by Peter Temple
After a while, he pulled up his legs, lay on his back. He fell asleep as if clubbed, slept through the remainder of the night, woke with wet cheeks.
IN THE morning, when Villani was walking around aimlessly, trying not to smoke, Birkerts rang.
‘Downstairs,’ he said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘Thinking breakfast.’
Villani wanted to say no but that would only postpone things. You had to carry on. Bob’s saying: Who speaks of victory? To carry on is all.
Villani asked him who said that. ‘Some German,’ said Bob.
Now Villani said, ‘Just don’t talk about it.’
They went to Enzio’s. It was too early for the locals, only the clean-living and the unclean-living survivors of the night were out.
‘Listen,’ said Birkerts. ‘I was thinking about Geelong yesterday and I thought about Cameron’s son. After that Noske killed himself, what happened then?’
‘There wasn’t anywhere left to go,’ said Villani. ‘Noske was it. Never going to trial, mark you. Not unless he sung. Also I suppose when Cameron quit and then Deke Murray quit, there wasn’t a driver, other things came along.’
‘The idea was Noske by himself?’
‘Mad loner, nobody would have helped him.’
Some questions about that cold night in the valley were never answered. The overturned furniture, the broken crockery, the arterial gushes, the cast-off bloodstains from the weapon, the impact splatters, the bloody shoeprints, they all suggested Dave Cameron trying to fight back against one person hacking at him with a big knife or a sword. Then he was shot in the body twice with an unknown weapon and three times in the head with his own service weapon.
But what was Cameron’s girlfriend doing while this was happening? Nothing said she had been bound before being shot in the head, three times, with Dave’s weapon. But it was possible she had been: she had just come from the cycle track, she was a champion cyclist, she was in full lycra. It would stop her being marked.
‘So the Ribs were in Geelong and you thought…’
‘I have these brain episodes,’ said Villani. He was eating mechanically. He needed food, he didn’t want it.
‘Pardon, absolution and remission of sins,’ said Birkerts. ‘I like the principle. Now that is clout. That is having the grip.’
The fork was almost at Villani’s mouth.
Colby’s story that Friday night long ago in the Robbers’ offices, the beers out, air grey with smoke. About two Broady boys brought in years before, brothers, Coogan, Cooley, some such. They had done a drive-in bottleshop in Johnson Street, waited until a kid, a student, was pulling down the door, gone in under it like crocodiles, bashed the two workers, homemade knuckledusters, opened their faces, broke noses, cheekbones, kicked the one senseless.
Now, in the spartan Robbers’ quarters, the brothers had their turn to know terror. After a while, Colby said, the older one, thinking he was going to die there, expressed a willingness to confess.
He gets them to kneel and say we’re so fucking sorry. And then he says, relax boys. May the almighty and merciful God grant you pardon, absolution and remission of your sins. And they look a bit relieved. Then he says, because almighty God might forgive you. But not me, boys. I’m going to kill you, you miserable little arseholes.
Villani remembered the laughing, they were mostly proddies, the Robbers was a proddy stronghold. Kneeler Robbers had to be special men, they needed hard shells, they had to give it back in spades.
‘Father Donald,’ said Colby. ‘He made them call him Father Donald.’
Received 02.49: WHAT?
Sent 02.50: SOON.
Received 03.01: ?????
Sent 03.04: GOING IN.
Sent 03.22: OTU BANZAI OK
No. It wasn’t ‘OK’.
Villani chewed, tasting nothing.
‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Ring in and get an address.’ He wrote down the name.
Birkerts did it, blank eyes on Villani. Villani read them: what kind of father goes back to work six hours after he finds his daughter dead?
They ate. Birkerts took out his mobile, listened.
‘Tell the inspector,’ he said, gave Villani the phone.
‘Boss, we have Yarraville, that’s 12 Enright Lane.’
Pause.
‘Looking at it, boss…brick, two-storey, industrial, no sign… across the road…Speed Glass. Good business, no shortage of glass breakers. Next door. B & L Shopfitting, less good. From above…a back yard, brick-paved I’d say, pot plants, table chairs, someone lives there, high walls, not easy getting in that way, boss.’
