Truth

by Peter Temple

  ‘So what does this say?’ said Villani.

  Tomasic scratched his pitbull head. ‘The Ribs’ nanna’s stuff. Valerie Crossley. Died in a nursing home in Geelong about a month ago.’

  ‘That’s their mother’s mother?’

  ‘Yeah, boss. The mother was Donna Crossley, there’s a welfare file like a phone book. Booze, drugs, orders against Matko, kids taken off her three, four times. With Valerie more than their mum. In Geelong.’

  ‘What happened to Donna?’

  ‘Dead in Brissie. 1990. Hooking. Possibly a mug involved.’

  Villani picked up a photograph, a bride, a priest and a woman in a cream suit and a small hat. The picture had been sliced vertically, a clean line, cut with scissors. The groom had been excised. The bride had a thin face, pretty in a way that had no legs, heavily made-up eyes, teased hair, lacquered.

  On the back was written, shaky hand:

  Donna and Father Cusack. Geelong 1973.

  ‘Reckon she got rid of Matko here too, boss,’ said Tomasic, he offered another photograph.

  Two small boys in a paddling pool, gap-toothed, wet, shiny, happy. The top of the photograph had been cut off, broad hairy male forearms and hands were on the children’s shoulders.

  Villani passed it to Birkerts.

  ‘Like Russia,’ said Birkerts. ‘Stalin did that.’

  ‘Cut up photographs?’ said Tomasic. ‘He did that?’

  ‘All the time. Loved to cut up photographs.’

  ‘Weird,’ said Tomasic.

  Villani opened a folded sheet of notepaper.

  St Anselm’s Parish, Geelong

  10 July

  Dear Mrs Crossley,

  Father Cusack has been ill. He says he will try to come and see you tomorrow morning. I hope you are feeling better.

  Annette Hogan

  ‘Well, what?’ said Villani.

  Tomasic picked up the diary.

  ‘Read a bit of this,’ he said. ‘Old girl was in the nursing home about six months before she carked, she wrote every day or so.’

  ‘Yes?’ said Villani.

  ‘About what she eats, people dying, the nurses, lots of religion shit, God and Jesus and Mary and sins and forgiveness…sorry, boss.’

  ‘I’m offended,’ said Villani. ‘What?’

  Tomasic didn’t look at him.

  ‘Yeah, well, near the end,’ he said, ‘there’s stuff, she wants to see Father Cusack and he doesn’t come and she keeps asking the nurses and they just pat her and he doesn’t come and she doesn’t want to die without confession and then he comes and she’s happy. She says she’s at peace.’

  ‘That’s so nice,’ said Birkerts. ‘That’s such an uplifting story. Might go to confession myself. Confess that I let you fuck around here when you could be doing something useful.’

  ‘There’s more?’ said Villani.

  ‘The last thing she wrote, she says a Father Donald, he came,’ said Tomasic. ‘He’d kissed the Holy Father’s ring, and he asked her a lot of questions and he said she’d be at God’s right hand for telling Father Cusack about the evil. Pretty much a booked seat. Specially blessed. Yeah.’

  ‘What’s at the left hand?’ said Birkerts. ‘What’s the scene there?’

  ‘Islamites wipe their bums with the left hand,’ said Tomasic.

  ‘Only.’

  ‘It’s kissing the ring that’s the worry,’ said Villani.

  He felt uneasy, not just because they were looking at the things an old woman took to the place where she expected to die, the last possessions, the only possessions of worth of all the things acquired in her life, of all the thousands of things, only these had any value, any meaning.

  From his own life, not many things he would take to the last stop. There was a meaning here. There was something speaking to them and they did not know the language.

  Villani thought about his trees, shimmering in the hot winds, the deciduous leaves browning at the edges, closing their pores, trying to think their way into late autumn, no water evaporating, the chain of water molecules in the limbs ceasing to draw moisture from the roots, the trees telling themselves they could live through this if they remained perfectly still and controlled their breathing.

  They deserved some help, his trees.

  He should go now, leave this place infused with the badness of the people who had lived here, died close by, deserved to die, leave and drive up the long roads to where he came from, they would let him through the roadblocks, he could put on his uniform, they wouldn’t fuck with an inspector, they would let him go on.

  His mobile.

