by Peter Temple
Colby held up his hands, meshed fingers short and blunt, set like a cactus. In the squad offices, Villani once saw him pick up an armed robber and throw him across a desk into the wall. An old calendar fell down, draped itself over the man’s head.
‘The farmer’s wife wants O’Barry for Pope,’ Colby said. ‘Cleanskin, untainted by the culture. But the boyo himself, he knows it’s a moon landing. The twat’s walking around in the big boots, fucking fishbowl on his head. Knows zero plus buggerall about the place he’s in. At. On. Whatever.’
‘Yes?’ said Villani.
‘So he wants a mate,’ said Colby. ‘He badly needs a mate. Smart person done the shit from the street up, done all the work, fired upon by the scum, a brave and loyal member, no one has a bad word.’
‘Heard about Quirk?’ said Villani.
‘Hear everything,’ said Colby. ‘Anyway, Barry’s the fat kid sucks up to the tough boy. Buys him the Mars Bars.’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He’s got a tough boy. He’s got you.’
‘No, no, mate, he can’t trust me.’
Villani shook his head, he had no idea how this worked, he didn’t care much either, partly lack of sleep, partly the stupidity of going to the gym. He could feel every punch Les had landed.
‘I’m slow here,’ he said.
‘Well, you, it worked, you’d go straight to crime commissioner,’ said Colby.
‘Me?’ This could not be right.
‘You.’
‘No. Anybody ever done a jump like that before?’
‘Look around, son. Just traffic deadshits, long-lasting legacy of our lady Fatima. You now stick out like a hardie in the convent showers. Proper cop.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, roll the dice,’ said Colby. ‘I’m happy to take a package. Anyway, the mick wants you below the parapet for a while. Racing with cover.’
‘And Kidd?’
‘I’ve heard the tape. There’s nothing there.’
‘He was going nowhere before he got that call,’ said Villani. ‘Then he takes another one on his auntie’s mobile and they’re off. And not in the Prado.’
‘Pure fucking supposition. Anyway, assuming he was dropped, there’s no way we can find the dog. Yes?’
‘We can try.’
Colby blew like a horse. ‘Mate, mate, don’t dial-a-turd here, the job leaks from the minister to the fucking typists. Who’d you give the name to first? Mr Barry?’
‘My recollection, yes,’ said Villani.
‘In that case, my advice is forget it. What we want is ballistics matching Oakleigh to the dead blokes. Then we can close the door on this shit. Be grateful people are looking out for you.’
Villani did not feel grateful. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Searle’s the worry here, he’d like to see me buried. Whole Searle family’d have a wakey. My distinction is, I punched out two Searles in one fight, this cunt’s old man and his uncle, two weaker dogs you never saw. Know that?’
‘Yes, boss.’
Everyone in the job knew it, it was legend. From never speaking of it, Colby had now told the story five or six times in the last year. Not a good sign.
‘Collingwood, of course,’ said Colby. ‘Fucking over the slopes, that was the Searle speciality. Kings of Richmond, lords of Saturn Bay, there even the mozzies obey them and the tradies build their houses out of stuff stolen off building sites.’ He coughed. ‘I gather you’ve carried on Singleton’s policy of treating Searle like dogshit.’
‘He is dogshit.’
‘No argument on facts, your honour. The point is I hear the squatter’s wife’s told the vermin he’s her pick for media boss. Subject to performance. You with me?’
‘Boss.’
Pointing. ‘What’s that red?’
‘Old bloke hit me,’ said Villani.
Colby blinked at him. ‘Not still doing that shit?’
Villani shrugged.
‘Why don’t you go for a fucking walk in King Street? People will hit you for nothing.’
HE TOOK his seat, clear desk, looked at the big room outside. It was more than two years since he’d taken charge, the day of Singo’s stroke. Even if you thought you didn’t deserve to be the boss, it grew on you. After a while you didn’t think anyone else could do it better.
Kiely came out, touched his oiled hair, walked around the room, people ignored him, came to Villani’s door.
‘Instructions?’ he said.
Villani said, ‘Found out who sold Kidd yet?’