Villani said, ‘Martin Loneregan, SOG boss. At home, anywhere. Get him to ring this phone.’
He gave the phone back to Birkerts. ‘Take a little trip to Yarraville in a while,’ he said.
‘Yarraville,’ said Birkerts. ‘Bought there in the nineties, you’re now in Noosa, on the private jetty, toes in the river, you’re laughing.’
‘So grateful for the real-estate perspective,’ said Villani.
They ate, Villani signalled, the coffees came.
‘You known here already?’ said Birkerts.
‘Second visit. They pay attention.’
Birkerts found his mobile. ‘Birkerts. He’s right here.’ To Villani, he said, ‘Inspector Loneregan.’
Villani said, ‘Mate, need a bit of force in a hurry. Yarraville. Not the full catastrophe.’
‘Sometimes not the full catastrophe is the full catastrophe,’ said Loneregan.
‘One man. Not young.’
‘Amazing what shit one man not young can create.’
‘Point taken,’ said Villani. He told Loneregan who it was.
‘My Lord,’ said Loneregan. ‘Sure you want to do it this way?’
‘I’m sure.’
He saw the Ribarics in the big empty shed, just hanging blood-caked meat, sliced and severed and stuck and burnt.
‘I’ll need an hour,’ said Loneregan. ‘Got a bit on.’
THEY PARKED beyond Enright Lane and sat in silence for a time, heavy traffic passing, a distant backfire.
‘Sure about this?’ said Birkerts.
‘I reckon,’ said Villani. He was regretting the Sons of God. It didn’t matter what the man had done, there was respect due.
It was wrong.
‘I’m going in,’ he said.
Birkerts grabbed his jacket sleeve. ‘Steve, Steve, for fuck’s sake, don’t be, I’m not letting…’
‘Wait here, detective,’ said Villani.
‘Well, I’m not…’
‘You can spell order? The word? Sit. I’ll ring.’
Villani got out and walked under the shivering sky, down the ugly little street, the shuttered doors, the windows barred, the industrial waste bins, the litter of takeaway food. The smell was of tar and chemicals.
He stood before the steel entry to number 12. Sweat stuck his shirt to his chest. He pulled at it.
A button. A bell. He pressed and he heard it ring inside the building, far away. The third time he rang, a voice from the speaker beside the door said, ‘Inspector Villani.’
‘Got a camera, boss?’ said Villani.
‘State of the art, son.’
‘Come in?’
‘About what? Not social, I reckon.’
Villani felt the gaze. He turned and saw Birkerts at the head of the lane. A wind had come up, it was moving his hair. Across the distance, their eyes met. Birkerts shook his head like a father.
‘Think you know, boss,’ said Villani.
‘On your own then, Stephen?’
Far away, the roar and keen and whine of the trucks as they rose up the sweeping curve of the great bridge, their sounds as they fell.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s not very clever.’
‘Can’t say yet, sir.’
Locks clicked.
‘Stairs on the right.’
It had been a workshop, a Land Cruiser stood in t
he middle, doors to the right and back, a steel staircase up the right-hand wall. He climbed them, another steel door.
After all the years. All the years of fighting fear, all the years he could remember, all the years of trying to be a man.
This man would kill him.
Villani opened the door.
A huge room, bare floorboards, bare brick walls, a kitchen at one end, a desk, two chairs, a wall of books, sound equipment, a television.
A dog lay on a rug. Fully extended. A German Shepherd. It did not stir.
‘Heard you were coming. Sit.’
Villani crossed the space and sat in a chair in front of the desk. He did not know what to do with his hands. ‘How’s that, boss?’ he said.
‘Small world. Come for me?’
The long neck, the crisp curls, the hard sardonic mouth, Villani remembered them.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Sure you’re by yourself?’
‘As you see me.’
‘Well, that’s pretty contemptuous, isn’t it? You could at least have brought the warriors. Even if it wasn’t the full catastrophe.’
‘They had another job on,’ said Villani. ‘Might come on afterwards.’
A laugh, genuine laugh, amused, shaking his head. ‘Armed, son?’ he said. ‘At least say you’re armed? Give me that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not going to be much fucking use sitting down.’
