by Peter Temple
The men stood. Dove made to speak.
‘Go,’ said Villani. ‘Just go and fucking do it.’
His phone rang.
‘Stevo, Geoff.’
Searle.
Deep breath. Be nice to him. He was not dogshit, from a dogshit family. He was a useful member of society, parasite division.
‘Yes, mate,’ Villani said.
‘This Koenig’s a fucking landmine, mate.’
‘Yes.’
‘But I’ve got another delicate matter here. Free to talk?’
‘I can talk, yes.’
‘Steve, I hear the Sunday Age’s exploding a shit bomb tomorrow.’
‘Yes?’
‘Tony Ruskin. It’s about a senior officer.’
‘Yes?’
‘Guts is, it’s you.’
‘Me what?’
‘Daughter claims abuse.’
Villani heard himself suck air. A time passed, he had the feeling of being outside himself.
‘My daughter?’ he said.
‘That’s right. Youngest daughter. I’m guessing this comes via the welfare. Community Services.’
‘Abuse?’
‘Of a sexual nature.’
‘Come on,’ said Villani. ‘Bullshit.’
‘Haven’t been told she’s done that?’
‘She’s on the street with fucking ferals. Steals from her own family. They can’t run this kind of shit as if…’
‘They can,’ said Searle.
‘They will.’
‘Well. Jesus.’
‘Sit tight,’ said Searle. ‘I’m on the case.’
‘Appreciate that,’ said Villani.
‘No worries. Stick together. Your wife, she’ll be solid, right? Back you to the hilt.’
What to say? ‘Of course. My whole family.’
‘Good. United front, that’s vital. Drug-crazed kid, yeah…Back to you soon, mate.’
Villani sat, holding the phone. Tendons showing in his arm.
How could the little bitch do this? He found his mobile, Laurie’s number. She answered in seconds.
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Where are you?’
‘At home.’
‘Stay there. I’m on my way.’
HE PARKED in the driveway behind Laurie’s VW and knocked on the front door. She opened it.
‘What’s Lizzie said to you?’ he said, closed teeth.
Laurie spoke slowly, as if she had lost her English. ‘She called last night, she says she’s scared. To come home. She says. She can’t live here. Because you made her…you abused her.’
‘Abused her. How?’
‘Made her suck you off.’
The day, the time, the heat, where he was, all went away. He had an obstruction in his throat, he tried to clear it.
‘Me?’
‘She’s told them that, yes.’
‘Told who?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Told them what exactly?’
‘You came to her room. Woke her. A number of times.’
‘Jesus,’ he said, he shivered, inside. ‘She’s off her face. How can she do this?’
Laurie looked at him and he saw.
‘Don’t look at me like that, don’t look at me like…say you don’t believe it.’
She said nothing.
‘Say it.’
‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she said. ‘I’m in shock.’
The violence took him captive, he grabbed her shoulders, shook her. ‘You don’t believe her. Fucking say it. Say it.’
She did not resist him, her chin sunk to her chest, and he saw the white skin of her scalp along the parting. All anger left him, he dropped his arms, tried to kiss her head, but she moved away.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry. Sorry.’
She backed away, eyes on him. He saw no understanding, saw disbelief. She thought it was possible, thinkable, she could see him doing it. How could that be? How could she not know in her bones that it was impossible?
Laurie turned and walked. He followed her into the kitchen. She went as far as she could go, to the sink.
‘Let’s be clear,’ said Villani, blinking, his eyes were wet. ‘I have never touched that girl in my life except to give her a kiss. I have never gone to her room in the night. I have never made her do anything to me, I would blow my fucking brains out if I had.’
Laurie washed a clean plate, shrugged, he could see the shoulder blades shift. ‘It’s her that’s important,’ she said. ‘Not you.’
He could have punched her in the head, so fiercely did the unfairness burn in him. He gathered himself. ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’ he said. ‘It’s this scum she’s hanging out with. They want money out of her.’
Laurie dried her hands on the dishcloth, dragging it out, rubbing fingers. ‘Have to see,’ she said.
‘Where is she?’
