‘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.
‘Shit,’ he said. ‘Can’t breathe in here.’
‘Need the nebuliser?’
It was provocative and it worked. ‘I don’t have fucking asthma,’ Dove said. ‘I have a problem with breathing air circulated ten thousand times through people with bad teeth and rotten tonsils and constipation.’
‘Didn’t mean anything. People have asthma.’ Cashin sat down. He had to live with Dove.
Dove pulled a chair out, sat, put his polished black shoes on the desk. The soles were barely worn, insteps shiny yellow and unmarked. ‘Yeah, well,’ he said, ‘I don’t have asthma.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’m assuming what will happen here is the defence will want Luke Ericsen loaded with Bourgoyne. Luke’s dead, it’s not a problem for him.’
‘If Donny was there, he’ll share the load.’
‘Placing Donny there,’ said Cashin. ‘That’s a challenge. And if it happens, the story then will be led astray by his older cousin, didn’t take part, that sort of thing.’
A crash, his heart jumped. Unlatched by Dove, its sash cords rotten, the top half of the window had waited, dropped. The big panes were vibrating, wobbling the outside world.
Cold air came in, the sea-salty, sexual.
‘That’s better,’ said Dove. ‘Much better. Delayed action. Smoke?’
‘No thanks. Always fighting the urge.’
Dove lit up, moved his chair back and forth. ‘I’m new to this but if you don’t place Donny at the house, all you have is he went to Sydney with Luke and they tried to sell Bourgoyne’s watch. A half-way solid story about where he was on the night, tucked up in bed, he’ll walk.’
‘I suppose he should. That’s the system.’
Dove eyed him briefly, narrow eyes. ‘The smartarses who walk. You see them look at their mates, little smirk. Outside, it’s the high fives. How easy was that? Fucking shithead cops, let’s do it again.’ Pause. ‘What’s Villani say? Your mate.’
Cashin felt a powerful urge to smack Dove down. He waited. ‘Inspector Villani says nothing,’ he said. ‘The solicitor says Donny’s mum’s giving the alibi. There may be others to confirm it.’
Dove’s head was back. ‘Some women amaze me. They spend their whole lives covering up for men-the father, the husband, the sons. Like it’s a woman’s sacred duty. Doesn’t matter what the bastards do. So what if my dad beat my mum, so what if my hubby fucked the babysitter, so what if my boy’s a teenage rapist, he’s still my…’
‘We don’t have anything that says Donny was there on the night,’ Cashin said.
‘Anyway, it’s academic,’ Dove said. ‘Hopgood’s right. Bobby Walshe’s made them go soft-cock on this. First it’s bail, next they drop the charges.’
‘You should tell Hopgood that. He’ll want you on the Cromarty team. You could be spokesperson.’
Dove smoked in silence, eyes still on the ceiling. Then he said, ‘I’m black so I’m supposed to empathise with these Daunt boys. Is that what you’re saying?’
There was a gull on the sill-the hard eyes, the moulting head, it reminded Cashin of someone. ‘The idea is to keep an open mind until the evidence convinces you of something.’
‘Yes, boss. I’ll keep an open mind. And in the meantime, I have to live in the Whaleboners’ Motel.’
‘The Whalers’ Inn.’
‘Could very well be.’ Cigarette in his mouth, Dove looked at Cashin. ‘Just tell me,’ he said. ‘I accept reality. I’ll read a book until it’s time to go home.’
‘The job is to build the case against Donny and Luke,’ said Cashin. ‘I don’t have any other instructions.’
‘I’m not talking about instructions.’
The sagging chair wasn’t doing anything for Cashin’s aches, his mood. He got up, took off his coat, spread an old newspaper on the floor, lay down and put his legs on the chair, tried to get into a Z shape.
‘What’s this?’ said Dove, alarmed. ‘Why are you doing that?’
Cashin couldn’t see him. ‘I’m a floor person. We’ll have to see where we can get with Donny’s mum.’
Dove appeared above him. ‘What’s the point?’
‘If she’s going to lie for the boy, she’ll be worried. They don’t know what we’ve got. Getting Donny to plead guilty to something would be a good outcome.’
Cashin heard the door open.
‘Just you, sunshine?’ said Hopgood. ‘Where’s Cashin?’
Dove looked down. Hopgood came around the table and studied Cashin as if he were roadkill.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he said.
‘We missed you in court,’ said Cashin.
Hopgood’s chin went up. Cashin could see the hairs in his nose.
‘Not my fucking business.’
‘We need to talk to Donny’s mum.’
‘Thinking about going to the Daunt, are you?’
Cashin didn’t fancy the idea. ‘If we have to. Can’t see her presenting here.’
‘Well, it’s your business,’ Hopgood said. ‘Don’t call us.’
‘I need to talk to the Aboriginal liaison bloke.’
‘Ask the desk where he’s currently doing fuck all.’
A phone rang. Dove picked up one, wrong, tried another. ‘Dove,’ he said. ‘Good, boss, yeah. Went off okay, yeah. I’ll put him on.’
He offered Cashin the phone. ‘Inspector Villani,’ he said, impassive.
Cashin reached up. ‘Supreme commander,’ he said.
‘Joe, we are talking a cooling-off period,’ said Villani.
‘Meaning?’
‘Let things settle down. I saw your court crowd today, our television friends showed us their pictures for the evening news. The word is no more turbulence like that is wanted.’