by Peter Temple
She moved her head, looked at him over her nose. Now he held her eyes. She blinked, moved her mouth, revealed a tip of pink tongue.
‘I don’t think this is the place to talk,’ she said.
Blood in his face, in his eyes, he said, ‘Well, we don’t have to talk at all, piss off. Fuck meeting with the boyfriend, is that it?’
She rose and walked, a few quick paces, turned and came back, stood over him, loomed, made him look up, his spine cracked.
‘I’m not having an affair,’ she said. ‘I’m in love with someone. I’ll move out today.’
‘No,’ he said, anger dead, ashes. ‘You stay, I’ll go.’
‘Don’t come the victim with me, Stephen,’ she said. ‘After what I’ve put up with, your whoring, the gambling.’
But he didn’t move out, she didn’t. For a long time they passed in the house like boxers before a fight.
The forensics boss came around the corner, clipboard in hand. ‘We’re done,’ he said. ‘Lots of everything. I’ll be in touch.’
‘The blood.’
‘There’s a trail down the passage to the kitchen. I’d guess the body dragged.’
‘The Prosilio woman,’ said Villani. ‘She might have been here. Need to know that as a priority. Then we want to run all prints as fast as possible.’
He wrote on the clipboard. ‘Action that.’
Villani’s mobile rang when they were in Flinders Street.
‘Anna,’ she said, the throaty voice. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Are we speaking? As in, do you wish to speak to me?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Good. Saw you at Persius with the rich and the famous. Looked right through me.’
‘Dazzled by the light.’
‘Well, I thought I was a bit teenagey the other night. Perhaps less mature than a person like myself should be.’
‘Maturity’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’
Not her big laugh, not the one that made him look across the room that night at the Court House and find her eyes and the switch tripped, the current ran, the crystal moment. He had dropped his gaze and, when he looked again, she was still looking at him.
‘Eyeballing my sexy friend,’ said Tony Ruskin. He was the Age’s crime man, on the cop drip, Villani had known him since he was a junior reporter, the clever son of a clever cop named Eric Ruskin, who chucked it in and stood for parliament, ended up as police minister. They met at Matt Cameron’s Christmas barbie for Robbers and friends, around the pool in Hawthorn on a Sunday, noon to loaded-in-taxi-after-puking-in-rose-garden.
‘I don’t eyeball,’ said Villani. ‘Sometimes I stare.’
Anna Markham left the room, came back, detoured to put a hand on Ruskin’s shoulder. ‘Bit public this, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I thought you had these meetings in underground carparks.’
‘Hide in plain view,’ said Ruskin. ‘Anna Markham, Stephen Villani.’
‘I know the inspector by sight,’ she said.
‘Ditto,’ said Villani.
She joined them later when they had eaten, drunk a glass of red.
‘My bedtime,’ said Ruskin. ‘Unlike some, I need to think clearly in the morning.’
They all made to go, then Anna said, ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind another glass. What about you, inspector?’
Ruskin left, he knew. They had another glass, another, laughed a lot. Outside, in their coats, waiting for cabs, breathing out steam, Anna said, ‘You don’t associate the Homicide Squad with laughing.’
‘We laugh a lot. We chuckle all day long.’
He wanted to make the move, but he didn’t, he was in a guilt phase. She wrote her number on a blank card. He never called. Every time he saw her on television he considered it but he was not an initiator. That was what he told himself. That was his defence.
Now, Anna said, ‘Can we pursue this conversation somewhere?’
‘Name a venue.’
‘Cité. In Avoca Street. Know it?’
‘Oh yes, major cop hangout. Pot and a parma, ten bucks, half-price happy hour four to nine. That’s in the a.m.’
‘The place that forgot time. I’ll be there by eight. From eight.’
First there was the Dancer.
ARCHITECTS HAD worked over the old bloodhouse, knocked out walls, exposed bricks, it was now all black wood and smoked glass, a wall of wine bottles. In the big open room, a dozen people were drinking and eating. A flat screen behind the bar was showing news.
Dance was in a corner, needing a hair trim, dark pinstriped suit, no tie, dipping bread into olive oil. A waiter finished pouring red wine into two glasses.
Villani sat.
