans.
‘Like a really bad sitting room in an arts students’ shared house,’ Dove said. ‘Disgusting.’ He went to a window, unlatched it, tried to pull the bottom half up, failed, banged both sides of the frame with fists, tried again. Cords showed in his neck. The window didn’t move.