by Peter Temple
It came to him.
‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘Back to Kidd’s.’
Birkerts said nothing. He turned right on Roy Street, right again on Queens Road. They were turning into Kidd’s street before he spoke.
‘Forget something?’ he said.
‘Remembered something,’ said Villani. ‘Park in front.’
Birkerts parked. ‘Need me?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Villani. ‘Gloves?’
‘Like that, is it?’
Villani went in first, down the passage, into the sitting room, waited for Birkerts.
‘Put on the gloves,’ he said.
‘Me?’
‘I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m the boss.’
The rubber gloves made the whispering, hissing sound, Birkerts held up pale blue hands. ‘What?’ he said.
Villani went onto the balcony. Birkerts followed. Villani pointed.
Birkerts held the foil tray over the grill, turned it over, twisted.
Nothing happened. He shook it.
The cake of solid fat fell to the grill, stayed intact.
‘Well bugger me,’ Birkerts said.
‘HOW LONG?’ said Villani.
He saw Kiely come out of his door, cross to Dove’s desk, lean over it, lecture Dove about something.
‘Being redone now,’ said the ballistics man.
‘What’s the first time say?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Fired recently?’
‘Can’t say that either. Say it hasn’t been cleaned.’
‘Dirty?’
‘Well, just not cleaned. Not dirty, no.’
‘The husband’s defence,’ said Villani. ‘Call Tracy when you’ve got a strong opinion, will you?’
He watched Kiely coming his way, the buttoned suit jacket, where did he think he was?
‘BUL M-5,’ said Kiely. ‘Unusual weapon.’
‘Israeli. Every second Afghan’s got one. Handgun of choice.’
‘They sell arms to Afghans?’
‘Don’t discriminate, your Israeli arms dealers. Sell arms to anyone. Make guns in New Zealand?’
‘No,’ said Kiely.
‘Probably just as well.’
‘The crash people say explosions in Kidd’s Ford.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Villani. ‘Went up like Krakatoa.’
‘Not fuel,’ said Kiely. ‘They say two explosions before that, the second one, the big one, that blew the driver’s legs off. Then the fuel caught.’
Villani felt his scalp itch, he did a circuit on the chair. ‘So not high-speed pursuit crash, driver lost control?’
‘You should talk to them.’
‘My word.’
‘Tanner’s the man’s name. Glen Tanner.’
He had a call made.
‘That’s right, inspector,’ said Tanner. ‘We would say two charges, possibly some mechanism triggers the first, which damages the steering, the driver loses control. Then there’s the impact. And then the main charge goes off and it’s big and the fuel ignites.’
‘No chance it’s just fuel?’
He heard the sniff of contempt.
‘Not unless it was a stunt for a movie, that exploding-car rubbish. Low-pressure fireball is possible when fuel escapes and ignites, yes. But not here.’
‘Obliged to you,’ said Villani. ‘Also if you keep this in-house until we’ve got somewhere.’
He thought about watching Kidd, hearing the call.
Listen, listen, some worries. Serious.
What?
Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?
How was that conversation to be explained? How was Kidd not using the Prado to be explained? Where did the Ford come from, a street rod with genuine plates and a missing owner aged seventy-eight?
Tracy.
‘Boss, ballistics rang,’ she said. ‘That’s positive. A match with Metallic.’
The weapon in the slab of dripping had executed the Ribarics. The BUL M-5 had been in the hand of Kidd or Larter.
OAKLEIGH buttoned up. Something to be happy about. Colby would be happy, Barry would be happy, Gillam would be happy. Orong would pat Gillam. Orong would tell the premier.
Villani rang Colby.
‘Got the Oakleigh gun, boss,’ he said. ‘Ballistics match.’
‘Sure?’
‘As science can be.’
‘Where?’
‘Kidd’s place. Under our noses.’
‘Techs find it?’
‘No. Me.’
‘You?’
‘In the barbie fat tray. Kidd’s barbie.’
A moment.
‘It takes a certain kind of sick arsehole to check the barbie fat tray,’ said Colby. ‘You’re an example to your men. Women.’
‘Don’t have any women.’