‘I’d like to say,’ said Kiely, a little liplick. ‘I want it on record that I think this squad should be managed in a professional manner. Not like a bad restaurant where the manager also wants to do the cooking.’
He would have to die. Villani felt the pressure in his head, considered letting go, saying, Take over, I’ve got flu coming on, going home, the old couch in the back room, sleep, sleep.
The old couch was long gone. And it wasn’t his home anymore.
‘Is that walking away from your fuck-ups?’ he said.
Kiely’s eyes wide. ‘Excuse me, nothing last night was my responsibility.’
‘I mentioned the full weight of the surveillance state, didn’t I? No laser, no tags, we let the prick run out of his back door, fire at me and Winter and then bloody vanish. Want more?’
‘All irrelevant to the outcome. Which wouldn’t have been the outcome if my advice hadn’t been sneered at. That’s on record, my word.’
‘What record?’
‘Memos to command.’
‘Ah, the Kiwi way,’ said Villani. ‘Here, that’s called being a dog.’
Kiely tried the Singo look. Villani said, ‘Staring at me?’
‘Moving on, it’s also my opinion that Weber should take over the Prosilio matter.’
‘What’s wrong with Dove?’
‘Not ready for responsibility. Shown that, hasn’t he?’
‘Told him that?’
‘Not yet.’
Villani looked, saw Dove waiting, bony figure sitting on a desk edge, shoulders slack, head down, light reflected on his scalp.
‘Jesus, mate,’ he said. ‘He took a bullet. These days they take a love-tap, they go on sick leave, stress leave, next it’s full disability for life. But this bloke actually comes out of hospital, he reports for duty. Give him a fucking break, will you?’
Kiely shrugged, blinked. ‘Well, made myself plain. That’s my responsibility.’
‘Metallic. Tell the ballistics pricks we want a yes or no on the Ford guns and Oakleigh in hours.’ Impassive, Kiely left.
Villani found Dove’s gaze, nodded. Dove crossed the room, file in hands, stood.
‘Nobody told me this bloke Kidd’s name,’ he said. ‘Am I on some blacklist?’
‘Remarkably bad time to fuck with me, son,’ Villani said, he held his iron face.
‘Sorry, boss,’ said Dove. ‘Alibani? Prosilio…’
‘I remember,’ said Villani. ‘I’m paid to remember.’
‘Right. Well, in looking over the family unto the thirteenth cousins, I find that he owns a house in Melbourne. Preston.’
‘It’s him?’
‘Well, the address for rates is an accountant in Sydney. He says Alibani has been gone for years, hasn’t heard from him, but he left money to pay the rates on three properties. Rates and other bills, they come to the bean counter.’
Villani thought about his pledge to stop interfering, stop taking charge. ‘Get a car,’ he said.
THE SKY was old bottle glass, smoke in the air. Villani slumped in the passenger seat, another air-conditioner that didn’t work, the car smelled of cigarette smoke and chemical aftershaves, deodorants.
They drove up the spine of the clogged city, Dove cautious, bullied by reckless Asian taxi-drivers, black BMWs, Audis, drivers quick to hoot, force an entry.
When he looked up, they were in Russell Street.
That long-ago
day, he came out of the old stone magistrates’ court, he was there to give evidence, it wasn’t going to happen until after lunch, half a day wasted, the woman was genetically programmed to steal stuff, you might as well imprison dolphins for leaping out of the sea. The next day was Good Friday, he was off, thinking about going surfing, hungry, he was waiting to cross to the Russell Street station, standing on the La Trobe corner. You could get a decent ham and cheese sandwich from the canteen, there was a woman cop crossing the road.
The world went orange, a massive impact knocked him over, his head hit the tarmac, something landed on his chest, he grasped it in both hands, mind blank, registered more explosions, people screaming. He got up, vision blurred, no idea of what had happened, his nasal passages were full of burnt rubber and hot dust. He focused on what he was holding. A hubcap, folded, like a pastie.
He sat down, feet in the gutter, head on his knees, feeling tired, unsure of mind, have a little rest. Then the thought rose in him:
You’re a policeman. Get up. Do something.
He got up, not at all steady, he brushed himself, there were dark marks on his shirt, he nodded at them and stepped into the street.