‘They say she was in care but she’s taken off again.’
‘So they lost her?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You know where she is, don’t you? Don’t you?’
‘I don’t. I don’t.’
‘Well I’ll fucking find her.’
Laurie turned, face set, folded her arms. Deep lines bracketed her mouth. He had never seen them before. ‘Stephen, stay out of it. You can only do harm.’
Villani looked at the floor, took two measured breaths. ‘Just cop it, will I?’ he said. ‘She tells the welfare pricks these lies about me, I just shrug it off?’
‘Leave it, Stephen.’
He wanted to scream his rage, bang her head against the fridge. He took deep breaths. ‘Where’s Corin?’ he said. ‘She’ll tell you this is crap. She knows her sister. She knows me. She’ll tell you.’
‘She’s gone away for the weekend. I’m not telling her now.’
‘I want Lizzie to say it to my face,’ Villani said. ‘I want her to look me in the eye in the presence of witnesses and say I made her suck me off.’
Laurie said nothing, tried to walk around him, Villani held out his right arm. She stopped.
‘Just say you believe me,’ he said. ‘Just say that.’
‘I don’t know what to believe. She’s my darling baby. What else can I say?’
‘Goodbye, you can say goodbye. You and your fucking slut daughter can both say goodbye to me.’
Laurie pushed back her hair with fingertips, quick, he saw grey at her temples, not seen before either.
‘Can I go?’ she said.
Villani saw how big and ungainly his hand was, he let his arm fall. ‘Say goodbye to me.’
‘Goodbye, Stephen,’ she said. ‘Go away.’
And then he said it.
‘She’s not my kid anyway. Why don’t you send the fucking father out looking for her?’
‘Get out,’ she said. ‘I can believe anything of you.’
DRIVING IN the heat, air-con battling, for a few disoriented moments, he didn’t know where to go, what to do, he went through red lights, long hooting.
The rage went suddenly, now he felt sick, dry-mouthed, an ache in the back of his neck.
How did you handle stuff like this? You couldn’t carry on in the job if your daughter accused you of sexual abuse. Everyone you knew would look at you in a new way. With contempt. You were a sicko, you were a disgusting pervert, you couldn’t be in command, no woman would ever come near you. Anna would draw a shuddering line through his name.
Why would the welfare leak this? If she’d made the allegation, they were obliged to call in the Sexual Crimes Squad. Had they? Called in the SCS and leaked the story to the Age?
He was in Rathdowne Street. He turned left at the park, found a space, sat for a time watching mothers watching their small children socialise in the sandpit. One child force-fed another a handful of sand, the victim didn’t object but its minder snatched it away, inserted a finger in the gritty, gummy mouth.
Two women, sweaty flesh, big legs, toddlers in all-terrain vehicles
, combat pushers. They looked at him, not glances, full-on challenges, women who would ring the police and report a man in a car watching children in a park.
Alleged sex offender watching children in park. Oh, Jesus, this was what Lizzie had done to him, brought him to.
He got out, leant against the car, that was a better look. Not afraid to show his face. What he needed was a smoke.
The newsagent in the next block.
He locked the car without looking, the dull click, walked, turned the corner. He hadn’t walked down Rathdowne Street for a long time, since he and Laurie rented in Station Street. Was the pizza place still going? They’d eaten there at least once a week in the old days, just the two of them, then with baby Corin, then with Corin and the baby boy, Cashin often ate with them. By the time of Lizzie, they didn’t do that kind of thing anymore.
Plead with Laurie to talk sense into Lizzie. Go on your knees and ask her to save you. How could she take the feral little bitch’s word against his?
She could. She had.
He’d lied to her, yes. But she didn’t know all of that. Some lies she knew about, he’d told stupid lies, he’d confessed to some lies. You lied because you didn’t want people to be hurt. Something that was over, what was the point in admitting it? Soon to be over.
He didn’t deserve Laurie, he’d never doubted that. She was a good person, she didn’t know how to lie. He had never considered leaving her, not even after the day he opened her mobile phone bill by accident, he was putting it back in the envelope when he saw the amount: $668.45. How did she do that? He turned to the itemised calls. She made long and expensive ones. Most of them to the same numbers.