‘Like this, you and this place,’ he said, showed the crossed fingers. ‘Mine?’
‘I’m not drinking two at a time. Nice little Heathcote shiraz. Nice suit too.’
Villani sipped, he rolled the wine. ‘Definitely wine. When did you move on from Crownies?’
‘Stella, mate, that’s what you drink when you drink beer,’ said Dance. ‘Only you morgue blokes still drink Crown.’
Dance looked around the room, long face of a Crusader, God’s soldier, handsome, growing old, tired, loved the Lord, loved himself, and loved a lot more besides.
‘You know, I wake up,’ he said. ‘Three, four in the morning, it’s like it’s wired in me. Utterly knackered, lie there, think about the old days.’
‘Everybody’s talking about the old days,’ said Villani. ‘What did I miss?’
‘What I miss, it was simple. Us against filth with guns. Outlaws. Taking stuff that wasn’t theirs. Terrorising innocent citizens. You shake the cunts, it’s a public service. Ends justify means, nobody cared. Pest exterminators. You got some respect.’
Two young women came in, sleek, laptop bags. They sat nearby and feigned exhaustion, closed their eyes, rolled their heads, moved their shoulders.
‘Now,’ said Dance, ‘I’m supposed to do something about crime networks. The fucking Rotary Club is a crime network, blokes doing deals, they make stuff, they sell it to middlemen, it gets retailed. It’s called commerce. Exchange of goods between willing sellers and willing buyers.’
‘You learn this at the gym?’ said Villani. ‘Not going to uni parttime, are we?’
‘I’m growing up,’ said Dance. He offered the bread fingers. ‘You dip it in the oil.’
‘Really? That’s so weird.’
‘Fucked up big time last night, you lot.’
‘We’re pretty happy about it.’
‘Pity you didn’t call in the sons to take them out. Been like World War Three.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Well SOG on SOG, that’s cage-fighting with guns.’
‘Where’d you hear SOG?’ said Villani.
‘The ether, mate.’
‘Ah, the ether. Know them?’
‘Not on our books. Tied them to Metallic?’
‘Just the vehicle,’ said Villani. ‘Got two guns out of the wreck, no match.’
‘Now that’s truly unfortunate. You want the ballistics.’
A waiter slid by, plumpish, thirties, oiled hair, he knew the women, he said, ‘Chill time, guys. Let me guess? Morettis for openers, duck clubs, no capers. And we drink the Oyster Bay.’
‘Fold,’ said the short-haired one, sallow, deslanted eyes. ‘Why are we so predictable, Lucy?’
Lucy was finger-combing her hair. ‘I’m over duck, PJ. Make it the crab cakes.’ She turned her head and looked at them, appraising.
‘Anyway, this little talk,’ said Dance. ‘Lovett.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Villani. ‘I’ve got no clout.’
‘Well, we need to consider,’ said Dance. He looked around the room, drank wine, turned the cold blue eyes on Villani. ‘Saw the tape today. The cunt said this stuff the first time, we’d still be giving blow jobs in Barwon.’
‘What’s he say?’
‘I shot Quirk in cold blood. Executed him. Says Vick brought Quirk’
s gun.’
Villani felt the air-conditioned chill on his face. ‘What’s he say about me?’
‘Lied in your teeth.’
Dance closed his eyes, showed his long dark lashes. The day in the shopping-centre carpark, waiting for Matko Ribaric to come back to his car, he told Villani he had put a much older cousin in hospital for calling him a pretty boy.
‘Vickery says the drugs,’ said Villani. ‘Delusions.’
‘Drugs,’ said Dance. ‘Blamed for everything. Personally, I wouldn’t put my balls on that horse.’
‘How’s he on the tape?’
‘Looks like shit, but all the marbles. Made up lots of details.’
‘And Mrs Lovett, what’s she going to say?’
‘The divine Grace,’ said Dance, drinking wine, eye contact with the Asian woman. ‘I was just a boy.’
‘Aged thirty. Sensitive boy cop sexually abused by fifty-year-old colleague’s wife,’ said Villani. ‘You should lay charges, that might help. What’s Grace going to say?’
‘No statement. As I understand it. Not in the pink herself.’
‘What, just sent the DPP the tape?’