The policewoman he saw crossing the road died of burns. She was about his age, he knew her by sight. Much later, he worked with cops who knew the men sentenced to life for killing her, for injuring all the others, they were armed robbers, they hated cops, turning a lifted Holden into a gelignite bomb was a very funny thing to do, an outlaw thing.
Livin on the wild side, mate, stick it up their fucken arses, park it outside the fucken front door, how’s that? Cop fucken HQ. Middle of the fucken day, all those fat cunts in there talking on the radio to other cop cunts, Read you, car fucken fifty-one, over and out, then it’s fucken KABANG!!!
They could have murdered any number of people, just luck a group of cops wasn’t passing, the SOGs from around the corner, cops coming out of the station. Him. That day he grew up, he realised just what it meant to put on the uniform.
Lizzie.
A teenage druggy who didn’t give a shit about her family.
Laurie’s family were nothing to write home about. Her old man, Graham, big-nosed Graham, he worked for Telecom all his life, not so much a job as an explanation for being away from home in daylight. Her mother was pretty, a self-taught bookkeeper for a Fitzroy leathergoods factory that went under in the nineties. She did a lot of overtime, Graham often said that, fake smile. Villani took it to mean she’d been fucking the boss.
Whose fault was Lizzie?
After Rachel Bourke, Tony’s friend’s mother, things went badly sour. He met her when he went to watch Tony play hockey, she was a mistake but she’d stalked him, he hadn’t looked for it, didn’t cross the street for it. Anyway, it was weeks, six tops, four or five fucks, that was it. Laurie knew, she had no evidence but she knew, women knew, she read it in his body, his voice.
‘Not exactly sure where we are, boss,’ said Dove. ‘The GPS isn’t working.’
Villani looked around. They were in Plenty Road. ‘Jesus, how’d you get here?’
‘A bit new to me, this part.’
‘Cops don’t get lost,’ said Villani. ‘They study Melways at night, they study it before they get in the car. Don’t need a degree to learn the Melways. No wonder the feds use a GPS to find their dicks.’
He gave directions. In time, they crossed the railway line, found the street, the number, parked opposite. The house was behind a two-metre-high corrugated-iron fence, just its tiled roof visible. They walked over. A padlock and chain on the double driveway gates. Villani looked through a gap. He could see little.
They shouted, banged on the gate.
‘We need a warrant here,’ said Villani. ‘Going by the book.’
‘What book is that?’ said Dove.
Villani made the call. They sat in the car. He offered Dove a cigarette. A time passed, his view was north-east, the sky was dull yellow-brown, a huge diatomic bloom caused by dust and smoke. From the hills, the city would be wobbling in its own heat.
He rang Bob. It rang out. Again.
‘Villani,’ said Bob.
‘Me. What’s happening?’
‘Nothing. Come up to Flannery’s last night before the wind shifted. Still in the north-west. We should be all right.’
‘And Flannery?’
‘Some burnt mutton. Now shot and that’s fucking expensive. He had the CFA on him to move them yesterday, won’t listen. Man’s gaga.’
‘What do they say about you?’
‘Mate, the dickheads know me. Keep their mouths shut.’
Coughing, throat clearing. ‘Listen, the doctor’s wife rang. Last night.’
Karin. Mark’s wife number two. Number one was Janice, a nurse from Cobram, pregnant when they married just after he started specialising, she lost the child early. They broke up inside a year.
Mark went up the medical scale, Karin, a researcher, something to do with blood, her father also knew blood, he was one of Mark’s teachers, Mr David Delisle, all-purpose surgeon, cut anything needed the scalpel. Villani met him at the civil ceremony in Kew, a brick mansion, wrought-iron gates. Mrs Delisle gave him the eye, handsome in a Botoxed stringy gymrat way. The knife man was poreless, silky hair, like a greyhound somehow but without the nerviness.
Right from the handshake, Bob Villani and David seemed to have some joke going. Perhaps they recognised each other as born killers. Karin got on with Bob too, a pony-club girl, besotted with horses, couldn’t keep her hands off them. Before the pregnancy, she drove up to the farm on her days off, stayed over. It occurred to Villani that she was in love with her father and she put that on Bob. The men had the same stillness, the appraising stare. They gave the impression that, if circumstances required, they could do an appendectomy in the dark with a reasonably sharp Joseph Rodgers Bunny Clip and Castrator. Working purely by feel.
