He was on the sixth page when Wexler returned, looking pleased.
‘Took a while, boss,’ he said. ‘This woman, she’s got no idea the two little kiddies in the cart got stuff up their anoraks, chockies and that. The owners, they jump on her like she’s some…’
‘Sores?’ said Cashin. He couldn’t remember her name. He touched the corners of his mouth.
Wexler blinked. ‘Yeah. Like little blisters, yeah.’
The first name came. ‘Jadeen something?’
Eyes widened. ‘Jadeen Reed.’
‘Jadeen’s just run out of supermarkets in this town. Shopping’s in Cromarty from now on.’
Wexler kept blinking. ‘Get it wrong, did I, boss?’
‘Well,’ said Cashin, ‘Jadeen might have enough problems without a shoplifting charge.’
He left the station, bought the papers at the newsagent, avoided conversation, walked down to the Dublin. Two short-haired elderly women were at the counter, paying. They nodded and smiled at him. Either they were on the march or they’d seen him on television or both.
Leon thanked them for their patronage. When the door closed, he said, ‘So, now retired due to post-traumatic stress caused by the march of toddlers and the aged? Looking forward to a life on the disability pension?’
‘Long black, please. Long and strong.’
At the machine, Leon said, ‘On that note, I see you and Bobby Walshe are school chums.’
‘Kenmare Primary. Survivors.’
‘And on to Cromarty High, you two boys?’
‘Bobby left. Went to Sydney.’
‘So you’ll be voting for your other spunky school chum. Helen of Troilism.’
‘Of what?’
‘Troilism. Threesomes.’ Leon was admiring the crema on his creation. ‘Try under T in the cop manual. It’s probably a crime in Queensland. She’s standing in Cromarty for Bobby’s all-purpose party.’
‘You see that where?’
‘The local rag. I’ve got it here.’
Leon found a copy of the newspaper, opened it to the page. There was a small photograph of Helen Castleman. It did not flatter. The headline said:
SOLICITOR TO STAND FOR NEW PARTY
‘Did it cross your mind,’ Leon said, leaning on the counter, ‘that our lives are just like stories kids tell you? They get the and-then-and-then right, and then they run out of steam and just stop.’
‘You’ve got kids?’ It had not occurred to Cashin.
‘Two,’ said Leon.
Cashin felt a sense of unfairness. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t think about your life that way. Maybe you shouldn’t think about your life at all. Just make the coffee.’
‘I can’t help thinking about it,’ said Leon. ‘When I was growing up I was going to be a doctor, do good things, save lives. A life with a purpose. I wasn’t going to be like my father.’
‘What was wrong with him?’
‘He was an accountant. Dudded his clients, the little old ladies, the pensioners. One day he didn’t come home. I was nine, he didn’t come back till I was fourteen. Not a single word from him. I used to hope he’d come on my birthday. Then he arrived…anyway, forget it, I get maudlin in winter. Vitamin D deficiency, drink too much.’
‘Why can’t dentists have a purpose?’
Leon shook his head. ‘Ever heard anyone appeal for a dentist to come forward?’
‘My feeling,’ said Cashin, ‘is that you’re being a bit hard on yourself.’
CASHIN WAS looking into the fridge, thinking about what to cook for supper when the phone on the counter rang.
‘Get anywhere with the matter we discussed?’ said Helen Castleman.
‘I had the chat with them, yes,’ said Cashin.
‘So?’
‘It’s worth thinking about.’
‘Just thinking?’
‘A manner of speaking.’
Silence.
‘I don’t know how to take you, detective,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘I don’t know whether you want the right result.’
‘What’s the right result?’
‘The truth’s the right result.’
Cashin looked at the dogs, splendid before the fire. They felt his gaze, raised heads, looked at him, sighed and sagged.
‘You’d be good in parliament,’ said Cashin. ‘Raise all the standards. The looks, the average IQ.’
‘Blind Freddy’s dog’s got a better chance of getting into parliament,’ she said. ‘I’m standing to give some choice in this redneck town. Moving on. What are you doing then?’
‘Working on the matter.’
‘Is that you or the homicide squad?’
‘I can’t speak for the homicide squad. There’s no great…’
‘Great what?’
‘I forget. Interrupting me does that. I’m on leave. Out of touch.’
‘And you’ve no doubt worn a path between your mansion and the illegal fence on my property.’
‘There’s a pre-existing path. Historical path to the historical boundary.’
‘Well, I’m coming up it,’ Helen said. ‘I want to see your eyes when you talk this vague bullshit.’
‘That’s also a manner of speaking, is it?’ said Cashin.
‘It is not. I’ll be there in… in however long it takes. I’ll be inspecting my boundary on the way.’
‘What, now?’
‘Setting out this very minute.’
‘Dark soon.’
‘Not that soon. And I’ve got a torch.’
‘Snakes are a problem.’
‘I’m not scared of snakes. Mate.’
‘Rats. Big water rats. And land rats.’
‘Well, eek, eek, bloody eek. Four-legged rats don’t scare me. I’m on my way.’
IN THE FADING afternoon, he saw the red jacket a long way off, a matchflare in the gathering gloom. Then the dogs sniffed her on the wind and took off, ran dead straight. They monstered her but she kept her hands in her pockets, no more scared of dogs than of snakes or rats.
When they met, Helen offered a hand in a formal way. She looked scrubbed, fresh out of the shower, colour on her cheekbones. ‘I suppose you could charge me with trespass,’ she said.
‘I’ll keep that in reserve,’ said Cashin. ‘Let me walk in front, lots of holes. I don’t want to be sued.’
He turned and walked.
‘Very legalistic meeting this,’ said Helen.
‘I don’t know about a meeting. More like an interview.’
They walked up the slope in silence. At the gate, Cashin whistled the dogs in and they appeared from different directions.
‘Highly trained animals,’ she said.
‘Hungry animals. It’s supper time.’
At the back door, he said, ‘I’m not apologising for the place. It’s a ruin. I live in a ruin.’
They went in, down the passage to the big room.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘What room is this?’
‘The ballroom. I have the balls in here.’
Cashin shunted the dogs into the kitchen, led the way to the rooms he lived in, cringed at the half-stripped wallpaper, the cracked plaster, the piles of newspapers.
‘This is where you go after the balls,’ said Helen. ‘The less formal room. It’s warm.’
‘This is where we withdraw to,’ he said. ‘The withdrawing room.’ He had read the term somewhere, hadn’t known it before Rai Sarris, that was certain.
Helen looked at him, nodding in an appraising way, biting her lower lip. ‘My embarrassment about this visit has been growing,’ she said. ‘I get so angry.’
Cashin cleared newspapers from a chair, dropped them on the floor. ‘Now that you’re here,’ he said, ‘have a seat.’
She sat down.
He didn’t know what to do next. He said, awkward, ‘Time to feed the dogs. Tea, coffee? A drink?’
‘Is that the choice for the dogs? Do I get to choose? Give them tea. And a bickie.’
‘Right. What about you?’
‘A drink like what?’ She was taking off her coat, looking around the room, at the sound equipment, the CD racks, the bookshelf.
‘Well, beer. Red wine. Rum, there’s Bundy. Coffee with Bundy is good on a cold day, that’s every day. With a small shot. A big shot, that’s good too.’