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Authors: Peter Temple
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thought. It’s for lesser beings.’
‘Assuming that he knew the person who attacked him…’
‘Why would you assume that?’
‘One possible line of inquiry. Who might want to harm him?’
‘As far as I know,’ she said, ‘he’s a much respected person around here. But I don’t live here, I haven’t since…since I was a child. I’ve only been a visitor.’
She looked away. Cashin followed her gaze, looked out at the disciplined gravel that ran to the hedge. Nothing lifted the spirits about the grounds of The Heights—hedges, lawns, paving, gravel, they were all shades of green and grey. It came to him that there were no flowers.
‘He had all the garden beds ripped out,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘They were wonderful.’
‘A last thing. Do you know of anything in your step-father’s life or your life that might have led to this?’
‘Such as?’
‘This may become a murder investigation.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing will be left private in the life of anyone around your stepfather.’
She straightened, gave him the unfazed gaze. ‘Are you saying I’ll be a suspect?’
‘Everyone will be of interest.’
‘What about perfect strangers?’ she said. ‘Is there a chance that youmight take an interest in perfect strangers who got into the house and attacked him?’
He wanted to echo her sarcastic tone. ‘Every chance,’ he said. ‘But with no sign of forced entry, we have to consider other possibilities.’
‘Well,’ she said, looked at her watch, a slim silver band, ‘I’d like to get going. Are you a local policeman?’
‘I’m down here for as long as it takes.’
There was truth in this. There was some truth in almost anything people said.
‘May I ask you why you brought the bodyguard?’ said Cashin.
‘It’s a work-related thing. Just a precaution.’ Erica stood up.
Cashin rose. ‘You’ve been threatened?’
Erica held out her right hand. ‘Work-related, detective. In my work, that makes it confidential. Goodbye.’
They shook hands. The ex-SOG man, Jacobs, walked onto the forecourt to see him go. In the mirror, Cashin saw him give a mocking wave, fingers fanned, right hand held just beside his tough-guy smile.
Cashin gunned the cruiser, showered Jacobs with gravel, saw him try to protect his face.
CASHIN DROVE out on the road behind Open Beach, turned at the junction with the highway, went back through Port Monro, got a coffee. He parked above Lucan Rocks, below him a half-dozen surfers, some taking on the big breakers, some giving it a lot of thought.
It was a soothing thing to do: sit in a warm car and watch the wind lifting spume off the waves, see the sudden green translucence of a rising wall of water, a black figure’s skim across the melting glass, the poetic exit into the air, the falling.
He thought about Gavin’s shark-bitten board, paddling out on it, the water warm as a bath. The water he was looking at was icy. He remembered the testicle-retracting swims when he was a boy, when they had the family shack above Open Beach and the Doogue shack was over the next dune, rugged assemblages of corrugated iron, fibro sheet, salvaged weatherboards. In those days, the town had two milkbars, two butcher shops, the fish and chip shop, the hardware, a general dealer, one chemist, one doctor. Rich people, mostly sheep farmers, had holiday houses on the Bar between the sea and the river. Ordinary people from the inland had shacks above Open Beach or in South Port or in the streets behind the caravan park.
Cashin remembered his father stopping the Falcon on the wooden bridge, looking down the river at the yachts moored on both sides.
‘This place’s turning into the bloody Riviera,’ his father said.
‘What’s a Riviera?’ said Joe.
‘Monaco’s on the Riviera,’ said Michael.
Mick Cashin looked at Michael. ‘How’d you know that?
‘Read it,’ said Michael. ‘That’s where they have the grand pricks.’
‘Grand pricks?’
‘Assuming that he knew the person who attacked him…’
‘Why would you assume that?’
‘One possible line of inquiry. Who might want to harm him?’
‘As far as I know,’ she said, ‘he’s a much respected person around here. But I don’t live here, I haven’t since…since I was a child. I’ve only been a visitor.’
She looked away. Cashin followed her gaze, looked out at the disciplined gravel that ran to the hedge. Nothing lifted the spirits about the grounds of The Heights—hedges, lawns, paving, gravel, they were all shades of green and grey. It came to him that there were no flowers.
‘He had all the garden beds ripped out,’ she said, reading his mind. ‘They were wonderful.’
‘A last thing. Do you know of anything in your step-father’s life or your life that might have led to this?’
‘Such as?’
‘This may become a murder investigation.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing will be left private in the life of anyone around your stepfather.’
She straightened, gave him the unfazed gaze. ‘Are you saying I’ll be a suspect?’
‘Everyone will be of interest.’
‘What about perfect strangers?’ she said. ‘Is there a chance that youmight take an interest in perfect strangers who got into the house and attacked him?’
He wanted to echo her sarcastic tone. ‘Every chance,’ he said. ‘But with no sign of forced entry, we have to consider other possibilities.’
‘Well,’ she said, looked at her watch, a slim silver band, ‘I’d like to get going. Are you a local policeman?’
‘I’m down here for as long as it takes.’
There was truth in this. There was some truth in almost anything people said.
‘May I ask you why you brought the bodyguard?’ said Cashin.
‘It’s a work-related thing. Just a precaution.’ Erica stood up.
Cashin rose. ‘You’ve been threatened?’
Erica held out her right hand. ‘Work-related, detective. In my work, that makes it confidential. Goodbye.’
They shook hands. The ex-SOG man, Jacobs, walked onto the forecourt to see him go. In the mirror, Cashin saw him give a mocking wave, fingers fanned, right hand held just beside his tough-guy smile.
Cashin gunned the cruiser, showered Jacobs with gravel, saw him try to protect his face.
CASHIN DROVE out on the road behind Open Beach, turned at the junction with the highway, went back through Port Monro, got a coffee. He parked above Lucan Rocks, below him a half-dozen surfers, some taking on the big breakers, some giving it a lot of thought.
It was a soothing thing to do: sit in a warm car and watch the wind lifting spume off the waves, see the sudden green translucence of a rising wall of water, a black figure’s skim across the melting glass, the poetic exit into the air, the falling.
He thought about Gavin’s shark-bitten board, paddling out on it, the water warm as a bath. The water he was looking at was icy. He remembered the testicle-retracting swims when he was a boy, when they had the family shack above Open Beach and the Doogue shack was over the next dune, rugged assemblages of corrugated iron, fibro sheet, salvaged weatherboards. In those days, the town had two milkbars, two butcher shops, the fish and chip shop, the hardware, a general dealer, one chemist, one doctor. Rich people, mostly sheep farmers, had holiday houses on the Bar between the sea and the river. Ordinary people from the inland had shacks above Open Beach or in South Port or in the streets behind the caravan park.
Cashin remembered his father stopping the Falcon on the wooden bridge, looking down the river at the yachts moored on both sides.
‘This place’s turning into the bloody Riviera,’ his father said.
‘What’s a Riviera?’ said Joe.
‘Monaco’s on the Riviera,’ said Michael.
Mick Cashin looked at Michael. ‘How’d you know that?
‘Read it,’ said Michael. ‘That’s where they have the grand pricks.’
‘Grand pricks?’
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