by Peter Temple
She stirred the wok. ‘Slam bam.’
He tried to kiss an ear, she moved, he kissed hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is probably all a mistake.’
‘Let’s not do this as tragedy,’ she said. ‘Just a screw.’
‘You should have gone to the play.’
‘It’s on for a month. You, on the other hand, could close at any time.’
‘You should probably consider me closed,’ he said, a wash of relief, walked, gathered his coat from the sofa without breaking stride. At the front door, he could not stop himself looking back, down the gunbarrel. He saw the length of her neck.
All across the hot shrieking city, he thought about Corin, the joy of her, the lovely breathing weight of the tiny child asleep on him on a baking afternoon at the holiday house, he rehearsed the selfish pain he would feel if anything happened to her, the responsibility he would bear for having a job where animals hated you, dreamed of revenge, would kill your family.
In Carlton, at the Elgin intersection, he spoke to her.
‘There’s something happening out there,’ she said. ‘Cars.’
‘The force is with you. Stay inside, I’m a couple of minutes away.’
Turning into the street, he saw the cars, pulled up behind them. A uniform came to his window.
‘Couple of dickheads, boss,’ she said. ‘The one’s separated from his missus, she’s renting number 176 down there, he reckons she’s rooting his brother. So him and his mate, they sit in the Holden sipping Beam, now both pissed, they’re waiting for the poor bloke to arrive.’
‘Wasted your time then,’ said Villani.
‘Definitely not, boss,’ said the woman. ‘So many loonies around. These idiots, we give them a scare. The car’ll be here till tomorrow. Going home in a cab.’
Villani parked in the driveway, went in the back door. Corin was waiting, anxious face. He told her.
‘Sorry, Dad.’
He kissed her forehead, she put up a hand, rubbed the back of his head.
‘Sorry is the day you don’t call me,’ he said. ‘Jesus, it’s hot.’
Corin said, ‘You think kind of, your dad’s a cop, you’re bulletproof.’
‘You are. Just a car in the street.’
‘Yeah. Dumb. Eaten?’
‘Not recently, no.’
‘TCT suit?’
‘TCT and O. Shavings of O.’
‘If there’s an O. You grate the cheese.’
Like old times, girl and dad, in the kitchen, side by side, Villani buttering bread, grating cheddar, Corin slicing a tomato, an onion. Not looking, she said, ‘Damp hair.’
Villani felt his hair. ‘Showered,’ he said. ‘Long day. A sweaty day.’
‘You shower at work?’
‘Often. Head of Homicide has to be seen to be clean.’
Corin said, quickly, ‘Sam in my tute, he works a shift at this place, he says you were there with a woman.’
‘He knows me?’
‘Saw you on TV.’
‘Canadian criminologist,’ Villani said. ‘She’s got a grant to study Commonwealth police forces. Beats being interviewed in the office.’
An elaborated lie. Too much detail. These porkies usually fell over when you stared at the teller for ten seconds.
Corin went to the sink.
‘Sam says it was Anna Markham, the television woman. It was after midnight.’
‘There is a resemblance,’ he said. ‘Now that you mention it.’
‘Dad. Don’t.’
‘Don’t what?’
‘Lie to me. I’m not a kid.’
‘Listen, kid,’ said Villani. ‘It was nothing.’
‘What about you and Mum?’
‘Well, it’s difficult, a difficult time.’
‘Don’t you love her anymore?’
Corin was twenty-one, you could still ask a question like that.
‘Love’s not just the one thing,’ he said. ‘There’s love and there’s love. It changes.’
In her eyes he saw that she had no idea what he was saying. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Where’s Lizzie?’
‘Supposed to be staying with a friend for the weekend.’
‘See her today?’
‘Heard her. She was in the bathroom when I left. When did you last see her?’
Villani couldn’t remember exactly. Guilt, there was always guilt. ‘Few days ago. Where’s your mum this time? I forget.’
‘Cairns. A movie.’
‘Never worked out why these people have to take their own caterer. Don’t they cook in Cairns? Just raw fruit?’
‘You should spend more time together,’ said Corin.