  ‘My son,’ Colby said, ‘I tell you hide under the bed, you go out and treat a minister like street scum. The reward is you are invited to tea with Miss Orong and the AG, Signor DiPalma. How’s that? A fucking quinella.’

  ‘Never a quinella man,’ said Villani.

  ‘I recall you in enough shit without the exotics,’ said Colby. ‘And now you have become the force’s shit-magnet. They want you now. They await you.’

  Colby didn’t know the half of it. Or did he? That day in the car, in the carpark behind Lygon Street, Dance reached under his seat and gave him a black and white Myer shopping bag.

  ‘The trick when you hand it over,’ said Dance, ‘is to avoid photo opportunities.’

  Villani put the bag in his boot. He counted it later, it took so long he realised why the big drug players used machines. A few hundreds, fifties, mostly twenties and tens and fives. Thirty thousand dollars in all.

  ‘Well, all very interesting,’ said Villani. ‘You’ve got the nose, Tommo. But we don’t need any more Ribaric history. Just be grateful they don’t have a future. Time to move on.’

  AN OLIVE-SKINNED young woman, pinstriped suit, took him up in the lift, down a long corridor hung with paintings, portraits. She opened a door, waved him in.

  A woman sat behind a desk, deep lines from her nose. She was a gatekeeper.

  ‘Inspector Villani,’ said the escort.

  ‘Thank you,’ said the gatekeeper.

  The escort left. The gatekeeper picked up a phone and said, ‘Inspector Villani.’

  A huge panelled door opened and a sandy young man holding files came out. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Come in.’

  Villani went in, the door closed after him. The attorney-general, Chris DiPalma, behind a desk big enough for three, he was in shirtsleeves, a pink shirt, tie loose, glasses down his thin nose, serious expression, like a magistrate, send you to jail if you didn’t cringe.

  Martin Orong, the police minister, sat in a club chair. He smiled at Villani, it resembled a smile.

  ‘Sit down, inspector,’ DiPalma said. ‘You know Martin, I gather.’

  Villani sat.

  ‘Call you Steve?’

  ‘Yes, minister.’

  ‘To the point, Steve, You’ve been giving Stuart Koenig a hard time. He’s upset.’

  ‘Routine questioning,’ said Villani.

  ‘The Prosilio girl?’

  ‘A murder inquiry.’

  ‘This is between us. Colleagues, strictest confidence. With me?’

  ‘All police work is in strictest confidence, minister,’ Villani said.

  DiPalma looked at Orong.

  ‘Mr Koenig says he co-operated with you, gave you a full and verifiable account of his whereabouts. Is that right?’

  Villani said, ‘It’s policy not to discuss investigations, minister.’

  ‘And then you apply to get his phone records on the grounds of his involvement in a murder inquiry.’

  ‘That is correct,’ said Villani. ‘He is involved in a murder inquiry.’

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ said DiPalma, ‘you don’t get it, do you?’

  Orong touched his stiff forelock. ‘Come on, Steve, this is just a friendly chat, no rank pulled here. All we want to do is the right thing by Stuart, that’s not a big ask, is it?’

  This was the moment to back off. Villani was going to and then he saw himself encouraging Dove
to take Koenig on and he couldn’t.

  ‘We want to do the right thing by you too,’ said Orong. ‘Your career. Future.’

  Villani said to DiPalma, ‘Minister, we’re pursuing a line of inquiry we believe will help us with a murder investigation. That’s all I can say.’

  DiPalma had an open folder in front of him, he tapped it with his fingernails: manicured, pink. ‘I think we’re going to have to be plainer with you, Steve. Stuart Koenig’s been a naughty boy but that’s the limit of it. He’s had sex with a prostitute. That’s all. Now I want you to back off. You’ve got a big admirer in Mr Barry, the force is about to have a leadership regeneration, he’s considering you for a senior role in the new dispensation.’

  DiPalma picked up a fountain pen, black and fat, wrote a sentence in the folder, looked up. ‘Is that plain enough for you, inspector? Can I be bloody plainer?’

  Villani nodded.

  ‘And there’s another little matter you might want to consider,’ said DiPalma. ‘The renewed interest in the death of Greg Quirk. That involves you and Dance and Detective Senior Sergeant Vickery. We may let this take its course. Or we may not. Is that also bloody plain enough?’

