Debbie said, ‘I promise.’
Cashin leaned across the table, spoke softly. ‘Some of the people selling stuff to your friends are undercovers.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Understand what that means?’
‘Like secret agents.’
‘That’s right. So the drug cops know all the names. If your friend bought that stuff, his name’s on the list.’
‘Not my friend, her friend, I don’t even know him.’
‘That’s good. You don’t want to know him.’
‘What would they do with the names?’
‘They could tell the school, tell the parents. They could raid the houses. If you were on the list, they could knock on the door any time.’
Cashin rose. ‘Anyway, got to go. I wanted to tell you because you’re family and I don’t want to see anything bad happen to you. Or to your mum and dad.’
At the door, he heard her chair scrape.
‘Joe.’
He looked back.
Debbie was standing, hugging herself, now looking about six years old. ‘Scared, Joe.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘I bought the stuff. For my friend.’
‘The girl friend?’
Reluctant. ‘No. A boy.’
‘From a Piggot?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Which one?’
‘Do I have to say?’
‘I won’t do anything. Not my line.’
‘Billy.’
‘You tabbing?’
‘No. Well, just the one, didn’t like it.’
He looked down, looked into her eyes, waited.
‘Smoking?’
‘No. Don’t like it either.’
A chainsaw started outside, the roar, bit into something hard, a savage-toothed whine.
‘They won’t, will they?’ she said. ‘Tell on me? Come here?’
‘Out of my control,’ Cashin said. ‘I can talk to them, I suppose. What do you reckon I could say?’
She gave him some hints about what he could say.
Cashin went out to the shed, mud attaching itself to him. At the back, in the gloom, Bern was on his haunches, applying a blowtorch to an old kitchen dresser. Layers of paint were blackening and blistering under the blue flame. The smell was of charring wood and something metallic.
‘I smell lead,’ Cashin said. ‘That’s lead paint you’re burning.’
Bern turned off the torch, stood up. Paint flakes were stuck to his beard stubble. ‘So?’ he said.
‘It’s toxic. It can kill you.’
He put the torch on the dresser. ‘Yeah, yeah, everythin can kill you. How’d you pricks manage to kill those kids?’
‘Accident,’ Cashin said. ‘No harm intended.’
‘That Corey Pascoe. He was in Sam’s class. Bound for shit from primary.’
‘Bit like Sam then.’
‘No harm in Sam. Led astray. You talked to Debbie?’
‘Gave her a message, yeah.’
‘What’s she say?’
‘Seemed to get it.’
Bern nodded. ‘Well, you can only fuckin hope. I’d say thanks except I give you that wood. Dropped it off today. There’s a bloke there, helpful.’
‘Dave Rebb. Going to help me with the house.’
‘Yeah? Where’d you find him?’
‘In a shed over at Beckett. Mrs Haig. A swaggie.’
Bern shook his head, rubbed his chin stubble, found the paint flakes and looked at them. ‘Point about swaggies,’ he said, ‘is they’re not real strong on work.’
‘We’ll see. He’s giving Den Millane a hand, no complaints so far.’
‘Seen him somewhere, I reckon. Long time ago.’
They walked to the vehicle. Cashin got in, lowered the window. Bern put dirty hands on the sill, gave him a look.
‘I hear someone punched out that cunt Derry Callahan,’ he said. ‘Stole a can of dog food too. You blokes investigatin that?’
Cashin frowned. ‘That right? No complaint that I know of. When it happens, we’ll pull out all the stops. Door-to-door. Manhunt.’
‘Let’s see your hand.’
‘Let’s see your dick.’
‘C’mon. Hiding somethin?’
‘Fuck off.’
Bern laughed, delighted, punched Cashin’s upper arm. ‘You fuckin violent bastard.’
On the way home, the last light a slice of lemon curd, Cashin reflected that his lies to Debbie would probably keep her straight for about six months, tops.
Still, six months was a long time. His lies generally had a much shorter shelf life.
FOR REASONS Cashin didn’t understand, Kendall Rogers wanted him to be in charge of policing the march.
‘I’m on leave,’ he said.
‘Just be an hour or so.’
‘Nothing’s going to happen. This is Port Monro.’
It was the wrong thing to say.
‘I’d just appreciate it,’ she said, not quite looking at him. ‘It would be a favour to me.’
‘Favour, now you’re talking. The favour bank.’
The demonstrators assembled at the post office in the main street. Kendall was at Cashin’s end, Moorhouse Street. Carl Wexler was handling traffic at the Wallace Street intersection, not a taxing job at 11 am, winter, Port Monro. He was making a big thing of it, studied movements, like an air hostess pointing out the exits. Cashin thought it was easy to pick the blow-ins, those who had bought into Port at a high price and now wanted the drawbridge up. They had good haircuts and wore expensive outdoor clothes and leather shoes.
At the march’s advertised starting time, the fat photographer from the Cromarty Herald was looking with sadness at the crowd, about thirty people, more than half women. The primary school came around the corner, all in rain gear, a multicoloured crocodile led by the principal, a thin balding man holding the hands of a girl and boy. The children carried signs written on white cardboard and tacked to lengths of dowel, no doubt a full morning’s work in the art class:
KEEP AWAY FROM OUR MOUTH
DONT SPOIL OUR BEACHES
NATURE’S FOR EVERYONE NOT JUST THE RICH
Three shire councillors Cashin knew arrived. The Herald reporter got out of his car and signalled to the photographer, who went into sluggish action. Then two small buses banked up at Carl’s end of the street. He directed them on with flourishes. A minute or two later, the occupants came back, walking in a group-about thirty people, all ages from about fifteen. To one side was Helen Castleman, talking on a mobile. She put it away, came past Cashin, gave him a nod.
‘Good day, Detective Cashin.’
‘Good day, Ms Castleman.’
Cashin watched her talking to the organiser, Sue Kinnock, a doctor’s wife. She’d come to the station to show the shire permit for the march. ‘We’ll assemble at the post office, march down Moorhouse Street, cross Wallace, turn right into Enright, left into the park,’ she’d said.
The sunlight had caught the pale yellow down on her cheeks. She had big teeth and a clipped way of speaking. Cashin put her down as the Pommy nurse who got the Aussie doctor, to the envy of her better-looking colleagues.
She came over with Helen Castleman. ‘I gather you know each other, detective. Helen’s WildCoast Australia president in Cromarty.’
‘A person of many parts, Ms Castleman,’ said Cashin.
‘And you, detective. One minute, you’re homicide, the next you’re crowd control.’
‘Multiskilling These days we turn our hands to anything. How’s Donny?’
‘Not good. His mum’s worried about him. How’s your investigation?’
‘Moving along. The way this parade should be.’
‘The Channel 9 chopper’s on the way, they’re giving Bobby Walshe a lift. If you don’t mind, we’ll wait for them.’
‘A reasonable wait I don’t mind,’ said Cashin. ‘What’s reasonable?’
‘Fifteen minutes? They’re landing on the rec reserve.’
‘We can do that.’
Helen Castleman went over and helped a young man in a green WildCoast windcheater organise the marchers: children in front, the rest in ranks of five. She stood back and took a look, went over to the school principal. They talked. He didn’t look happy but agreed to something. Helen chose six kids and eight of the oldest locals. They were arranged in two rows, four adults and three children in each, holding hands. Then came the school crocodile and the other marchers.