by Peter Temple
Oh, Jesus.
Villani stared at Koenig for a while. ‘Sure we’re talking about the same woman here, minister? Not some other visitor to your house?’
‘Fuck you. I couldn’t be more sure.’
Phipps had made a mistake. This was a major error. He didn’t look at Dove—they couldn’t back off.
‘We need to know who gave you the number,’ he said.
‘A bloke at a party gave me the number, wrote it on a card.’
‘His card?’ said Dove.
A hesitation. ‘No, mine,’ said Koenig. ‘I gave him my card. He wrote it on the back.’
‘A bloke you know?’
‘No. Big party, we’d all had a few.’
‘Whose party was it?’ said Dove. ‘We can go down that route.’
Koenig licked his lower lip, an unhealthy tongue, spotted. ‘Now that I think about it,’ he said, ‘It was at Orion. Or Persius, maybe Persius. Could have been the snow, though. Yes, might have been at the snow last winter.’
Dove said, ‘I suggest you know who gave you the phone number, minister.’
‘Really?’ Koenig said. ‘I suggest you pull your fucking head in, sunshine. And you, Villani, you’ve made a very bad career move today, you and this clown of yours.’
Villani said to Dove, ‘Record that at this point Mr Koenig made what appeared to be a threat to Inspector Villani, with the words, quote, You’ve made a very bad career move today, you and this clown of yours. Unquote.’
Dove wrote, slowly. Villani watched him. He didn’t look at Koenig until Dove was finished. Then he said, ‘Mr Koenig, we’ll probably want to take a formal statement from you. You might want to bring your lawyer with you. In the meantime, we’d be grateful for the security system vision.’
‘I’ve wiped the tapes. I wipe them once a week. That’s part of my Sunday-night routine.’
Villani rose, Dove followed.
‘Thank you for your time, Mr Koenig,’ said Villani. ‘We’ll be in touch about the statement.’
‘You think this up on your own?’ said Koenig.
‘No idea what you mean, minister,’ said Villani. ‘Good day.’
Outside, going down the steps, Dove said, ‘I think there’s been a mistake. Putting it delicately.’
Villani was putting on his sunglasses. ‘You’re the designated thinker here,’ he said. ‘I take it then you and Weber didn’t just forget to mention the appendix scar I didn’t notice on the Prosilio girl?’
‘No, sir. There’s no scar.’
‘Well, then the way I’d put it, delicately, is our careers are fucked. For the moment.’
‘So what now, boss?’
‘Every call the prick’s made in the last two months. But that’s only me.’
‘Can I ask why?’
The question hung, they came to the vehicle, Dove was driving. In the traffic, Villani said, ‘You’ll never hear me use the term fishing trip. We do things by the book.’
‘I respect the book,’ said Dove. ‘The book is the way and the life.’
‘Pity Weber’s married,’ said Villani. ‘You have much in common.’
‘What grounds do I offer?’
The radio:
…day of total fire ban for the state, another scorcher and no sign of a change. Firefighters are pinning their hopes on a wind shift in the early afternoon. Householders in the fire path have been advised to leave but some…
There was no doubt about the identity of one person in the some category. No, two. Gordie would drive straight into the fire with a waterpistol and wearing only a flameproof jockstrap if Bob thought it was a tactic with potential.
At the Swanston Street intersection, a wasted kid, chewed-string hair, weaved between the vehicles, tripped over the kerb, fell forward and lay still. His shirt was pulled up and his birdlike ribcage showed beneath his milky skin. People walked around him, a man kicked him by accident, jumped sideways.
The boy moved his head, got to his knees, levered on stick arms, looked around, big eyes. He stood, unsteady, took three paces to the wall, put his back against it, slid down, legs giving way.
On the station steps and on the pavement, other kids stood, sat, restless, hanging, some out of it. Two young cops were talking to three males. One was talking back, animated, changing feet, pulling at his singlet, tossing his head, sniffing. The one next to him ran fingers through his long hair, ran them over and over again.
Dove coughed. ‘Koenig’s calls, boss.’
‘You want them as a matter of urgency,’ said Villani. ‘On the grounds that he is a person of interest in a murder inquiry.’