‘Keep quiet about that,’ said Colby. ‘A fat dyke’ll have your job in a minute. Promoted from ethnic transgender liaison squad.’
‘Sir.’
‘Now Mr Brendan O’Barry, emphasise he’s first cab, be breathless. Pant a lot. Then he can tell the ranga, Gillam can tell Orong. At some point, someone will tell me, I’ll be so stunned. Searle and his new slapper can then feed shit to all and sundry about how wonderful Homicide is.’
‘Sir.’
‘We now want to close the book on Metallic. Gone, finished. With me?’
‘With you. Yes.’
‘You might still have a career,’ said Colby. ‘In spite of your fucking self.’
Villani rang Barry, told him the story.
‘Excellent,’ said Barry. ‘I’ll inform the chief immediately. We have closure on Metallic. Much to be explained but killers identified and, by their own hands, deceased.’
‘That’s it, boss. More or less.’
‘We need to have a little talk soon.’
‘When it suits you, boss,’ said Villani.
DOVE OPENED the folder, gave Villani pages.
‘Calls from Koenig’s Kew house, fixed line, the mobile in his name,’ he said. ‘Taken out his staff, pollies, family. Also now have the Orion guest list by unofficial means. I’d like to put that on record.’
‘You can’t,’ said Villani. ‘Unofficial doesn’t go on record.’
‘I can see the logic. Boss.’
‘You could be approaching take-off speed in this job. Flying a Piper Cub, mind you.’
‘It’s calls in the past two months, ranked by number, from the bottom.’
Twenty-odd names. Villani knew some of them from the newspapers, television.
Mervyn Brody, Brody Prestige, expensive German cars, secondhand, also a racehorse owner. Brian Curlew, criminal barrister, defender of the high-end scum, they said the first consultation was free, the second one cost fifty thousand bucks, some cash, some declared for tax. Chris Jourdan of the Jourdan brothers, owner of restaurants and bars. Daniel Bricknell, art dealer. Dennis Combanis, property developer, Marscay Corporation. Mark Simons, insolvency expert. Hugh Hendry.
‘Mr Hendry junior,’ Villani said.
‘At school together,’ said Dove. ‘St Thomas College. Also Curlew and that Robert Hunter. All in the same year.’
‘That’s important?’
‘I don’t know what’s important, boss.’
‘I like an open mind. Empty mind is what worries me. Who’s Hunter?’
‘Headmaster of St Thomas.’
‘Yes?’
‘Brody and Bricknell and Curlew and Simons and Jourdan are all on the casino party list.’
‘No doubt many people on the chief commissioner’s speed-dial were there too,’ said Villani. ‘A-list people. Saw some of them at Persius the other night. What do you want to make of that?’
Dove touched his chest, under the right pec, a finger, a small, gentle rub, he would do that for the rest of his life.
‘Can we get their phones?’ he said.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well.’
‘That’s the fed approach,’ said Villani.
‘Any phone, anybody, any time, any reason, no matter how pissweak. No, son. Here the magistracy takes the view that murderers should walk free rather than a single innocent person’s phone records be examined.’
‘What’s your view, boss?’ said Dove.
‘I don’t have a view. Anyone in Homicide misguided enough to use unofficial channels, it’s their marching ticket. Birkerts has been suspected of doing this shit.’
Dove smiled. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is so. I think what we’ve established is that Koenig likes whores,’ Villani said. ‘Mr Phipps saw one who happened to look like our girl. So what we are engaged in is a wide-ranging investigation that goes down some dead-ends. Inevitably. It’s in the nature of wide-ranging investigations.’
‘Yes?’ said Dove.
‘In the course of investigations, information emerges that’s not helpful but can be embarrassing for some people.’
‘Yes?’
‘That information goes in the vault. Is that clear?’
Dove looked at the ceiling, interested, like a man observing the heavens, a student of stars. ‘Could not be clearer, boss,’ he said.
A knock, Weber came in, bunny-eyed, awkward, shifted his feet.
‘Welcome,’ said Villani. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while, detective. Speak freely to us.’
‘Been out there, boss. Talked to everyone in Prosilio over the time. Nothing. Also the staff records. Clean, just speeding, some juvenile, that kind of thing.’