‘No, boss.’
‘I’m proud of you, then. Stupid prick. What?’ Villani held his eyes. ‘Ribarics. The offsider.’
‘Guilty.’
Murray’s hands came up, a short sawn shotgun came up from under the desktop, it pointed at Villani’s chest, at his throat.
Lowered.
‘Primitive weapon,’ said Murray. ‘All show except close up.’
‘Kidd and Larter?’
‘Psychos,’ said Murray. ‘Hard to say which one you’d extinguish first. Probably Larter. International killer. Kill his mother, anything.’
Murray looking around the room, looking at Villani.
‘Undesirables,’ he said. ‘But useful. Useful idiots.’
‘The car,’ said Villani. ‘Who did that?’
Murray looked up, waved, a big hand.
‘Don’t worry about it, son,’ he said. ‘Let it lie. Saved the taxpayer millions, keeping the pricks in maximum security for life.’
‘Why?’ said Villani.
‘Why?’
‘The Ribarics.’
‘You know. That’s why you’re here.’
‘I’d like you to tell me, boss.’
‘There’s a video in the machine, that’ll tell you. How’d you get to me?’
‘The old lady’s confession. Father Donald. I remembered a story from the Robbers, the old days.’
Murray’s mouth turned down, he nodded as if agreeing with something. ‘And you’re not stupid,’ he said.
‘You do that?’ said Villani. ‘The torture?’
‘No,’ said Murray. ‘I wanted to. That was the point. But in the end I couldn’t. Kidd and Larter. Larter mostly.’
Villani said, ‘All this for Matt?’
The winter eyes on him. Was that moisture?
Murray raised the shotgun barrel, pointed, extended his arm until he could pull the trigger and take off Villani’s head.
What a stupid way to die.
‘No,’ said Murray. ‘Not for Matt. For myself. Scare you, this shotty?’
‘No,’ said Villani. ‘Go ahead.’
‘That’s not natural.’ Murray sighed. ‘You’re a good cop, son.’
‘Better things to be good at.’
‘You never find that out till it’s too late,’ said Murray. ‘Cheers.’
He brought the barrel back, put it under his chin, pulled the trigger.
The blast disintegrated his face, a red mist.
Villani sat, hands in lap, chin on chest, waited.
Inside a minute, the rammer hit the doors downstairs.
The Sons of God.
He went to the door, walked around the dog, which lay at peace. One bullet for the dog, one for himself.
Villani opened the door and shouted. Then he went to the bookshelf, drawn to it, to the four photographs in silver frames.
The Camerons. Mother, father, the small boy was in Matt Cameron’s arms.
The Camerons. Lying on a beach, she was in a bikini, lovely, the boy, older now, lying between them.
Donald Keith Murray and Matt Cameron. Walking towards the camera. Tall, lean men, long muscles, flat pectorals, holding the boy Dave’s hands. He was off the ground, his little face pure joy.
Three men in uniform posing. Graduation day. The boy, a man now, standing between Deke Murray and Matt Cameron. Even height, three handsome men.
‘Jesus,’ said Loneregan from the door. ‘Jesus, that was fucking silly.’
Birkerts came up beside Villani, studied the photograph.
‘Strong family resemblance,’ he said.
‘Between?’
Birkerts pointed.
‘No,’ Villani said. ‘That’s not Matt. That’s Deke.’
Dave Cameron wasn’t Matt Cameron’s son. He was Deke Murray’s son, Father Donald’s son.
No, Oakleigh was not a run-through, not crims ripping off and killing other crims. It was a terrible revenge for the murder of a son and the woman bearing someone’s grandson.
Deke Muray, Matt Cameron’s brother in arms. His great friend. Matt Cameron knew who had fathered the boy he called his son.
‘Video in this machine,’ said Birkerts.
‘I know,’ said Villani. ‘Play it.’
Birkerts pressed buttons. The screen flickered, jumped.
Hand-held camera, all over the place, a room, unmade bed, cans, bottles, plates.
Face close up, unshaven, big teeth.
The young Ivan Ribaric, shirtless, Jim Beam bottle in his left hand, he staggered, slack-jawed, drunk, off his face.