‘Try that, then,’ said Dove. ‘That porky.’
‘Only a porky if you believe every word he said. If you act in bad faith. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’
‘Not knowingly, boss.’
‘Good. You’d also want a result today.’
‘Today, certainly, boss.’
‘And then we could have a talk.’
‘Boss.’
This was terrible police work. It was work to be ashamed of.
The lights changed, they turned left, crossed the bridge and drove down the grand avenue. Dove dropped Villani in the street beside the police building. He rose alone in the lift, tried not to breathe the air of synthetic pine and lemon.
Lizzie. Where the hell was she? Not on the streets, cops were looking out for her, someone would see her, see the dreadlocked man. He should have had her taken home, rung Corin, told her to be there. Neglect. He did not see to her. It was his responsibility to see to her. Careless father. Bad husband. Short-term head of Homicide.
In the office, he went to his box, put on the radio, Paul Keogh’s station, a woman’s voice:
…Paul, talk to people in the rural areas, they’ve had enough, I can tell you. They feel betrayed, disenfranchised. This city’s now a city-state, it’s like Venice once was and, dare I say it, just as…no, I won’t say it.
Is that the c-word? Corrupt?
You said it, not me. But the betrayal’s also felt in the outer suburbs. Public transport’s a joke, two-hour wait to see a doctor who doesn’t speak English in one of these medical superpractices, one police officer for every 30,000 people, childcare’s a disgrace, it’s safer to leave your kid with the junkies in a park. This downturn has shown these people up for what they are—political opportunists and hacks.
Please don’t hold back, Ms Mellish. My guest is Karen Mellish, leader of the Opposition. Any other things you admire about this government?
Birkerts was in the door, sad, eyebrows in a pale chevron.
Paul, even before this government took the federal recession-panic money and blew it, they were making spectacularly bad moves. Billion-dollar pipelines that are empty, the world’s most expensive desalination plant, it’s cheaper to bring bottled water from France. They’ve handed bushfire-reconstruction projects to mates, they tolerate public-transport operators who couldn’t run a model railway, the tollways have seen five major tunnel shutdowns in ten months.
The police minister was on earlier talking up policing successes…
I heard him talking rubbish. Didn’t he read the papers this morning? Two ex-policemen involved in the Oakleigh murders. We have his seat squarely in our sights, he’s done his last tawdry little branchstack. What Mr Orong needs to explain to voters is why the so-called police taskforces against organised crime and drugs have achieved nothing, why the CBD is becoming more frightening than Johannesburg, kids everywhere wasting their lives on drugs. Remember the Saturday night shock-and-awe tactics?
The Humvees.
Indeed. And we now apparently need bombproof battle trucks. Overall, this city is now up there with the most violent in the world and it’s not the fault of ordinary stressed police officers. The force is under such duress, it’s no wonder so many are on sick leave…
Villani tapped the Off button.
‘Ordinary stressed police officers,’ said Birkerts. ‘Love that. OSPO.�
��
‘You’ll love serving out your years under Kiely.’
‘I can serve anyone.’
‘Service, maybe. Mr Kiely thinks your manner is highly disrespectful. I think so too but I don’t care as much.’
‘The X-ray’s at Kidd’s in an hour. Want to take another look?’
‘I thought the techies’d taken a girl look? What else can you offer?’
‘Pitstop at Vic’s. Raisin muffin.’
‘Suddenly a window in my day. Dirty little window.’
THEY SAT in the car, engine running, air-con on, looking at the sluggish sea. Two silver cats on leads drawing a woman came into view on the damp edge of the continent. She wore shorts and a muscle shirt that revealed no trace of what it was meant to display. The cats minced, offended by the moisture beneath their paws.
‘Just a massive sandbox,’ said Birkerts.
Villani finished his coffee. ‘Good, this bloke,’ he said. ‘Reliable.’
‘His ex lives in Tassie,’ said Birkerts. He was eating a banana muffin. ‘She had the kids for a holiday, won’t send them back. He says he might have to move.’
‘Ask the pointyheads to give her a fright,’ said Villani. ‘Can’t lose a decent barista. You the one filled in Tony Ruskin on Kidd and Larter? He knows more than I do.’