‘That’s promising,’ said Villani. ‘That’s marvellous.’
Guilty, contrite, Weber looked at the grey public-service carpet.
‘What about the owner of the apartment?’
Weber looked at Dove.
‘Just getting there,’ said Dove. ‘Shollonell, this Lebanese company, bought it six months ago. Directors are Mr and Mrs Ho from Hong Kong. In their late seventies, Mr Ho is in a wheelchair. Prosilio housekeeping now remembers they got everything ready then, beds, the champagne, in case they arrived without notice. But they’ve never arrived.’
Villani became aware of the dullness of his mind, the ache in his ankles, his knees, his shoulders, his neck. ‘I’m inclined to rule the Hos out. Just instinct.’
The phone.
‘Chief Commissioner Gillam for you, inspector.’
‘Yes.’
‘Stephen?’
‘Commissioner.’
‘Good result on Metallic, yes. Turned out well. Possibly better than a SOG move on Kidd’s premises would have produced.’
‘The possible gun battle,’ said Villani. ‘The possible loss of officers’ lives. The possible collateral damage to the innocent.’
Gillam coughed. ‘That sort of thing, yes. So, well done. The minister will be pleased.’
Villani put the phone down, looked at his watch. ‘I’m leaving the building now,’ he said. ‘My day is over. I leave you with the thought that we, that’s the three of us and by extension the whole fucking squad and the whole fucking force, we have failed the little Prosilio girl.’
The men both looked down, Weber nodding.
Singleton would be so proud.
‘And see if the Hos have kids. Junior Hos. And grandchildren. Concentrating on the male line.’
THE APARTMENT was in a redbrick building a few streets down from Brunswick Street, Villani knew it from when he was eighteen and it was standing empty, boarded up. They went there early one morning to evict squatters, he remembered sleepy, spunky women and dirty-haired men holding at least two guitars.
The removal people carried out a remarkable number of amps. Fender, Vox, Marshall, they looked as if they had been dropped and kicked many times.
The parking garage was off a pissed-in, puked-on lane, through a graffitied roll-up door Birkerts opened with a remote. Concrete stairs led to a steel door, opened with a key.
Villani followed Birkerts up more concrete stairs to a long landing, they turned left. The apartment’s front door was steel too, studded. Beyond it was a long room, high ceiling, done over in jarrah, granite and stainless steel, a sitting-down area, a television-watching area, a cooking and eating area. The table was made from ten-centimetre thick gum slabs, it could seat twelve, provide shelter from a missile attack.
‘More than I expected,’ said Villani. He went to the window, looked through treetops to the city’s towers, vague in the smoke.
‘She wanted a cash payout from the boy,’ said Birkerts. ‘He offers one mill. Take it, says her brief. I said, the family home plus new car, plus five hundred grand. As of last valuation, recession and all, the settlement’s now worth one point eight mill.’
‘Amazing,’ said Villani. ‘The foresight.’
‘Long ago, my old man said, inner city, never mind price. Always on the button, my dad.’
‘I recall he also said only the truly ignorant are truly happy,’ said Villani. ‘Does that include the truly ignorant about real-estate opportunities?’
‘I wish I’d never told you that,’ said Birkerts. ‘You forget nothing, you wait. There’s bedrooms at each end. With en suites.’
‘I’ll find one.’
‘Okay. I don’t want to look in the fridge. Chuck out the dead stuff, will you? There’s booze in that cupboard.’
They went to the door. Birkerts gave him a key ring. ‘Buzzer, keys. Garbage instructions on fridge.’
‘Appreciate this,’ said Villani. ‘But don’t expect any favours.’
‘Bugger,’ said Birkerts, ‘I had hopes.’ He looked around. ‘Got a bit of domestic drama on myself.’
Villani didn’t look at him, that encouraged confession.
‘Job’s a breaker, no question,’ said Birkerts. ‘Ever ask yourself why you do it?’
A moment between them.
‘No day passes,’ said Villani. ‘Just don’t curl up.’
Just don’t curl up.
