trying to find out which particular cunt killed some other cunt for whose death we should be grateful. As a city. As a state. A country. As a fucking world.’
‘I think you’re over-excited,’ said Cashin. ‘On Bourgoyne, what’s to show for the forensic geniuses you had here?’
‘Bugger all. The alarm was off. No break-in, no prints, no weapon. No strange DNA. Don’t know what’s gone except the watch. There’s locked drawers broken open in the study and his bedroom.’
‘And him?’
‘It’s likely to be murder. Lives, he’s a cabbage.’
‘Did you ever ask yourself why they hit on the cabbage? What about the carrot? How about the Brussels sprout?’
‘Let’s leave the philosophy for the pub, gentlemen.’
It was a Singo saying, from the time before Rai Sarris.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’ said Cashin.
‘This Rothacker Julian connection, we need a senior officer on the job. I don’t want any fuck-ups. I’m new in the tower, Joe, I can feel the wind. This’ll end up some dumb
In Cold Blood
thing, I feel it in my dick, it’s just the in-between shit we have to manage.’
‘What about Cromarty?’
‘Fuck them. This is the commissioner speaking.’
‘And I say no?’
‘Listen, son, you are still a member of homicide. You’re a member on holiday. Remember duty?’
‘Some things about it, yes.’
‘I’m glad I don’t have to say any more.’
‘You arsehole.’
‘Come around to my office and repeat that to a senior officer,’ said Villani. ‘First, a talk with Ms Bourgoyne, the step-daughter. She’s been asked to go down and take a look, should be there in about an hour. Cromarty’s opening the place.’
‘She’s been interviewed?’
‘Not really. What we need is for you to be with her when she sees the house. Find out what was in the drawers, if she can see anything else missing, anything unusual while she was there, any ideas she can give us.’
‘Sure you need a senior officer? Why don’t you just give your marvellously detailed instructions to some prick from traffic?’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Jesus, don’t be so touchy.’
‘What about other family?’
‘No one close. There was a step-son, Erica’s brother. She says he drowned in Tassie a long time ago.’
‘She says?’
‘We’ll verify that. Okay? We’ll get some prick from traffic to check that out. Give him detailed instructions.’
‘Just asking.’
CASHIN DROVE out to the Bourgoyne house, up the steep road from the highway, through the gates, down the winding poplar drive, and parked in the same place as before. The gravel showed the marks of many vehicles.
He parked and waited, listened to the radio, thought about being on the road with his mother, the other children he met, some of them feral kids, not going to school, beach urchins, the white ones burnt dark brown or freckled and always shedding pieces of papery skin. He thought about the boy who taught him to surf, in New South Wales, it might have been Ballina. Gavin was the boy’s name. He offered the use of a board with a big piece out of it.
‘Shark, mate,’ said Gavin. ‘Chewed the bloke in half. He don’t need it no more, you can have a lend of it.’ When they left, Gavin gave him the board. Where was Gavin now? Where was the board? Cashin had loved that board, covered the gap with tape.
I’m bored here, love. We’re going.
His mother had said before every move further north.
Cashin got out of the car to stretch his spine, walked in a circle. A vehicle was coming.
A black Saab came around the bend, parked next to the cruiser. The driver eased himself out, a big man, cropped hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, open.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘John Jacobs, Orton Private Security Group. I’mex-SOG. Mind if I see the ID?’
Police Special Operations Group membership was supposed to bestow some kind of divinity that transcended being kicked out for cowardice or for turning out to be a violent psychopath.
Cashin
‘I think you’re over-excited,’ said Cashin. ‘On Bourgoyne, what’s to show for the forensic geniuses you had here?’
‘Bugger all. The alarm was off. No break-in, no prints, no weapon. No strange DNA. Don’t know what’s gone except the watch. There’s locked drawers broken open in the study and his bedroom.’
‘And him?’
‘It’s likely to be murder. Lives, he’s a cabbage.’
‘Did you ever ask yourself why they hit on the cabbage? What about the carrot? How about the Brussels sprout?’
‘Let’s leave the philosophy for the pub, gentlemen.’
It was a Singo saying, from the time before Rai Sarris.
‘So what am I supposed to do?’ said Cashin.
‘This Rothacker Julian connection, we need a senior officer on the job. I don’t want any fuck-ups. I’m new in the tower, Joe, I can feel the wind. This’ll end up some dumb
In Cold Blood
thing, I feel it in my dick, it’s just the in-between shit we have to manage.’
‘What about Cromarty?’
‘Fuck them. This is the commissioner speaking.’
‘And I say no?’
‘Listen, son, you are still a member of homicide. You’re a member on holiday. Remember duty?’
‘Some things about it, yes.’
‘I’m glad I don’t have to say any more.’
‘You arsehole.’
‘Come around to my office and repeat that to a senior officer,’ said Villani. ‘First, a talk with Ms Bourgoyne, the step-daughter. She’s been asked to go down and take a look, should be there in about an hour. Cromarty’s opening the place.’
‘She’s been interviewed?’
‘Not really. What we need is for you to be with her when she sees the house. Find out what was in the drawers, if she can see anything else missing, anything unusual while she was there, any ideas she can give us.’
‘Sure you need a senior officer? Why don’t you just give your marvellously detailed instructions to some prick from traffic?’
‘Sorry, sorry, sorry. Jesus, don’t be so touchy.’
‘What about other family?’
‘No one close. There was a step-son, Erica’s brother. She says he drowned in Tassie a long time ago.’
‘She says?’
‘We’ll verify that. Okay? We’ll get some prick from traffic to check that out. Give him detailed instructions.’
‘Just asking.’
CASHIN DROVE out to the Bourgoyne house, up the steep road from the highway, through the gates, down the winding poplar drive, and parked in the same place as before. The gravel showed the marks of many vehicles.
He parked and waited, listened to the radio, thought about being on the road with his mother, the other children he met, some of them feral kids, not going to school, beach urchins, the white ones burnt dark brown or freckled and always shedding pieces of papery skin. He thought about the boy who taught him to surf, in New South Wales, it might have been Ballina. Gavin was the boy’s name. He offered the use of a board with a big piece out of it.
‘Shark, mate,’ said Gavin. ‘Chewed the bloke in half. He don’t need it no more, you can have a lend of it.’ When they left, Gavin gave him the board. Where was Gavin now? Where was the board? Cashin had loved that board, covered the gap with tape.
I’m bored here, love. We’re going.
His mother had said before every move further north.
Cashin got out of the car to stretch his spine, walked in a circle. A vehicle was coming.
A black Saab came around the bend, parked next to the cruiser. The driver eased himself out, a big man, cropped hair, wearing jeans and a leather jacket, open.
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘John Jacobs, Orton Private Security Group. I’mex-SOG. Mind if I see the ID?’
Police Special Operations Group membership was supposed to bestow some kind of divinity that transcended being kicked out for cowardice or for turning out to be a violent psychopath.
Cashin
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