He wrote down the numbers. At work, he gave them to an analyst. ‘Run these for me, will you?’
She came back in minutes with a sheet of paper.
David Joliffe, cinematographer, 22/74 St Crispin’s Place, King Street, East Melbourne. Home phone number and mobile.
The pizza place was still there, so was the picture framer who had framed the wedding photograph. Where was that now? He hadn’t seen it in years, probably put on top of a cupboard the day Laurie took off the engagement and wedding rings and went bare-fingered.
That was Clem, the interior designer. She appeared to be happy with the odd screw at her place, then when he said stumps, not in an insensitive way, she took to ringing. Christ knew where she got the number, she left messages for him at home.
That was also the end of Mrs Lauren Villani. She took back her family name.
He walked, smoking, rang Searle. The thing was to be icy calm.
‘Stevo mate. Item’s pulled. For the moment. Had to mortgage the job, sell kids into slavery.’
‘I won’t say it.’
‘No, no, don’t. Divided we are rooted.’
‘Listen,’ said Villani. ‘The paper get this from the welfaries or Sex Crimes?’
‘Never going to tell me that.’
‘But she’s made a statement?’
‘Not sure. Sit tight, I would say. I’ll hear before it goes anywhere, get straight to you.’
‘Good on you.’
‘The worry for us,’ said Searle, ‘is if Moorcroft’s got the drum. The twat’s tight with the welfare lesbo Rotties, he would be their first cab.’
Gary Moorcroft, Anna’s little friend, TV crime reporter, who asked whether they were an item.
Unnaturally curious.
‘Well, see what happens,’ Villani said.
‘Not a wait-and-see man, myself,’ said Searle. ‘Offer a suggestion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ms Markham. You’ve got credit there.’
‘Credit?’
‘Mate, mate, your car’s outside the person’s residence at 4am last count, you’d have credit, wouldn’t you?’
Searle made a laugh-like sound.
Icy calm.
‘I’m surveilled, am I?’ said Villani.
‘Nothing personal, just the building, the street. The prime minister shows up, he’s logged.’
‘Who’s doing that?’
‘Steve, have a word with your friend. She’s got clout, she can snuff the little cunt, she’s done this stuff before.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Been helpful. She’s a pro. She knows about give and take.’ ‘She covers politics. How is she helpful?’
Searle made an impatient noise, he was running this. ‘Mate, now everything’s politics, that’s the way it is. Just ask her. Put it on the line. If she takes your word it’s bullshit, why wouldn’t she do it?’
The years, the things endured, the drudgery, the fear, and now to be patronised, instructed, by this weak dog who knew the job only by the talk of his rotten father and uncles, holders of the slope franchise, said to own much of sea-level Saturn Bay, the working man’s paradise. The only justice was that now, at every king tide, the ice-swollen sea enfiladed the ninety-mile dune, soon it would flow beneath the Searle’s Hardy Plank palaces, float their boats, their barbecues, the place would be returned to the mosquitoes, the feral cats, dune rats, the gulls, all oblivious to the wind, the ceaseless, sad, sawing wind.
‘Get back to you,’ said Villani.
Ask Anna to take his word that he had not molested his daughter? The Anna who implicated him in Koenig’s downfall. Searle had no idea what it would cost him to do that. Things like pride and dignity, the man knew nothing of them.
Anyway, what was the point in buying time? Stand down now.
Bugger that. He hadn’t done anything except be a mediocre father, since when was that a crime? Standing room only in the jails.
Dad, you only sleep here, you pass over this house like a cloud shadow.
Villani looked at his messages.
Clinton Hulme. Max Hendry’s chief of staff.
Stephen. Just to say we’d appreciate an answer today, tomorrow at the latest. Look forward to hearing from you.
Birkerts.
Flashboxed that bit of roadkill you picked up. Unbelievable. It’s the aunty’s phone. Got some texts. We need to talk.
Yes. Yes. Something going right.
Matt Cameron.