A policeman’s cap on his head, the back of his head. He pulled it over his eyes, drank from the bottle.
He raised his right hand, he had a pistol, he pointed it at the cameraman, his mouth made bang noises.
‘Service pistol,’ said Loneregan.
Dave Cameron’s cap.
Dave Cameron’s gun.
Ivan Ribaric turned his back to the camera, put the bottle and the pistol on a dressing-table. He picked up something, turned.
He had a short sword in both hands, a cutlass. He made martial-arts movements, slashing movements, hacking movements. Hacking Dave Cameron.
Ivan Ribaric laughing.
…he said she’d be at God’s right hand for telling Father Cusack about the evil.
‘Off,’ said Villani. ‘Put it off.’
Outside, Loneregan said, ‘Listen, I heard about your girl. What can I say? Strength, mate.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And thanks about my dad.’
Deke Muray was in his mind, it took a moment for Villani to focus. ‘Bob speaks highly of him,’ he said. ‘Brave man who loved his little boy.’
‘Means a lot to me that. Your dad saying that.’
IN THE car, going over the Westgate, how long it seemed since the call to Prosilio.
Villani’s phone rang.
‘Dove, boss. Boss, sorry, I don’t want to…’
‘Speak.’
‘Boss, just leaving a house in Niddrie. With Tomasic. I got this bloke Maggie in Mallacoota. Talked to him, got the name of the bloke who fetched the girl from the market. The Romanian?’
‘I’m with you.’
‘Tommo’s been talking Romanian to them. Took a while to convince them we hadn’t come to kill her.’
Nothing for so long and then everything at once.
‘She’s there?’ said Villani.
‘No, boss. She’s out Heathcote way. She’s been staying with the bloke’s daughter. But she’s going home today. Flight from Tulla in two hours. Austrian
Airlines. To Vienna.’
‘Who’s taking her?’
‘The bloke’s son-in-law and his brother.’
‘Niddrie,’ said Villani. ‘On your bike. Tulla. Meet you in Depot Drive. That’s between Centre and Service. Under the trees, facing west. We want to pick her up without fuss.’
To Birkerts, he said, ‘Tullamarine. The Prosilio girl.’
All the way, he thought about Lizzie.
In the seconds when he decided he would not fetch her, he killed her. When he committed her to the cells, he killed her.
THEY DROVE up Departure Drive, Villani and Birkerts in front, parked beyond international departures. Two security men arrived in seconds.
Villani showed them the badge. ‘Inspector Villani, Homicide.’
The guards left.
‘Tell Tommo to check the departure time,’ said Villani. ‘Get Dove here.’
Birkerts got out, went back and spoke to Dove and Tomasic. Tomasic got out, adjusted his clothing, and walked down the broad pavement.
Dove and Birkerts got in. Dove in the back.
‘They’ll drive up and drop her or what?’ said Villani.
‘Don’t know,’ said Dove. ‘I’d say they’ll park and come with her. She’s got no English, she’s scared.’
Villani thought about what to do. It didn’t matter much how they arrived.
‘What we’ll do is,’ he said, ‘Birk, you and Tommo wait inside the first door. We’ll be inside the second one. Warn these security dorks. Tell them to stay out of sight.’
‘Boss,’ said Birkerts.
‘She arrives alone or with the brothers, the door she comes in, we intercept her just inside,’ said Villani. ‘All badges out, we don’t want to scare her, anyone. Say police as caringly as possible. Like a blessing.’
‘Jeez, that’s a big ask,’ said Birkerts.
They got out, immediate sweat, Tomasic was coming out of the building. ‘Leaves one-thirty,’ he said. ‘She’s got to check in inside the next forty minutes.’
‘Follow me, son,’ said Birkerts.
The departure hall was cool, crowded, long lines, two big groups of Japanese men, lean women in sports gear, a hockey team perhaps.
Villani was looking through the glass wall in the direction of the open-air parking lot, they would come from there if she was escorted by the brothers. He had the fear, the tightness in the solar plexus. This was happening too quickly, they should be here in numbers. They shouldn’t be here at all. The Sons should be here.