Bob Villani’s instruction. Bob and Cameron and Colby and Singo and Les, the men in his life, they’d all given him plenty of instructions.
Had Bob ever curled up? On his own in Vietnam, a lone operator in a strange place, strange people, so far from home, had he crunched up in his sleeping bag, whimpered? Even once? One tiny whimper?
Not likely.
‘Curl up?’ said Birkerts.
‘You feel so sorry for yourself, you lie down and curl up,’ Villani said.
‘You done that?’
‘No day passes. See you in the morning,’
Alone, he chose a bedroom. It was the size of a double garage, white walls, no decoration. The bed was made. He put his clothes in a walk-in closet, a room, went back and inspected the fridge: solid milk, limp coriander, two flaccid cucumbers, no meat.
Dozens of bottles of wine, spirits, mixers in the drinks cupboard. Whisky and soda. There was ice. He sat in a leather armchair, tinkled the ice, drank, listened to the building, the street, beyond. Faint music, piano.
Tired, nodding off, he should eat something. When had he eaten? Breakfast with Rose. Terrible bread but good everything else—the scrambled eggs, his cherry tomatoes done in the pan, popped, the juices.
Lizzie. Why had he cut her out so early? Felt so little for her? Even now, his strongest feeling was resentment, betrayal. Why didn’t Tony cross his mind more often? Tony got the best he had to give. He found time for Tony, he had been a decent father. In a way.
He began taking Tony to Carlton home games when he was tiny, carrying him in a backpack. He was Fitzroy, but it had never been serious and he’d drifted into supporting the Blues when he was stationed at Carlton. You had to have a team. You couldn’t say you didn’t care. Cashin came to the football with them. He was Geelong but he came. Sometimes Laurie came, it was just to please him.
Bob Villani didn’t care about footy, they didn’t talk football when he was a kid, they didn’t have a family team. One day, Villani asked him.
‘Who do we go for, Dad?’
Bob was reading his book, The Faber Book of 20th Century V
erse, brown-paper cover with big grease blots, he took it with him in the rig.
‘Go for?’
‘Footy. They ask me who we go for.’
‘Fitzroy,’ his father said, he did not move his head.
‘Why, Dad?’
‘Need all the help they can get.’
He didn’t know Bob had played football until he found the photograph of the 1960 Levetts Creek Football Club Premiership Team, fifteen men and three boys. Twenty-odd years later, they went up there for a girl, throat cut, it was a hard little town, all mullets, feral utes and punched women, beer cartons blown flat against the fences. He saw the faces in the picture, the sons and grandsons. They would have been woodcutters or sawmill workers then, the man holding the ball was two fingers short on his right hand.
On the back, in violet pencil, someone wrote: Robert Villani (centre half-back).
Perhaps sixteen, short hair, chisel chin, long upper arms, bruise on his right cheekbone, as tall as the men in his row and half their thickness. And the eyes, they caught the light.
One bitter Saturday when Tony was seven, he put the navy-blue scarf around the boy’s neck, they went to Princes Park to see Carlton play the Bombers, met Cashin there.
In the queue, Tony said, ‘The Bombers, they’re my team.’
They looked at him.
‘The Blues are your team,’ said Villani.
‘No,’ said Tony. ‘The Bombers.’
He took off his scarf. ‘You wear this, Dad.’
Villani could never have done that to Bob. He could not do that to Bob now. It was a kind of bravery. Why didn’t he ever tell Tony that?
Pointless. He wouldn’t remember it. It would have no meaning for him.
Why didn’t Tony ever ring him? Scotland, he was in Scotland, a Scottish island. What would Scotland be like? The heather on the hills. What was heather? What was it like to be an nineteen-year-old Australian boy in Scotland?
He was eighteen when he took his first walk in uniform after the course, a country boy, open-mouthed, thrilled. Not dangerous the city then. Dope was the street drug, some smack, cocaine seriously sophisticated. Around midnight, the nightlife ended. You could drive home drunk, needed to ram a cruiser to be bloodtested.
The cop talk was all marijuana busts, armed robberies, illegal gambling, wogs fighting to control Victoria Market, wharfies fighting over who was allowed to steal what on the docks.