For what it’s worth, my advice’s make the change, son. Talk to you later. Expand.
Dove.
Boss, can you come in, we’ve got something.
BLACK-AND-WHITE image, a near-empty city street, car approaching. The digital line said: 0.2.22.
‘La Trobe,’ said Weber. ‘Looking south-west. Flagstaff Gardens to right.’
‘Possibly up Dudley, right into King, left into La Trobe,’ said Dove. ‘Here it is.’
Second car in view, black, closing on first.
‘Honda’s going to run lights, changes his mind,’ said Weber.
Front vehicle brakes hard, twists.
‘Bang,’ said Weber. ‘Beemer’s hit him.’
The driver and passenger of the Honda get out.
‘Beemer front-seat passenger,’ said Dove.
Big man in black, hair pulled back into ponytail.
‘Kenny Hanlon,’ said Villani.
‘Jesus,’ said Dove, looked at Villani.
Hanlon is gesticulating, he is shouting, threatening the driver of the Honda.
‘Behind him, boss,’ said Weber.
A slight figure is out of the BMW, the back door, chalk face, black hair, black dress, bare shoulders, she does not hesitate, she is running, behind her a bus shelter, she is on the pavement.
‘Loses a shoe, kicks the other one off, she’s into the gardens,’ said Dove.
The camera caught the spike-heeled shoe in the air.
Hanlon cuffs the Honda driver, an open-hand swing of his right hand, the Honda passenger is trying to grab Hanlon, the BMW driver is out of the car, mouth open, he is shouting.
‘Got the vision in the gardens,’ said Weber, eyes on the console.
The girl running towards a camera, veering right, no vision.
‘That’s camera six,’ said Weber, ‘middle of park.’ Figure co
ming towards camera, the girl.
‘Camera nine,’ said Weber. ‘Heading for corner of Dudley and William.’
She came into clear focus, wide-eyed, mouth open, breathless.
Lizzie. Oh God.
No, not Lizzie.
‘Checked Peel Street?’ said Villani. ‘Might’ve gone that way. Must be cameras around the Vic Market. Friday morning, they work early.’
Dove said, ‘Three people around there now.’
Villani looked at the men. ‘Good work,’ he said.
The men looked at him, waited.
‘Twins,’ said Dove. ‘She’s the one at Koenig’s.’
‘The appendix scar,’ said Villani. ‘Oh Jesus.’
Silence.
‘Kenny Hanlon,’ Villani said. ‘Now.’
‘ELECTRONIC gates, cameras, motion detectors, steel shutters downstairs,’ said Finucane, the driver. ‘They own all of them and the ones behind. Hellhound compound. Gorillas on guard fulltime.’
‘Beats the old cement factory in Northcote,’ said Villani. He chewed the last of the salad sandwich. He crumpled the bag, put it in the cup-holder, pushed it back into the housing.
Four doors down, a big man in a windbreaker appeared, looked hard at them.
‘Gorilla at work,’ said Finucane. ‘Hellhound apprentice.’
Villani and Dove and Weber got out. The man put his head down and spoke to the sheet-steel gate of the second of four townhouses, two storeys, set well back from a three-metre wall. Upstairs, fake windows looked out at useless balconies.
As they approached, Weber said, ‘Tell Mr Hanlon the police would like to see him. Homicide.’
The man lifted his upper lip. ‘Let’s see ID,’ he said.
Weber showed the badge. ‘That coat. You carrying or just got a dodgy thermostat?’
‘Fuck you too,’ said the man. He spoke into the grille, an inaudible reply. Bolts clicked. He opened the gate, went in first.
An unshaven man in tracksuit pants and a black T-shirt was in the front door. Big, forties, fleshy, face pocked like a sweet melon, dark greasy hair pulled into a tail.
‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Hanlon, recognised Villani. ‘Jeez, Sergeant Villani, you fucken following me around all my fucken life?’
‘Have a talk,’ said Villani.
‘Yeah. About fucken what?’
‘I’ll come back with the Soggies,’ said Villani. ‘Knock your fucking house down and kill you. Accidentally.’