‘What’s she say?’ said Villani.
‘Well, makes out it’s about the fires. Then it’s tears, Mark’s gone off her, out late all the time, no-show for the kid’s birthday party. And so on.’
‘Tragic,’ said Villani. He wasn’t going to tell Bob about Lizzie.
‘Talk to him,’ said Bob. ‘Have a word with the doctor.’
‘Be reasonable,’ said Villani. ‘You can’t talk to blokes about that stuff.’
‘Not a bloke, he’s your brother. He’ll listen to you.’
‘What, the boss manner?’
‘Something like that. Kick his arse.’
‘The boy may be in need of emotional support,’ said Villani.
‘Yeah. Kick his arse.’
‘Know a Danny Loneregan? From Vietnam?’
He thought he could hear birds.
‘Who wants to know?’
‘His son. He’s a cop. Asked me to ask.’
‘What’s he want to know?’
‘Just about him. Didn’t know him.’
‘Tell him his dad was a good bloke. Had guts. Used to show anyone who’d look his boy’s picture.’
‘Do that then.’
Cough. ‘Talk to Mark, okay?’
It was forty minutes before the van came down the street. Two men in overalls got out. Villani crossed the street.
‘The gate, Gus,’ he said. ‘Then possibly the front door.’
‘This a legal entry?’
‘I’m an officer of the law, yes,’ said Villani.
The offsider cut the chain with boltcutters, a hard snick. Dove pushed a wing open and they entered.
The house was small, an ugly yellow brick-veneer in the centre of its block. It was partly obscured by gum trees, weedy splitting things, the result of some misguided arboreal instinct. To the left, the high unbroken wall of a sheet-metal fabricator shadowed the driveway. On the other side, beyond the high fence, a brick building of no obvious purpose showed dirty windows.
They went down the concrete drive, walked by a window covered by a metal roll-down security blind. Villani cl
imbed a step to a brick verandah. Two new padlocks secured the steel front door. Attempts had been made to jemmy it.
‘Got replacements?’ said Villani.
‘Pope Catholic?’ said the offsider. They were civilians, had no respect.
The pair wheeled in a buggy with a gas bottle and cut the locks in minutes. ‘Bunnings shit,’ said Gus. He went to the van and came back with three new locks and a length of chain. ‘Bloody waste of quality,’ he said.
They left.
‘Little sniff before we go in,’ said Villani.
He pointed Dove to the left, stepped off the verandah and went to the right, past the other shuttered window. There had once been a flowerbed along the house, a strip of dirt marked out by bricks on the diagonal. Now it grew only plastic bags, cigarette packets, beer bottles, mixed-drink cans, chicken bones, unidentifiable bits of cloth, a pair of nylon underpants, a denim skirt, one cup of a bra, the fabric peeled back to reveal a grey cone of foam rubber.
The alley between the house and the fence held more of the same, plus pale condoms and turds coated with baize-green moss. Two windows had been sealed with unmatching bricks.
The small back yard had all these things and much more. The bodies of three pillaged cars, crowpicked, bled rust into the concrete. Their unwanted innards lay in oil stains.
‘Recycling,’ Dove said. ‘That’s nice. Power’s on, the water meter’s ticking.’
The back door was steel, blank, internal bolts. Serious attempts to open it had failed. The windows were high and small, broken but negotiable only by cats.
They went back. Villani opened the steel front door. There was another door behind it, of delaminating plywood. He opened that, went in first, that was his prerogative and his duty.
He stood in a passage: dead air and the gas given off by cheap carpets and the foam beneath them. Something sweet and sour, too, like the sweat in old intimate garments.
The light didn’t work.
Dim sitting room. Dove wound up the metal blind. It groaned, it had been a while. Sixties furniture, glass coffee table, a kidney shape.
‘Coke,’ said Dove, pointing.
Villani looked, saw the smears, walked around sniffing, went down the passage and into the bathroom. Nothing on the rails, nothing in the cabinet above the basin.