Villani pretended to punch her arm. ‘Finish law first,’ he said. ‘Then the grad-dip marriage counselling.’
He ate his toasted sandwiches in front of the television, reading the Age. Corin lay on the sofa, files on the floor, taking notes. With the plate on his lap, he fell asleep, waking startled when she took it from his hands.
‘Bed, Dad,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to get more sleep. Sleep and proper food and exercise.’
‘The holy trinity,’ said Villani. ‘Goodnight, my darling.’
IN THE lift, Birkerts joined him. ‘I saw the lay pastor of the Church of Jesus the High Achiever sharing a moment with Mr Kiely the other day,’ he said. ‘Possibly planning a lunchtime bible-study group.’
‘At least Weber shows me some respect,’ said Villani.
‘He probably prays for you,’ said Birkerts. ‘Could lay hands on you, whatever that means.’
‘I want to encourage prayer,’ said Villani. ‘I want people to pray not to be transferred to Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordination.’
‘There’s a few here who don’t mind kneeling before the right man.’
‘Got nothing against Catholics,’ said Villani.
In his office, Villani checked the messages, summoned Dove.
‘How you going?’ said Villani. ‘Your health.’ He didn’t much care but you were supposed to be concerned. Dove was the force’s first indigenous officer shot on duty.
Dove rolled his shaven head, hand on neck. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Boss.’
‘Headaches?’
‘Headaches?’
‘Get headaches?’
‘Sometimes. I had headaches before. Sometimes.’
‘It says,’ said Villani, ‘it says headaches are a common post-traumatic stress symptom.’
‘I don’t have post-traumatic stress, boss.’
‘Flashbacks?’
‘No. I don’t have flashbacks, I don’t relive the prick shooting me. I remember it, I’ve got a perfect memory of being shot, everything till I passed out.’
‘Good. And stress? Feel stressed?’
Dove looked down. ‘Can I ask you a question, boss?’
‘Sure.’
‘Ever been shot?’
‘No. Shot at, yeah. Few times.’
‘Get flashbacks?’
‘No. Dreams. I’ve had dreams.’
Dove held Villani’s eyes, he wasn’t going to look away. ‘Can I see your medical records, boss?’ he said. ‘Discuss them with you?’
Villani thought about Dove’s attitude, always bad, not improved by being shot. He was a mistake. The best thing would be to issue formal cautions, starting today with insubordination. Then he could be posted elsewhere. In due course, someone else could fire him.
‘Right,’ said Villani. ‘You seem normal to me. It’s a low baseline but there you go.’
‘This’s because of yesterday. Boss? My questions to Kiely? Simple questions about procedure.’
Villani saw a chance. ‘Inspector Kiely to you. I get the feeling you’re unhappy here. No names, no pack-drill transfer might be the go.’
Dove held his gaze. ‘No, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m happy. To do whatever you want me to do.’
‘That’s normally the way it works in the force.’
‘Yes, boss.’
Tracy from the door. ‘Boss,
bloke won’t give a name. Old mate, he says.’
‘His number, I’ll call him back.’
To Dove, he said, ‘Get Weber.’
They were back in seconds.
‘So tell me,’ said Villani.
‘It’s not good,’ said Dove. ‘They haven’t provided the video for the parking and the lifts. They claim technical difficulties. The publicity says state-of-the-art but nothing worked. Could be a building in the 1950s.’
‘New world of total security,’ said Villani. ‘New world of total bullshit. What about cards, the PINs?’
‘They actually have no idea who could get into the apartment. Just about anyone in security can make a card, program the PIN. Then later they could change back to the old ones.’
‘Shit. Okay, moving on. Scientists.’
Dove inclined his head at Weber.
‘No prints, they say DNA’s unlikely, it’s cleaner than a hospital,’ said Weber, the bright look.
‘No longer a benchmark, hospitals,’ said Villani. ‘What’s the butchery say?’
Weber had a printout. ‘Time of death around midnight on Thursday. C5 snapped, very likely head jerked back, no bruising or abrasions. Recent intercourse. Tearing to vaginal and anal passages. No semen. Used cocaine. She’s sixteen to twenty. Scar on left tricep, more than a year old. Bruising on her ribs left side, probably punched, that’s recent. Slightly displaced septum, probably in the last six months.’