  ‘It is, minister,’ said Villani.

  ‘Good,’ said DiPalma. ‘The election’s close, it’s not a time for ministers to be touched by murder investigations. However innocent they are. So, we’ve reached an understanding that you will delete Mr Koenig from your investigation. Nothing will be heard of your visit to him. Absolutely nothing. Fuckall. If this leaks, there will be blood. Yours.’

  He stood, they all stood.

  Orong coughed, a small-dog bark. ‘And this whole Prosilio shit,’ he said. ‘Let it lie for the moment. There’s no upside there for you and it’s all bad news for the building. Get on with important work. Career-enhancing stuff.’

  DiPalma offered his hand, Villani shook it. Then he shook Orong’s treacherous little hand. He left the offices, walked down the cool and self-important corridor. From the walls, the dead watched him pass, they had seen many a coward come and go.

  In a short time, he was on the street, orange sun behind the haze, looking for Finucane, unaccountably thinking about the first horse Bob raced, the best horse he ever had, the lovely little grey called Truth who won at her second start, won three from twelve, always game, never gave up. She sickened and died in hours, buckled and lay, her sweet eyes forgave them their stupid inability to save her.

  VILLANI sat at the desk, stared at the near-empty inbox. Kiely appeared in the door.

  ‘Checked the active files,’ he said. ‘Took the liberty. In case decisions were urgently needed.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Villani, ‘about a bad restaurant where the manager also wants to do the cooking.’

  The pink of dawn on Kiely’s pale cheekbones. ‘A remark made in the heat of the moment,’ he said. ‘I accept that it was inappropriate. I would also like to say that I had not at that point sent a memo to command. And I did not do so subsequently.’

  He’d heard something, he was looking ahead, thinking about the possible price he might pay.

  ‘So, not a dog?’ said Villani.

  Kiely chewed saliva for a time. ‘Not a dog,’ he said.

  ‘Welcome to Homicide,’ said Villani.

  Kiely did not know how to take it.

  ‘That’s well meant,’ said Villani.

  ‘Right. Thank you.’ Relief in his eyes. ‘Well, there’s progress on some fronts, the drowned woman in Keilor, the husband pumped water into her, he’s made a full statement. And the Frankston girl, we’ve got the two men lived there, so that should sort itself out. The man in the Pope mask, that’s proving difficult. Possibly sailor-tossed from the fifth floor.’

  ‘See what’s in port,’ said Villani. ‘Check the Spirit of Tasmania crew. They’re tossers.’

  ‘Hah. Absolutely.’

  He left.

  Burgess knocked, files in hand. He was looking remarkably healthy, it was disconcerting. On the very worst of mornings, Burgess had always been someone you could look at and it made you feel better. The Australian Standard for visible hangovers, the benchmark.

  ‘Boss, the girl up there, at the snow? Just about forgotten.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s open.’

  ‘Read those?’

  ‘Not in detail, no. Bit pushed.’

  Why at this time was it nagging at him, the icy day, the rutted track, the little body, why did these things arise from nowhere?

  ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘I moved on.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Burgess. ‘Singo wasn’t hot on it.’

  ‘Darwin, why do I think Darwin?’

  ‘They kind of ID’d her in Darwin,’ said Burgess. ‘There was a teenie hooker in Darwin, they said it looked like her. Darwin coppers. Probably fucked her. That was the extent of it. Yeah.’

  ‘Okay, leave those. Why you looking so healthy? Something I should take?’

  Burgess winked. ‘Love of a good woman,’ he said.

  ‘Expensive?’

  ‘Can I tell the next deputy commissioner to fuck off?’

  ‘Where’d you hear that?’

  ‘The birds are singing it. In the trees.’

  ‘Bullshit. On your bike. Trike.’

  There’s no upside there for you…Get on with important stuff. Career-enhancing stuff.

  ‘Get Dove for me, there’s a good public servant.’

  ‘Sad boy, the Lovey Dovey,’ said Burgess. ‘Not a mixer. The Abo chip. Still, the boy took a bullet.’

  ‘Not too late for you to take one. Invite Mr Dove in. And keep taking the good woman.’

  Time passed, Dove came, knocked air.

  ‘Close the door. Sit.’