‘Don’t look at me. We get the arse from Defence but somebody tells Ruskin about this killing of four Afghan civilians stuff. Since the discharge, Larter’s a ghost. Possibly on a mountain in Tassie eating possums. Live. Popular among your returned killers.’
‘And the guns?’
‘Nothing shows. Bikie imports.’
A group of joggers crossed their vision: old men, creased, humped, silent. Heads down, they shuffled by.
‘In step,’ said Birkerts. ‘How is that?’
‘Got the same tune on their iPods,’ said Villani. ‘Colonel Bogey. Finished at Oakleigh?’
‘Going out after this. Want to come?’
‘Why not? Got all day, all night too since I don’t have anywhere to live.’
‘Live? Why?’
‘Marital dispute.’
Without smiling, Birkerts took on an amused look. ‘This is sudden?’
‘When it happens,’ said Villani, ‘everything is sudden.’
‘Stay at my sister’s place if you like. You met Kirsten.’
‘I did. At your barbie that day. The charcoal went out. Died. Where’s she gone?’
‘Italy. Successful divorce, skinned the bloke. Now she wants to be an artist.’
‘Her place where?’
‘What? Picky?’
‘There are places I won’t live, yes,’ said Villani.
‘Fitzroy. In your zone of acceptability?’
‘I can handle Fitzroy. Parts of Fitzroy. What else about Kidd?’
‘After the SOGs, he went overseas for eighteen months. The suggestion is private security in Iraq. Then a couple of months with GuardSecure, sacked for putting a bloke in hospital, case pending. Since then he’s a ghost too. One bank account, about eight grand in it, there’s cash deposits, like five, six hundred bucks. He’s got two credit cards, not a big spender, ordinary stuff. He pays it in full.’
‘And the Prado?’
‘Bought in a yard a year ago. Car City. He traded in a Celica, balance cash.’
‘Well, let’s have a look then.’
Birkerts made a call. ‘They’re on the way.’
They had just parked behind the building in Roma Street when the van drew up. Two men in overalls got out, took two black rubber cases from the back. Birkerts led the way upstairs.
Kidd’s unit was stifling, the heat amplifying trapped cooking smells: fried onions, meat. Passing the bathroom, Villani smelled talcum powder. He hadn’t smelled it on the night.
‘Talcum powder?’ he said. ‘Men?’
‘Jock itch,’ said Birkerts.
They went into the big room. One tech took the device out of its case, it was like a big fox-hunting spotlight but blind. He ran a hand over it.
‘Fond of it?’ said Birkerts. ‘Like a pet?’
The man said nothing, unclipped a tight coil of yellow cable. On the kitchen bench, the other man opened his case, a computer monitor in the lid.
Villani left, looked into Kidd’s disordered room, moved on, opened the sliding door to the back bedroom. No more than a big cupboard with its own built-in cupboard.
Ray Larter slept here. In the built-in, a pair of denims on a wire hanger. He found the label: waist 34, leg 44. A tall man and slim, Ray Larter. His sports bag had been on the floor beside the bed, it told little—T-shirts, underpants, clear toilet bag with toothpaste, disposable razors, tube of shampoo. Ray was neat, unlike Kidd.
Villani thought about his father’s bare bedroom on a Monday morning, bed stripped, blankets on the line, sheets and dirty clothes in the machine.
He went down the passage and onto the balcony, looked down at the street, the trees, a woman in a tight red skirt standing beside a parked car, talking to the driver. She sucked a cigarette, waved it. A hand came out of the window, she passed the cigarette, the taker flicked it into the street. She slapped at the hand, missed.
Anna.
She came to mind in all the interstices of the day, other women had not done that, not since the early days with Laurie. What did she see in him? Some women had the cop thing, early on in the job you heard the stories, the jokes. There was truth in them. Even the ugly cops got the chances, the eyes, the offers. He was clean there, he never went back to a single-mother’s place to see if everything was all right, part of the service to give you a fuck. Comforting fuck.
On the job, something always said No. It was when he was not on business that something said Yes.