‘To Lovett’s brief. The prick tried on a compo for years. Non-smoker forced to endure smoke in confined spaces, et cetera. He never stopped crapping on about smoke, his asthma.’
‘Eating with us, guys?’ said the waiter, come from nowhere.
‘PJ,’ said Villani. ‘That’s your name?’
He didn’t look at the man, looked at the long-haired woman, she parted her lips, red as the rose beside Ma Quirk’s gate.
‘Certainly is,’ said the waiter.
Villani turned on him the full stare. ‘Two more, PJ. But not the nine glasses to the bottle.’
Lips licked, glasses collected. ‘Two Cold Hills coming up. Sir.’
The waiter left, he caught the women’s eyes and he made a small gesture with his hips.
‘I love it when you turn up the charm,’ said Dance.
‘The tape’s where?’
‘DPP.’
‘She’s the only witness to the taping?’
‘As I understand it,’ said Dance.
‘Video allegations of a man now dead about events fifteen years ago. Man saying he committed perjury then, now wants justice for Quirk.’
Dance looked at a palm, long fingers, deep lines. ‘They reopen, it’s not about justice. It’s politics.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I talked to a man who talked to a man knows the AG by sight. The word is DiPalma won’t reopen. But the Libs come in, they can skin a whole cage of furry animals at once. Cops in general, the old culture, corruption, Crucible. And Vick. They hate Vick. You, on the other hand, you’ll be collateral. No one hates you much. Just a select few. Like Searle.’
‘Add this waiter,’ said Villani.
‘Loves you, pants on fire. So fucking butch. We need serious thought.’
The waiter arrived. He landed glasses. ‘Brimming, sirs,’ he said. He put down a plate of six butterflied sardines, crumbed, grilled. ‘Enjoy.’
They watched him go.
‘Free food,’ said Villani. ‘That’s like the old days, that’s what I miss.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Dance. ‘I hear you were grazing on the little Wagyu burgers, Mr Barry’s showpony at Persius. Chatting to Max Hendry, our beloved Mr Cameron, world’s richest ex-cop.’
‘He’s lonely, Barry,’ said Villani.
‘Not the way I hear it.’
‘No?’
‘Ms Cathy Wynn gives comfort.’
‘What? Barry and Searle?’ said Villani.
‘No, not Searle. Searle’s an enabler. The boy tells me Ms Mellish wants Barry for El Supremo. Had him over at the house in Brighton for the little chat, meet the bluebloods.’
‘Swapping playlunch with Searle now?’
‘He tells me stuff. I don’t know why.’
‘To keep being your little friend.’
Dance fed himself a sardine, added olives, chewed for a while. ‘Let’s be clear what the position is,’ he said. ‘Shake one of us loose, we all get blown away. Lovett was a deranged person on the way out talking complete shit.’
‘That’s what it seems,’ said Villani, not easy.
‘It is so exactly. Something else. You remember Lovett tried to stiff me and Vick, that’s a year ago. Hundred grand or he leaves a shitbomb.’
Villani couldn’t look at Dance, he finished the wine, eyed the last stiff fishlet. ‘Want this?’
‘No.’
Villani ate the sardine, crunchy, hint of chilli.
‘Did I tell you then?’ said Dance. ‘I thought I did.’
‘Don’t quite remember that.’
‘Well, think about it,’ said Dance. ‘Dwell on it.’
The moment of their eyes.
‘Life’s short enough, Stevo,’ Dance said, ‘without two dead pricks fucking up what we’ve got left. We do what we have to, right?’
‘I see the force of that,’ said Villani.
Dance’s eyes flicked the room, he emptied his glass. ‘Up for it, this japanoid sheila,’ he said. ‘The place in Docklands, the sumo bed, the spa. Pity I’m so fucking pressed. Need a piss. You?’
‘No. Cameras in there.’
Villani watched Dance go, the women watched him, a long frame, held himself like Bob Villani, stick up his arse. He found the waiter’s eyes and made the sign. The man swept across.
‘Please be our guests, sir. You and Mr Dance.’
A worm moved under Villani’s scalp. ‘Thank you but no,’ he said. He found two twenties. ‘Change to the guide dogs.’
