Going down the stone stairs, Cashin opened a file. ‘Get Tracy,’ he said to Dove. In the entrance hall, Dove handed him the mobile.
‘Tracy, Joe. This is top of the list, front burner. Everything on a Justin David Fischer. That’s a S-C-H-E-R. The last address is for an aunt, Mrs K. L. Fischer, 19 Hendon Street, Albert Park. Ask Birk to see if someone can chase that.’
‘We’ve got the Jamie Bourgoyne sweep and the inquest on the Companions fire. Fin’s looking at them.’
‘Ask him to ring me, will you?’
‘And Brisbane checked that Duncan Grant Vallins address. He left there two years ago. They don’t have anything more recent.’
‘Bugger.’
‘The neighbour says a bloke was asking for him last week. Long hair, beard. Another one in the car.’
In the twilight, they crunched softly down the gravel driveway. Boys in green blazers and grey flannels were coming along a path to their right. The pale one in front was eating chips out of box. A boy behind him put a headlock on him, pulled his head back. Another boy walked by and casually took the chip box, kept walking, put one in his mouth.
‘Year ten mugging class,’ said Dove. ‘Been out on a prac.’
‘WHAT’S HE SHOW?’ said Cashin. They were at lights in Toorak Road. Three blonde women were crossing, damp combed hair, no makeup, flushed from an after-work gym class.
‘My oath,’ said Dove. ‘These things are sent to try us.’
‘Never on the electoral roll,’ said Finucane. ‘No Jamie Bourgoyne or Kingsley registered for Medicare, the dole, anything. A driver’s licence issued Darwin 1989, you get that in a show bag. Then he’s on the move. Minor drug stuff in Cairns, arrest for assaulting a kid age twelve in Coffs Harbour. Not proceeded with. Suspended sentences for assault in Sydney in 1986. In a park, victim age sixteen. Possession of heroin in Sydney in 1987. Two years for aggravated burglary in Melbourne in 1990.’
The lights turned green. Without a glance either way, an old woman, small and hunched, head down, wearing a transparent plastic raincoat, pushed a pram-like homemade trolley into the crossing.
‘Like Columbus,’ said Dove. ‘She has no idea.’
The car behind them hooted, two long blasts.
Dove waited until the woman had crossed to safety before he pulled away slowly, held the speed, an act of provocation.
‘Go on,’ said Cashin.
‘That’s it. Jamie came out in ′92 and he’s presumed drowned in Tassie in ′93.’
Cashin said, ‘Fin, Tracy’s on this Fischer bloke. Get whatever and ring me, okay? Also she’s got a Duncan Grant Vallins. He’s a ped, former Anglican sky pilot, address unknown, see if he’s in our system, see if the church knows anything about him. Tell the choirboy who does the church’s spin to co-operate or they’ll turn in the fucking wind. On The 7.30 Report tonight.’
‘Boss.’
‘And one other thing. Try the name Mark Kingston Denby. Ring Dove if you get anything.’
‘Boss.’
Cashin closed his eyes and thought about Helen Castleman naked. So smooth. Nakedness and sex changed everything. No bacon and onion and tomato sandwich would ever taste like that again.
‘Where to?’ said Dove.
‘Queen Street. Know that?’
‘Memorised the map, that’s the first thing I did.’
‘Then there’ll always be a job for you driving cabs. Probably sooner than later.’
In Queen Street, Dove said, ‘Accepting that I might have come on a bit like…’
‘Here,’ said Cashin. ‘Park in there. I want to talk to Erica Bourgoyne.’
‘Bit late in the day, isn’t it?’
‘She’s a lawyer. They don’t go home.’
Cashin had the door open when Dove’s mobile rang. He waited while Dove answered, held up a finger. ‘Putting him on,’ said Dove, offered the phone.
‘Boss, I got through to this church bloke, he gave me Duncan Grant Vallins straight off,’ said Finucane. ‘Living in a place in Essendon, St Aidan’s Home for Boys. It’s shut down but this bloke says church people in need sometimes stay there.’
‘In need of what?’ said Cashin. ‘The address?’
The night was upon them now, rain blurring the lights, dripping from the street trees, the pavement a parade of pale faces above dark garments.
‘Also Mark Kingston Denby, found him. Came out of jail nine weeks ago. Six years for armed robberies. There’s a co-accused here.’
‘Yes?’
‘A Justin Fischer,’ said Finucane. ‘He got the same.’ Cashin thought of calling Villani, changed his mind, told Dove where to go.
THE HEADLIGHTS lit the pillars and the double gates: cast-iron, ornate, fully two metres high, once painted, now an autumn colour and flaking. Beyond them was a driveway, and the lights threw the gates’ shadows onto dark, uncontrolled vegetation.
‘If the prick’s at home, we’re taking him into protective custody,’ said Cashin. His whole torso was aching now and the pain slivers were going down his thighs.
Dove switched off, cut the lights. The street was dark here, the nearest lamp on the other side, fifty metres down. They got out, into the cold evening, the rain holding off for a while.
‘What do we do?’ said Dove.
‘Knock on the front door,’ said Cashin. ‘What else is there to do?’
He tried the gate, put his hand through an opening and found a lever, raised it with difficulty, a screech of metal. The right-hand gate resisted his push, then swung easily. ‘Leave it open,’ he said.
They walked up the drive side by side, trying not to brush the wet bushes. ‘You armed?’ said Dove.
‘Relax,’ said Cashin, ‘it’s one old ex-priest ped, not party night at the Hell’s Angels.’ He knew he should be carrying. He’d got out of the habit, lost the instinct.
The building came into sight, double-storeyed, brick, arched windows, steps up to a long porch and a front door with leadlight windows on either side. A slit of light showed in a window to the left, a curtain not fully drawn.
‘Someone home,’ said Cashin. ‘Someone in need.’
They climbed the stairs, he pulled back a solid ring of brass, pounded a few times, waited, hammered again.
The leadlight on the left glowed dimly-red and white and green and violet, a biblical scene, a group of men, one haloed.
‘Who’s there?’ A firm male voice.
‘Police,’ said Cashin.
‘Put your identification through the letter slot.’
Cashin gestured to Dove, who took out his ID card, pushed it through the slot. It was taken. They heard two bolts slide. The door opened.
‘What is it?’ A tall unshaven man in black, many-chinned, round glasses, thin grey hair combed back, oily, curling at the tips.
‘Duncan Grant Vallins?’
‘Yes.’
‘Detective Senior Sergeant Cashin, homicide. Detective Dove.’
‘What do you want?’
‘Can we come in?’
Vallins hesitated, stood back. They went into a marble-floored entrance hall with a staircase rising in the centre, branching left and right to a gallery. Six metres up hung a many-tiered crystal chandelier.
‘This way,’ said Vallins.
They followed his pear shape into a room to the left. It was a big sitting room, one dim unshaded bulb above, one standing lamp near a fireplace. The furniture was old, shabby, unmatched chairs, a sagging chintz sofa. The smell was of damp and mouse droppings and ancient cigarette smoke trapped in curtains and carpet and coverings.
Vallins sat in the chair next to the lamp, crossed his legs, adjusted them. His thighs were fat. Next to a white cup, a filter cigarette was burning in a brass ashtray and he picked it up and drew deeply, long thin fingers stained the colour of cinnamon sticks. ‘What do you want?’ he said.
‘Do you know an Arthur Pollard?’ said Cashin, looking at the room, at the high ceiling, at the group of bottles on a side table, whisky bottles, seven or eight, empty except for two.