‘We can,’ said Cashin.
He took his time, looked around the big wood-panelled office, at the glass-fronted bookshelves, the leather client chairs, the fresh violets in a cut-glass vase on the windowsill, the bare plane branches outside.
‘Very nice office,’ he said.
‘Please get on with it.’ Head on one side, the voice and face of a schoolteacher with a dim pupil.
‘I thought I might put a few things to you. Propositions.’
She looked at her watch. ‘I can give you five minutes. To the second.’
‘Your brother was sexually abused by your step-father and you know that.’
Erica sat down, blinking as if something had lodged in her eyes.
‘Jamie and Justin Fischer tortured and killed Arthur Pollard and I think you know that. Jamie and Justin murdered a man called Robin Gray Bonney in Sydney and you may or may not know that.’
Erica held up her hands. ‘Detective, this is absolutely…’
‘Why didn’t you tell me, tell anyone, that Mrs Laidlaw had seen Jamie?’
A vague gesture. ‘Moira’s getting on, she can’t be relied upon…’
‘Mrs Laidlaw appeared to me to be in complete command of her faculties. She had no doubt that she saw Jamie. And you believed her, didn’t you? That’s when you hired the security. It was before Charles was bashed.’
‘Detective Cashin, you’ve overstepped the mark. I can see no point in going on with this.’
‘We can do it in a formal interview,’ said Cashin. ‘Put the day on hold and come down to St Kilda Road. It’s probably better that way. You’re the one who’s overstepped a mark. You’re looking at conspiracy.’
Silence. She held his gaze but he saw the sign.
‘You spoke to Jamie, didn’t you?’ said Cashin.
‘No.’
Erica closed her eyes. He could see the tracery of veins. Cashin said what had been on his mind for a long time. ‘Just the two of you after your mother’s accident. All alone at night in that big house with Charles. What happened at night, Erica?’
‘Joe, please, no.’ Her chin was on her chest, a piece of hair fell across her brow. ‘Please, Joe.’
‘What happened to you in that house, Erica?’
Silence.
‘Did you become Charles’s little wife? Was it before or after your mother’s death? You followed him around. You worshipped him. Did you know those men were fucking Jamie? Did you know Charles was?’
She had begun to shake. ‘No, no, no…’ It was not a denial. It was a plea for him to stop.
‘Still believe your mother’s death was an accident, do you, Erica? The same night as the fire at the Companions camp, remember that? Three boys died that night. Charles killed one of them with his own hands at The Heights. Did your mother see something? Hear something?’
‘Joe, no, please, I can’t…’
Cashin looked at her bowed head, saw the pale skin of her scalp, her hands clenched at her throat.
Erica did not raise her head, she was saying something inaudible, saying it to herself, again and again and again, saying a mantra.
Cashin knew about mantras. He had said a million mantras, against pain, against thought, against memory, against the night that would not surrender its dark.
She straightened in her chair, she was trying to regain her composure.
Cashin waited.
‘What does it matter now, Joe?’ she said, voice drained of life, an old voice. ‘Why do you want to drag this from me? Do you get pleasure from this?’
‘The bodyguard,’ said Cashin. ‘What was that about?’
‘A client threatened me.’
‘I don’t believe you. I think you always knew Jamie was alive. You were protective of him but you were also scared of him. That’s right, isn’t it?’
No reply.
‘You watched them torture Pollard, didn’t you? There was one seat down in the hall. Just one. You sat there, Erica.’
She was crying silently, tears gouging her makeup.
‘Did Charles hand you on to Pollard, Erica? Pollard liked young girls too. We found the pictures in his computer. You wanted Jamie to kill Charles and Pollard, didn’t you? You couldn’t be there for Charles but you weren’t going to miss Pollard. That’s right, isn’t it.’
Erica began to sob, louder and louder, her head down, her upper body shaking.
‘Did you stay to the end, Erica? Did you clap when they raised him? Did it cleanse you?’
A woman crying, her whole body crying, her whole being crying.
Cashin stood.
‘You’re a sick person, Ms Bourgoyne,’ he said. ‘Sickness has bred sickness. Thanks for your time.’
Solid rain was falling on Queen Street. Fin was double-parked, obstructing the traffic, reading the paper.
‘How was that, boss?’ he said.
‘Pretty ordinary,’ said Cashin. ‘Take me home, son.’
THE DOGS were unrecognisable.
‘What have you done to them?’ said Cashin. ‘Look at those ears.’
‘They’ve been properly clipped and groomed for the first time in their lives,’ said his mother. ‘They loved it.’
‘They’re in shock. They need counselling.’
‘I think they should stay here. They’re happy here. I don’t think they want to go back to that ruin.’
Cashin walked to the vehicle and opened a back door. The dogs looked, didn’t move.
‘See, Joseph,’ said his mother. ‘See.’
Cashin whistled, one clear whistle, and jerked his thumb at the door. The dogs raced for the vehicle, managed to get through the doorway abreast, sat bolt upright, looking straight ahead.
Cashin closed the door. ‘I’ll bring them to visit,’ he said.
‘Often,’ said his mother. ‘Bonzo loves them. They’re his best dog friends.’
Cashin thought he saw a tear. ‘I’ll drop them off to see Bonzo when I go to town,’ he said. ‘Provided there’s no dioxin spraying going on.’ He went over and kissed her.
‘You should think about counselling, Joseph,’ she said, holding his head. ‘Your life is the most awful litany of horrors.’
‘Just a run of bad luck.’ He got in.
She came to the window. ‘They like chicken, have you got chicken?’
‘They like fillet steak too. They get dead animals I find by the roadside. Bye, Syb.’
Driving home with the last pink in the west, the night taking the land ditch by ditch, hollow by hollow. At the crossroads, he switched on the lights and, five minutes later, they panned across the dark house and a man leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette, holding a torch.
Rebb came to the vehicle, opened the back door for the dogs. ‘Sweet Jesus,’ he said, ‘you traded the dogs?’
They leapt on him, ecstatic.
‘Don’t blame me,’ said Cashin. ‘My mother did it. I thought you’d gone?’
‘Went, nothin there, come back this way,’ Rebb said. ‘Old bloke not walking too good. So I thought I might as well give him a hand, do a bit of work on the cathedral in between.’
They walked around, looked by torchlight at what Rebb had done.
‘Bit,’ said Cashin. ‘Call that a bit?’
‘Bern come around, give me a hand. Bad mouth on him, but he works.’
‘The works part is news to me. He’s got a good memory, that I know.’
‘Yeah?’ Rebb shone the light on a new wall, walked over and ran a finger along the pointing.
‘The day he brought the water tank. He remembered you from all those years ago, when you were kids. Played footy against you. Against the Companions camp.’
Rebb said, ‘Well, that’s news to me. Never heard of the Companions camp.’ He turned the torch on the dogs.
‘I’ve got a picture of you,’ said Cashin. ‘Eating an orange slice. Age about twelve.’
‘Never been twelve,’ said Rebb. ‘I could make a bunny pie. Took the popgun again.’
‘Anything happen to you there?’
Cashin thought Rebb smiled.
‘Just stayed the one day,’ Rebb said. ‘Didn’t like the food.’