‘When last?’
‘Five, six years, I dunno.’
‘How many times?’
‘Few.’
‘Every time you went to Melbourne?’
‘I suppose.’
‘How often was that?’
Starkey swallowed. ‘Four, five times a year.’
‘And the hall?’
‘Don’t know the hall.’
Cashin caught the tinny sound in the big man’s voice.
He took out the mugshot of Pollard, didn’t show it. ‘I’m asking you again. Do you know this man?’
‘I know him.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Arthur Pollard. He used to come to the camp.’
‘Where else do you know him from?’
‘Collett Street. I seen him there.’
Cashin walked to the work bench, ran a finger over the piece of metal Tay had been filing. It was a part of some sort. ‘Pollard’s a perv,’ he said. ‘Know that? He likes boys. Small boys. Fucks them. And the rest. Lots of the rest, I can tell you. Know about that do you, Mr Starkey?’
Silence. Cashin didn’t look at Starkey. ‘Didn’t drop your boy off in Collett Street, did you, Mr Starkey? Feed him to Pollard?’
‘I’ll kill you,’ Starkey said slowly, voice thick. ‘Say that again, I’ll fuckin kill you.’
Cashin turned. ‘Tell me about Bourgoyne.’
Starkey had a hand on his chest. His face was orange, he was trying to control his breathing. ‘Never saw anything. Nothin. So help me, I never saw anythin.’
‘What about the hall?’
‘Just the once. Picked up a lot of stuff, files and that. He said to burn it.’
‘Bourgoyne?’
‘Yeah.’
‘So where’d you burn it?
‘Nowhere to burn there. Brought the stuff back here to burn.’
‘Dad.’
Tay was in the door, chin near his chest, looking through a comb of pale hair that touched the bridge of his nose.
‘What?’
‘Mum says spaggy bol okay for tea?’
‘Tell her to go for it, son.’
Tay went. Cashin walked to the door, turned. ‘Don’t go anywhere,’ he said. ‘There’s plenty more we want to know. And don’t mention this little talk to anyone. You go running to fucking Hopgood, running anywhere, I’m coming back for you and Tay, you’ll both rot in remand in Melbourne. Not together either. He’ll be in with blokes fuck dogs. And so will you.’
‘Didn’t burn the stuff,’ said Starkey quietly.
CASHIN SAT at the table and sifted through the contents of Starkey’s cardboard boxes. It was half an hour before he came upon the clipping of a photograph from the Cromarty Herald. The date at the top of the page was 12 August 1977.
A strapline above the picture said:
CLEAN AIR IS A KICK FOR CITY BOYS
The caption read:
Coach Rob Starkey, North Cromarty star half-forward, fires up the Companions Camp under-15 side at half-time in their game against St Stephen’s on Saturday morning. The city boys, having a much-needed holiday at the Port Monro camp thanks to the Moral Companions, went down 167-43. But the score didn’t matter. The point was to have a good run around in the bracing air.
The black-and-white photograph showed boys in muddy white shorts and dark football jumpers facing a big man. He was holding the ball horizontally and he was saying something. The boys, hair close-cut back and sides, were eating orange quarters-sour oranges, said the nearest boy’s puckered face, his closed eyes.
In the background were spectators, all but two of them men, rugged up against the cold. To the right were two men in overcoats and, in front of them, a small boy. The men were smoking cigarettes.
Cashin got up from the table and took the clipping to the window, held it to the dying light. He recognised the man in the centre wearing a camel overcoat from the photographs at The Heights: Charles Bourgoyne. He had long fingers. The man on his right could be Percy Crake-he had a small moustache.
Cashin looked at the other spectators: middle-aged men, a sharp-nosed woman wearing a headscarf, a laughing woman of indeterminate age. The face behind Bourgoyne was turned away, a young man, short hair combed back, something about him.
Was the boy with Bourgoyne and Crake? He was frowning. He seemed to be looking at the camera. Something in the small face nagged at Cashin. He closed his eyes and he saw Erica Bourgoyne across the table from him at the gallery.
James Bourgoyne. The boy with the sad face might be the drowned Jamie, Erica’s brother, Bourgoyne’s step-son.
Cashin went back to the papers and looked for other photographs. In a folder, he found more than a dozen 8 × 10 prints. They were all the same: boys lined up in three rows of nine or ten, tallest at the back, the front row on one knee. They wore singlets and dark shorts, tennis shoes with short socks. The man with the moustache was in all of them, dressed like the boys, standing to the right, apart. His arms were folded, fists beneath his biceps, bulging them. He had hairy legs, big thighs and muscular calves. At the left stood two other men in track-suits. One of them, a stocky dark man wearing glasses, was in all the photographs. The other one-tall, thin, long-nosed-was in five or six.
He turned a photograph over: Companions Camp 1979.
The names were written in pencil in a loose hand: back row, middle row, front row. At left: Mr Percy Crake. At right: Mr Robin Bonney, Mr Duncan Vallins.
Vallins was the tall man, Bonney the dark, solid one.
Cashin looked for the name and he found it in 1977.
David Vincent was in the middle row, a skinny, pale boy, long-necked, his adam’s apple and the bumps on his shoulders visible. His head was turned away slightly, apprehensively, as if he feared some physical harm from the photographer.
Cashin read the other names, looked at the faces, looked away and thought. He fetched the telephone and dialled, listened, eyes closed. David Vincent was out or out of it. He rang Melbourne, had to wait for Tracy.
‘Two names,’ he said. ‘Robin Bonney. Duncan Vallins. Appreciate and so on.’
‘You are Singo’s clones,’ she said. ‘You and the boss. Have people told you that?’
‘They’ve told me young Clint Eastwood. Does that square with you?’
‘And so on. You going to actually speak to me the next time you come in here? As opposed to acknowledging my existence?’
A dog rose on the sofa and, in an indolent manner, put its paws on the floor and did a stretch, backside high above its head. The other dog followed suit, an offended look.
‘Preoccupied then,’ said Cashin. ‘I’m sorry. Still married to that bloke in moving?’
‘No. Divorced.’
‘Right. Moved on. Well, next time I’m in we can exchange some more personal information. Blood types, that kind of thing.’
‘I’m holding my breath. Got a Robin Gray Bonney here. Age fifty-seven. Possibility?’
‘About right.’
‘Former social worker. Form is child sex offender. Suspended sentence on two charges. Then he did four years of a six.’
‘More and more right.’
‘Well, he’s dead. Multiple stab wounds, castrated, mutilated and strangled. In Sydney. Marrickville. That’s, that’s two days ago. No arrest.’
Cashin tried to do the front stretch exercise, the opening of the shoulderblades, felt all the muscles resist.
‘Here we go,’ said Tracy. ‘Vallins, Duncan Grant, age fifty-three. Anglican priest, address in Brisbane, Fortitude Valley but that’s 1994. Child sex form, suspended sentence 1987. Did a year in 1994-95. I presume he’s a former priest now.’
‘Why would you presume that? Trace, three things. All the details on Bonney. The mutilation. Two, on Vallins, beg Brisbane to check that address and stress we don’t want him spooked. Three, tell Dove we need the coroner’s report on a fire at the Companions camp, Port Monro, in 1983.’