A few metres down the the north-western side of the house was a door, half glass, four panes. He looked in: a small room, tiled floor, benches on either side, coats and hats on pegs.
He turned. The severely tended garden ran for at least two hundred metres to a picket fence, then there were paddocks fenced with hedges, stands of trees, glints of water.
Perhaps a whim, half-pissed kids driving by, one of them given an idea by the big gates and the headlights catching the brass plate. It would have sent a message, as if in neon lights: RICH PEOPLE LIVE HERE.
Driving by? Going where? Heading back to the Daunt after fishing and drinking on the beach, you might take this route. It would be less risky than the main road.
Did the boys park a vehicle somewhere along the road, climb a fence, walk to the house? A kilometre in the dark, crossing paddocks, opening gates? No, they hadn’t done that.
They would have parked near the gates and walked up the driveway, a dark passage, no lights in the grounds, the massive poplars, still in leaf, blocking the moonlight.
The boys, standing in the dark at the end of the drive, looking at the house. Were there lights on? Bourgoyne’s bedroom was at the back of the house. He wasn’t in bed. Where was he? In the study? Did they walk around, see the study and bedroom lights? If so, they would have broken in as far away as possible.
Thieves didn’t break into occupied houses where there were lights on. The householder might have a gun.
What did they use to beat Bourgoyne? Did they bring it with them, take it away? There would be a post-mortem on him now, the pathologists would have an opinion, but it might be no more useful than ruling out faceted instruments or round ones bigger than a golf club shaft.
There was a noise. A door from the sunroom opened and Erica Bourgoyne came out. She was in soft-looking clothes, shades of grey, younger looking today, she could have passed for thirty.
‘What’s this about?’ she said.
‘Just having another look,’ said Cashin. ‘I’m sorry about your stepfather.’
‘Thank you,’ said Erica. ‘What’s the point of looking around now?’
‘The matter isn’t closed.’
A man came out behind her, prematurely grey curly hair. He was just taller than short, tanned, dark suit, pale shirt and blue tie. ‘What’s happening?’ he said.
‘This is Detective Cashin,’ said Erica.
He came around Erica, held out a hand. ‘Adrian Fyfe.’
When Cashin felt the hard grip, the real man’s grip, he gave Fyfe the dead fish, took his hand away. This was Adrian Fyfe the solicitor-developer who wanted to build a resort at the Stone’s Creek mouth. Cashin remembered Cecily Addison’s outrage that morning in the newsagency. 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.
‘He would have been convicted, wouldn’t he?’ said Erica. ‘Donny Coulter.’
‘That’s not certain,’ said Cashin.
‘What about the watch?’
‘We have someone who says two of the suspects tried to sell it to him. We don’t know how they got it.’
‘Don’t know?’ said Adrian Fyfe. ‘Pretty bloody obvious, isn’t it?’
‘There’s no obvious in these things,’ said Cashin.
‘Anyway, it’s over,’ said Fyfe. ‘The whole thing. Some justice done.’
‘So pointless,’ said Erica, listless now. ‘To kill an old man for a watch and a few dollars, whatever it is they took. What kind of people do that?’
Cashin didn’t try to answer. ‘We’d like access to the buildings if you don’t mind.’
A moment’s pause. ‘No, I don’t mind,’ she said. ‘I won’t be coming again. The place will be sold at some point. There’s a big bunch of keys in the kitchen. Dozens of keys. Give them to Mrs. Addison when you’re finished.’
She followed him around the house. They shook hands.
The same security man was leaning against the Saab, smoking. ‘That gravel stunt,’ he said to Cashin. ‘One day I’ll rip your head off, stick it up your arse.’
‘You threatening a police officer?’ said Cashin. ‘Above the law, are you?’
The man turned his head away in contempt, spat on the gravel. Cashin looked back. Erica hadn’t moved. He returned, climbed the steps.
‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Who inherits?’
Erica looked at him, blinked twice. ‘I do. What’s left after the bequests.’
REBB WAS laying bricks, rebuilding the fallen north-east corner of the house. Cashin watched him for a while-the slicing pick-up of the mortar, the icing of the brick, the casual placement, the tapping with the trowel handle, the removal of the excess.
‘Supervising?’ said Rebb, eyes on the job. ‘Boss.’
Cashin wanted to say it but he couldn’t. ‘What do I do?’ he said.
‘Mix. Three cement, nine sand, careful with the water.’
Cashin was full of care. Then he ruined the mixture by flooding it.
‘Same again,’ said Rebb. ‘Half spades now.’ He came over and put in the water, a slop at a time, took the spade, cut and shuffled the mortar. ‘That’s the pudding,’ he said.
The dogs arrived from a mission in the valley, greeted Cashin with noses and tongues, then left, summoned to some emergency-a rabbit rescue perhaps, the poor creature trapped in a thicket.
Cashin carried bricks, watched Rebb, got the mixture more or less right the next time. The trick was extreme caution. The work moved to the opposite corner, a string was strung, tight enough to ping.
‘Ever laid a brick?’ said Rebb.
‘No.’
‘Have a go. I need a leak.’ He left.
Cashin laid three bricks. It took a long time and they looked terrible. Rebb came back and, saying nothing, undid the work, cleaned the bricks. ‘Watch,’ he said.
Cashin watched. Rebb relaid the bricks in a minute. ‘Got to keep the perps the same width,’ he said. ‘Otherwise it looks bad.’
‘Want to eat?’ said Cashin. ‘Then I’ll work on my perps. Whatever the fuck a perp is.’
It was after 3 pm. He had bought pies from the less bad bakery in Cromarty. Beef and onion. They ate them sitting in the lee of the brick pile, in the diluting sunlight.
‘Not bad,’ said Rebb. ‘There’s some meat.’ He chewed. ‘The problem here is the doors and windows,’ he said. ‘We don’t know where they are.’
‘We do. I’ve got the pictures. I forgot.’
When Cashin got back with the photographs, Rebb had made a cigarette. He looked at the pictures. ‘Jesus, there’s bits missing here all right. This is a serious proposition.’
‘Yes,’ said Cashin. ‘It’s not a proposition at all. I should have said.’
He had known the moment he looked at the old photographs. In one, Thomas Cashin and six men, builders, stood in front of the house. Thomas could have been Michael in an old-fashioned suit.
They sat in silence. In the valley, one dog gave the high-pitched hunting bark, then the other. An ibis rose, another, they flapped away like prehistoric creatures. Rebb got up, walked beyond the brick pile and held up the picture. He looked at his newly repaired piece of building, looked at the picture. He came back and sat.
‘Bit like putting in twenty mile of fence, I suppose,’ he said. ‘You just think about the bit to the next tree.’
‘No,’ said Cashin. ‘It’s a stupid idea.’
He was relieved that the lunacy was over. It was as if a fever had peaked, leaving him sweaty but lucid. ‘House’s fucked, it should stay that way.’
Rebb scuffed the earth with a boot heel. ‘Well, I dunno. You could do worse. Least you’re building something.’
‘I don’t need to. There’s no point.’
‘What’s got a point?’
‘It’s a stupid idea. I admit it, let’s leave it at that.’