Silence.
‘So what do they offer?’ said Villani.
Weber coughed, he looked at Dove.
Dove said, ‘She’s possibly had her hands tied, she’s gagged, something soft, there’s vaginal and anal intercourse, he’s behind her, he’s very big, as in huge or he’s wearing something or it’s an object, that kind of thing. He at some point jerks her head back violently, breaks her neck. He would have her head in his hands. He places her in the bath and washes her, pulls plug.’
‘Then,’ said Weber, ‘then he disposes of her clothes, shoes, everything and wipes all surfaces touched.’
‘Just another homey night in the Prosilio building,’ Villani said. ‘Before the sex, they probably ate pizza, watched a DVD. Checked for that, did you, Mr Dove?’
Dove blinked. ‘Ah, no. No.’
‘Possibly Pretty Woman,’ said Villani. ‘Religious text for hookers. Hooker’s New Testament. Message of salvation. Familiar with it, Mr Weber?’
Weber made a smile, perhaps he forgave the levity, they would never know. ‘You’re saying that, boss? A hooker?’
‘No,’ said Villani. ‘I’m just leaning that way. I’m close to falling over. Checked the laundry chute, the garbage?’
‘Nothing in the laundry chute,’ said Dove. ‘Garbage taken on Friday morning. It’s in the landfill.’
‘That’s really promising,’ said Villani. ‘The manager produce the other stuff?’
‘I don’t think Manton’s flat out on this,’ said Dove, stroking his head. ‘He referred us to Ulyatt, to Marscay. The owners.’
Ulyatt. The man who could speak to someone who could tell the chief commissioner what to do.
‘What about the casino guests?’
Dove looked at Weber. Weber said, ‘Uh, I left that with Tracy, boss. Casino security is run by a company called Stilicho. Sounds like it’s part of Blackwatch Associates.’
‘Well, retrieve it,’ said Villani. ‘That’s not her job. Since when do Blackwatch do this kind of thing?’
‘Don’t know much about Blackwatch, boss,’ said Weber.
‘The name Matt Cameron mean anything?’
‘The cop?’
Villani had served under the legendary Matt Cameron, gone to the scene of the killings of his son and his girlfriend, taken part in the massive, fruitless man-hunt.
‘Once the cop. He runs Blackwatch. Part owns.’
‘This lot is a new company,’ said Dove. ‘I think it’s Blackwatch in partnership with someone else.’
‘Okay,’ Villani said. ‘Dead woman, no clothes, no ID, no idea how she got there, no vision, so we have dogshit.’
‘Encapsulated it, boss,’ said Dove, the little smile-smirk.
Villani rose, stretched his arms up, sideways, rolled his head, some bones clicked, he went to the window, he could not see the eastern hills, lost in smoke. He thought about his trees. If they went, he would never go back there, he would not be able to bear that sight. Smoke, he needed a smoke, he would always need a smoke. Weber would always be a pain, his purity a living reprimand, but he would worry and lose sleep, do a good job. Dove was another matter. Too clever, too cocky, not enough dead seen.
Villani thought about the dead he had seen. He remembered them all. Bodies in Housing Commission flats, in low brown brick-veneer units, in puked alleys, stained driveways, car boots, the dead stuffed into culverts, drains, sunk in dams, rivers, creeks, canals, buried under houses, thrown down mineshafts, entombed in walls, embalmed in concrete, people shot, stabbed, strangled, brained, crushed, poisoned, drowned, electrocuted, asphyxiated, starved, skewered, hacked, pushed from buildings, tossed from bridges. There could be no unstaining, no uninstalling, he was marked by seeing these dead as his father was marked by the killing he had done, the killing he had seen.
Villani said, ‘Tell Mr Searle we want her on all channels tonight, hair up, hair down, a women found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building in Docklands.’
‘Is that like being murdered?’ said Dove. ‘Is murdered a word that can be used?’