Dance returned. They went out. At his car, Dance offered a smoke. They stood, the traffic zipping metres away. It was dusk at ground level now, the light was yellow stained-glass panes between the buildings.
‘So the Mellish bitch,’ Dance said. ‘She needs to grasp something. You don’t make three senior officers walk the plank, then it’s back to the captain’s cabin for a fucking G and T.’
‘No?’
‘No. The officers will take HMS fucking Liberal Party down with them.’
‘I’m the man to tell her?’
‘Mr Barry. He needs to tell them he wants a clean slate. Ground Zero. Not putting on a backpack loaded with ancient shit. Heritage issues. That kind of thing.’
Villani’s mobile.
‘Boss,’ said Dove. ‘A bloke wants to talk to you. Just you, he won’t come in. He says he can do it now.’
‘About what?’
‘Prosilio. The girl.’
He saw Dance arc his half-smoked cigarette into the traffic, it hit a taxi wheel, sparked like a metal grinder.
‘Tell him the Somerset in Smith Street, half an hour,’ said Villani. ‘Pick me up across from the Grenville Hotel, that’s South Yarra. Both addresses in Melbourne. Reckon you can find them?’
‘Up all night studying Melways. Boss.’
Dance said, ‘Your old man okay?’
‘Good, yeah. Up there waiting for death by fire.’
‘Top bloke, Bob,’ said Dance. ‘Wish I’d had a dad like that.’
THE PUB wasn’t crowded, a dozen or so drinkers at the long bar, a few sad cases, a game of pool in progress. A man in a grey suit came in from the toilets and looked around the room, uneasy, black-framed glasses, not a pub drinker. He was in his thirties, ordinary height, balding neatly.
Villani lifted his beer, stood back. Their eyes met, the man’s mouth twitched, he walked around the pool table, found his beer bottle on the counter, came up.
‘Are you…’
‘The man who wants to talk to me,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s stand at the window.’
They went to the alcove, Villani made sure the man was facing outward so Dove could get a clear view of him.
‘I didn’t think this would happen,’ said the man. He had a snub nose, cupid lips, some older women would find him attractive, some men too.
‘What?’
Villani drank beer. ‘We take things seriously,’ he said. ‘Also we take serious revenge on people who fuck with us.’
The man smiled, a smile that wanted to be confident. ‘I didn’t want to talk to underlings,’ he said. ‘I’m no stranger to the bureaucracy.’
‘Talk about what?’ ‘Confidentiality guaranteed?’
‘You’re a bloke in a pub, never seen you before,’ said Villani. ‘What’s your name?’
The man touched his upper lip, he hadn’t thought about this. ‘Need my name?’
Villani closed his eyes for a few seconds.
‘Okay. Don Phipps, that’s my name. But I don’t want my name attached to this.’
‘If you’re not involved in anything, that’s not a problem.’
‘I’m not. I worked for the state government, an advisor to Stuart Koenig, the infrastructure minister. Until last week.’
‘Yes?’
Phipps had a sip from his bottle. ‘Something happened about two weeks ago.’
‘Yes?’
‘I stayed at work late to finish a briefing paper for Stuart, it was a rush job, we were facing questions in parliament the next day. I thought I’d drop the brief at his place in Kew, he’s got a townhouse he stays at during the week. Put it in the mailbox, it’s a secure box, and ring him in the morning so he could have a look at it over breakfast.’
‘Love suspense,’ said Villani.
‘Sorry. Well, I had to park across the street down from the house and walk up and I was near the front gate when it opened and a woman came out.’
‘Yes?’
‘I got a good look at her. The woman on Crime Stoppers. Described as a Caucasian woman.’
‘How good’s the light there?’
‘Well, Stuart’s got an elaborate security set-up,’ said Phipps. ‘I’ll go so far as to say he’s paranoid. Not without some reason, I might add, he had a…’
‘Mr Phipps, I have things to do.’
‘Right. Well, he’s got cameras on both gates, the driveway, you drive into this bay, you press a button, and then you’re told to wind down all your windows so the cameras on both sides can see everyone in the car.’
‘You saw her clearly.’
‘The security lights were on. It’s like daylight. She got into a black BMW. Tinted windows.’
