Cashin looked away, at the water running down the huge plateglass window. Two blurred figures outside were running fingertips across the stream, making wavy transient lines. ‘That’s possible,’ he said.
‘What about the watch?’
‘Never conclusive.’
‘Just because Charles gave this man money doesn’t link the attacks,’ said Erica. ‘Who knows how many people Charles gave money to?’
‘I do.’
She sat back, hands on the table, linked them, parted them. ‘So you know everything and you say nothing. What can I possibly tell you that you don’t know?’
‘I thought you might think of something to tell me.’
Erica looked at him, a steady gaze, blue-grey eyes. She touched the slim silver choker around her neck, ran a finger behind it. ‘I have nothing else to tell you and I have a meeting to go to.’
Cashin did not know why he had waited to say it. ‘Pollard was a paedophile,’ he said. ‘Fucked boys. Children.’
She shook her head as if mystified. Colour came to her cheekbones, she could not stop that. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m sure that information is useful to you, but…’
‘It’s not useful to you?’
‘Why should it be? Are you scratching around because it’s going to be embarrassing if the Daunt boys are innocent?’
‘We’ll wear that.’ He looked away and, at the edge of his vision, he saw the man in the black turtleneck flexing his right hand. ‘What are you scared of, Ms Bourgoyne?’
For an instant, he thought she was going to tell him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘The bodyguard.’
‘If I was scared of anything that fell in your area of concern, detective, I’d tell you. Now I have my meeting.’
‘Thank you for your time.’
Cashin watched her go. She had good legs. At the escalator, she looked back and caught his eyes, held them a moment longer than necessary. Then the bodyguard blocked his view.
‘THE FIRST watch Bourgoyne bought from Cozzen’s,’ said Dove, ‘is this model.’ He pointed to a picture in a brochure. ‘The receipt is 14 September 1986.’
‘Very nice. Time yourself going down the Cresta Run.’ It was a technical-looking watch, black face, three white dials, three bevelled winders, recessed, a crocodile strap.
‘It’s called the Navitimer, still in production.’ Dove’s speech was clipped, he radiated antagonism. ‘Here’s the second one he bought, another Navitimer, 14 March 2000.’
It had a plain white face, three small dials, also on a crocodile leather strap.
Cashin thought about the morning at The Heights. A smart watch, Carol Gehrig said. A crocodile skin strap. ‘What’s the pawnbroker say?’
‘He made a statement at the time,’ said Dove. ‘Sydney sent it but in the excitement it seems to have fallen into a hole.’
Cashin felt as if he had missed a night’s sleep somewhere. ‘What did he say at the time then?’
‘He said, I quote: “It was a Breitling. A Maritimer. It’s a collectable. Very expensive. The one with three small dials, black face, crocodile strap.”’
Cashin got up, full of pain, went to the window and looked at the school grounds, the public gardens, all soft in the misty rain. He found Helen Castleman’s direct number.
‘Helen Castleman.’
‘Joe Cashin.’
A moment.
‘I’ve tried to call you,’ she said. ‘Your home phone just rings, your mobile number appears to be off.’
‘I’m using another one. I’m in the city.’
‘I don’t know what I should say. You were so insulting. Arrogant. Dismissive.’
‘Got the right person? Listen, I need a description of the watch Susie saw. She gave me the name but I need a description from her. Can you get that?’
‘This is because the case is still under investigation?’
‘It always has been. Can you get that soonest?’
‘I’ll see. Give me your number.’
Cashin sat down, looked at Dove. Dove didn’t want to look at him.
‘Hopgood says there’s no record of the messages to him that night,’ said Cashin.
Now Dove looked. ‘The cunts,’ he said. ‘They’ve wiped them. They’ve wiped the fucking record.’
‘It could be at our end, a technical thing.’
Dove shook his head, the overhead light blinked in his round lenses. ‘Well, then you can blame me at the inquest,’ he said. ‘Didn’t press the right buttons. Just fucked it up. As a boong does.’
Cashin rose, sitting was worse than standing, went back to the window. He said, ‘Hopgood said, and I quote him, “You two boongs making up stories now?”’
‘What?’
‘He said, you two boongs making up stories now.’
‘That’s us?’
‘I took him to mean that, yes.’
Dove laughed, real pleasure. ‘Welcome to Boongland,’ he said. ‘Listen, bro, want to get some lunch round the corner? Grub sandwich?’
‘Had it with round the corner,’ said Cashin. ‘Had it for six years and I’ve had it.’
‘There’s a Brunetti’s at the arts centre,’ said Dove. ‘Know Brunetti’s in Carlton?’
‘You fucking blow-in, you don’t know Brunetti’s from Donetti’s.’
Finucane joined them in the lift, gave them a ride down St Kilda Road.
‘Fin, looking at you,’ said Cashin, ‘I’m giving you a nine point six on the over-worked, under-slept, generally-fucked-over scale.’
Finucane smiled the small modest smile of a man whose efforts had been recognised. ‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.
‘Want a transfer to Port Monro?’ said Cashin. ‘Just pub fights and sheep-shagging, the odd cunt nicks his neighbour’s hydroponic gear officially used to grow vine-ripened tomatoes. It’s a nice place to bring up kids.’
‘Too exciting,’ said Finucane. ‘I’ve got six blokes to see on Pollard. This one in Footscray, he says he goes back a long way. Probably turn out he rang from his deaf and dumb auntie’s house where he isn’t and doesn’t live.’
At Brunetti’s, they queued behind black-clad office workers and backpackers and four women from the country who were overwhelmed by the choices. Cashin bought a calzone, Dove had a roll with duck and olives and capsicum relish and five kinds of leaves. They were drinking coffee when Cashin’s mobile rang. He went outside.
‘I hear traffic,’ said Helen. ‘Makes me nostalgic. Where are you?’
‘Near the arts centre.’
‘So cultured-opera, art galleries.’
‘Get hold of Susie?’ Cashin was watching a man coming down the pavement on a unicycle, a small white dog perched on each shoulder. The dogs had the resigned air of passengers on a long-distance bus.
‘She says the watch had a big black face and two or three little white dials.’
Cashin closed his eyes. He thought that he should say thanks for your help and goodbye. That was what he should do. That was what the police minister and the chief commissioner and the assistant crime commissioner and very possibly Villani would want him to do.
It wasn’t the right thing to do. He should tell her that the watch the boys tried to sell in Sydney wasn’t the watch Bourgoyne was wearing on the night he was attacked.
‘Still there?’ said Helen.
‘Thanks for your help,’ he said.
‘That’s it?’
‘That’s it.’
‘Well, goodbye.’
They finished their coffee and walked back. Cashin had to wait twenty minutes to see Villani. ‘Bourgoyne wasn’t wearing the watch the boys tried to sell in Sydney,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’
Cashin told him.
‘Could’ve pinched that one from the house too. Pinched both watches.’
‘No. Corey Pascoe’s sister saw the fancy watch about a year ago. Corey had it before he went to Sydney. I’ve spoken to her.’
‘Well that could be bullshit.’
‘I believe her.’
‘Yeah?’
‘She knew the name. She’s described the watch.’