‘That’s it, Detective Weber. Detective Dove, a minute.’
Weber left. Villani gazed at Dove, blinked, gazed, didn’t move his head, his hands were in his lap. Dove blinked, moved his head back and forth, wouldn’t look away, blinked, touched an ear.
‘Understand that I don’t like a smartarse,’ said Villani. ‘You’re only here because when they offered you around trying to get rid of you, I took you on. Now all you’ve got going for you is you got shot. The sympathy vote.’
‘Haven’t exactly had much of a chance,’ said Dove.
‘This is your chance,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t stuff it up. Tell Manton we don’t get everything today, staff names, CVs, who came and went, we will say some very nasty things about the Prosilio building. And we want that Orion guest list too.’
He did paperwork, read the case notes, wrote instructions, gave instructions, spoke to squad leaders. Things were in hand, the day ticked by. At 5.40pm, he left, bought Chinese on the way, reached the empty house in time for the television news. They showed her face. The resemblance to Lizzie was strong, he hadn’t imagined it. Even in death, she was lovely, serious, but she looked no more dead than if it were her passport photograph.
No mention that she was found broken-necked. No mention of the Prosilio building. Just an unidentified young woman. He changed channels, caught the item on Ten. The same.
He rang four numbers, he could not find Searle or anyone else to rage at, left a short message for Dove.
He was watching the 7pm ABC news when Dove rang.
‘Before you say anything,’ said Villani, ‘who decided no broken neck, not found at any particular place?’
‘Not us, boss. I used your words. A young woman found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building.’
The woman on screen. Hair down.
…police are appealing for information about the identity of this young woman. She is Caucasian, brown hair, in her late teens and would not have been seen for several days…
New image. Her hair was up.
…please contact Crime Stoppers on…
‘Searle will turn in the wind for this,’ said Villani. ‘Anything comes in, let me know.’
‘Is that any time, night and day?’ said Dove.
‘When you make a bad call, I’ll tell you. It’s a sudden-death thing.’
Saturday night. Once high point of the week. He showered, found crumpled shorts, opened a beer, went shirtless into the hot night. He took a piss on the for
mer vegetable strip along the fence, dead hard-baked soil, heard voices, laughter from two sides. A splash, splashes. How had he missed a pool going in next door?
He sat in a deckchair on the back terrace, drank another beer, ate cold Chinese. It wasn’t bad, possibly better cold than hot, hot was less than wonderful. He registered the rough brick paving underfoot, laid by another him and another Joe Cashin in another age. It took a weekend.
Sudden craving for red wine. He found a bottle, the second last one in the case.
In the kitchen, the corkscrew in hand, his mobile on the benchtop sang.
‘Is this a good time?’ said Dove.
‘Speak,’ said Villani.
‘Crime Stoppers call from a woman in Box Hill. I just talked to her.’
‘So?’
‘She’s pretty sure she saw our girl at a truck stop on the Hume about two months ago, sixteenth of December, about 9pm. This side of Wangaratta.’
‘Saw her how?’
‘In the toilets. There was a man waiting outside for her and they spoke in a foreign language. Not Italian, French or Spanish, she reckons, she’s been there. Went to a new Holden SV, black or dark green. Another man was driving. She says there might have been someone else in the back seat.’
‘Rego?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, HSV, that’s a muscle car, only driven by men with big balls,’ said Dove. ‘Web’s asking our traffic and New South if they had an offender on the day.’
‘That’s not stupid. I’m off to sleep soon, looking forward to it like a first root. Tomorrow I’m going up country. You don’t get me the first time, keep trying. Reception’s rough up there.’
‘I’ll just keep bombing it to Snake,’ said Dove.
‘Quick learner,’ said Villani. ‘You’re a bright young man.’
He sat outside, drank wine, it seemed to be getting hotter. He showered again, went outside and rang Bob Villani. It rang out.
VILLANI ROSE in the dark and stifling house, stood in the shower, dressed, took his canvas bag and left. The world was spent, only the desperate were on the streets. On the ramp before the exit, a tall black man, head shaven, was walking, behind him a shorter person, hidden in grey garments.