The Herald Sun’s crime journo got off on cops. Bianca Pearse. Bianca wasn’t a starfucker though. Just as soon root a constable as a commissioner. Just a copfucker. Birkerts had been there, he was pretty sure of that.
It didn’t feel like a cop thing. Anna didn’t ask questions about the job, they always did. She seemed interested in what he thought, happy to be with him.
This was pathetic. He was too old to let this take him over. This was for your twenties, when an ignorant country dork could be flattered if Miss-Private-School-My-Father’s-an-Investment-Banker took a fancy to him.
He looked at Kidd’s barbecue in the corner of the balcony. Narrow, rusty, the grill crusted with charred grease and tiny welded-on lumps of meat. Not the Ozzie Grillmaster Turbo. Did they have a barbie on the night? Few beers, burn a couple of steaks, press them, see the pricks of blood, then the watery red ooze. Did they talk about what they were going to do to the Ribaric boys? Talk about lighting the Ribs’ hair, first the pubic. Full of oil, it would frizzle.
Then the hair on their heads. But first slit their nostrils. Then light the hair on their heads.
Hair full of chemical shit. Product. Click the lighter in Ivan’s face. Look in his eyes. Take a moment. Enjoy it. Lift the flame over his forehead. Slowly.
Whoosh.
Under the gas burner sat a foil tray, half-full of fat set solid, grey, mottled like marble, the drippings from the burning altar above.
Birkerts came out, hands in pockets.
‘Well, bedrooms clean,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t leave much.’
The techs came into the kitchen, had a discussion. The shorter one shrugged, knelt and pointed his device at the side of the kitchen bench. The other one looked at the laptop screen.
‘You can see why they joined,’ said Birkerts. ‘Adrenalin junkies.’
‘Kirsten’s place,’ Villani said.
‘Got the keys in my car.’
‘Take me around when you knock off?’
‘I think I’ll just give you the keys,’ said Birkerts.
They smoked Birkerts’ cigarettes, watched the techs go around the kitchen bench. When they’d finished, the taller one came out.
‘Nothing, boss,’ he said. ‘Anywhere else?’
> ‘Check around the bath?’ said Villani.
‘Yup.’
‘Bugger,’ said Villani.
‘That’s it,’ said Birkerts. ‘Thank you.’
The men packed up, snapped their cases, waved, left.
THEY WERE on their way to Oakleigh, passing the Albert cricket ground.
‘What’s the rent?’ said Villani.
He didn’t care. He had not lived alone since he was twenty-two. This was a bad time to change that. He and Laurie had always slept in the same bed. When all was gone and lost, when they no longer touched, they still shared a bed. The last person in it made it, that was the rule, from the start.
He often dreamed about sex with Laurie. She was always the same age, the quick-handed girl in the sandwich shop who layered the basics on the white slice, the slivered iceberg strands, the pale discs of tomato, the bleeding beetroot, the square of factory cheese, the cheeky girl who looked at him and said, ‘What else can I give you?’
The first sex with Laurie was on her friend Jan’s futon. Laurie picked him up after his shift, they ate at the Waiters’ Club, the small rooms packed with the late-night hungry, and went to the student house in Clifton Hill. It smelled of dope, that made him uneasy.
‘Pay the bills, that’ll do,’ said Birkerts. ‘Left two weeks ago. I said I’d clean out the fridge. Be full of rotten stuff. You can do that.’
‘How long’s she gone?’
‘Six months, she says. There’s a new man, some mystical lawyer arse she met in Byron Bay. At a wellbeing spa.’
‘Wellbeing spa,’ said Villani. ‘Just trips off your tongue, doesn’t it? What the fuck is wellbeing?’
‘Respect your body. Think positive thoughts. Live in the moment.’
‘What if the moment is absolutely shit?’ Villani said. ‘What if you have no respect for your flabby fucked-out body? What’s the other one?’
‘Positive thoughts,’ said Birkerts, eyes on the road. ‘You think positive thoughts. I don’t think you’re thinking positive thoughts now. At this moment. I feel that.’
‘How wrong can your pathetic instincts be?’ said Villani. ‘I’m thinking positive thoughts about finding the gun. I’m thinking if we don’t then my whole…’