  Dove closed the door, sat in the cheap chair, locked his hands, the tendons stood out, thick as spaghetti.

  ‘I’ll say to you,’ Villani said, ‘I’ll say I have been told to drop any Koenig stuff, I have been told to put Prosilio on ice. I have been told my career is at risk.’

  Dove looked at his hands. ‘I see,’ he said.

  The gear changes, the big motor’s sound thinning, thinner, going, going, gone, the silence, Bob gone, he was alone with the boys, the horses, the dogs. No going back to sleep. Things to see to. Sometimes, in the early morning, the burden had felt so heavy, he had pulled the pillow over his head, stopped breathing.

  Sometimes Mark would whine about something on a Sunday night and Bob would say, Steve’ll fix it, Steve’ll see to it.

  Bob never asked him whether he could do it. Steve would look after things. Talk to teachers, take boys to the doctor, the dentist, cut their hair, buy them clothes, shoes. Never mind that Steve was twelve years old. Perhaps Bob just didn’t give a bugger. No, he cared about Mark, came to care about Luke. The horses, he loved them. And then the oaks. They grew from his acorns, they were his beautiful and undemanding children. Water, that was all they asked for. And Steve would see to that too.

  ‘What’s that mean?’ he said to Dove. A reflex, Singo question, no utterance unexamined.

  What did he say exactly? The words. Tell me his words. I’m dying, I can’t live without her, I’ll kill myself? Did he say stuff like that?

  Dove lifted his eyes.

  ‘They’re powerful people,’ he said. ‘They run the world. Why shouldn’t they get away with killing a whore?’

  They sat without speaking, in the space enclosed from the bigger space, the tin desk, the tin filing cabinets, Singo’s trophy protruding from the box, first-round knockout, that was rare in the force’s boxing at the upper weights, they were generally mauling affairs.

  He thought about the day he told Birkerts he was thinking of looking at some of Singleton’s unresolved matters.

  Birkerts said, ‘They’re dead, he’s dead, we can only shoot ourselves up the arse.’

  ‘If you don’t get it,’ said Villani, acid, ‘you don’t get it.’

  Birkerts said, ‘I get th
e principle, I just don’t see the utility.’

  ‘The utility?’ said Villani. ‘Is that what you got your fucking degree in? Working out what the utility is?’

  Justice for the dead. Singo’s message to new arrivals. ‘We’re the only ones who can get them justice. That’s our work. That’s our calling.’

  These thoughts had begun to come to Villani in the small moments of his life—at the traffic lights, in the haunted space before sleep, in the wet womb of the shower.

  For Koenig and DiPalma and Orong, the Prosilio girl was just a dead creature by the wayside. Roadkill. They didn’t get the principle and they didn’t see the utility.

  He thought of the moment when he saw the dead girl and thought she was Lizzie. Was that some kind of foreshadowing, a premonition? Rubbish.

  Singo wasn’t hot on it.

  The girl on the snow road. No, forget it.

  ‘Well that’s it then,’ he said. ‘See what Inspector Kiely has waiting for you.’

  Dove stood up, eyes on him, unreadable.

  ‘Yes?’ said Villani. ‘Something to say?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’

  ‘IF THIS is a few,’ said Villani, ‘it must get a bit crowded when all your friends come.’

  Vicky Hendry laughed, expensive teeth. ‘This is nothing. Max’s great fear is that if we have a party and invite fifty, only ten might show up. So he asks a hundred and they all bloody come. But this is the TGIF gang. Work people. Stable around forty.’

  Villani had arrived late, uneasy, regretting the decision long before the taxi stopped. He said his name into the brass grille on the street. The gate was opened by a big smiling man in a suit. Vicky Hendry was waiting at the front door, kissed his cheek, took his hand, led him along a passage and through two huge sitting rooms onto a terrace, he heard the laughter. They went down steps to join a crowd of people beside a pale green saltwater pool, men and women in equal numbers, suits, tieless.

  To one side was a bar, a barman, beer and wine bottles in ice in wine barrels, a barbecue the size of a security door. Behind them were two long trestle tables.

  Vicky Hendry looked after other guests but he felt that he was her point of departure and return. She made sure he was never alone. She appeared to find him amusing, sought his opinions in a direct way, a slow blinker, she stood close, just a few finger widths from provocative, intimate. His unease went away.