by Peter Temple
Jim, the fat cook, changed the station on the radio and Paul Keogh came on in full voice:
…these killings, nothing official yet. We throw millions of dollars, that’s millions, throw them at a so-called high-tech, super-sophisticated taskforce, dedicated to stamping out organised crime and what’s to show for the Crucible spending? A few idiots jailed. That’s it. And now this thing’s happened in Oakleigh, which is…
‘Know about this?’ said Dimi, the thinner cook, big hairy hands cupping a mince patty, no gloves.
‘What happened to the gloves?’ said Villani. ‘The food hygiene?’
‘Fuck that shit,’ said Dimi. ‘Start with fucken clean hands, that’s like fucken gloves, no? Anyway, fucken heat kills fucken germs.’
‘I sincerely hope,’ said Villani.
He ate in the car, reading the newspaper, listening to Keogh:
…the latest hideous symptom, it’s a disease, drugs and the tolerance and the rubbish that’s grown up around drugs, the methadone programs, I ask you, we supply these spineless, gutless individuals with a free drug supposed to lessen their dependence, they now clamour for it, demand it as a right, it’s like a superannuation scheme for junkies…
Phone. The secretary, Angela.
‘Boss, first is Mr Colby, he requests a 9.30 meeting. And Deputy Commissioner Barry, he’d like to see you as soon after.’
‘Under starter’s orders,’ said Villani.
…Chief Commissioner David Gillam, the so-called new broom, done nothing except sweep the dirt around and under the carpet. Achieved sweet fanny. All the evidence is that right up to senior levels some of the cavalry have joined the Indians. I’m talking about corruption in my usual roundabout way. And then there is the massive problem of public order. Public safety. The right of law-abiding citizens to go about their business without fear. This city has a very, very serious public order problem, the government, that’s our wonder boy Police Minister Martin Orong, they have done nothing to solve it and so that’s quite rightly a massive issue in this election. Add it to the chaos that is public transport, the gridlock that stops this city twice a day…
Villani studied the hamburger, the cold grey meat, the globs of congealed fat, seam of egg, charred onion strands. He bit into it.
THEY WERE waiting for him in the meeting room, Colby, Dance, Ordonez.
‘Like a Robbers reunion this,’ said Colby. ‘Should be in a pub. So let’s be clear. It’s the fucking Ribarics?’
‘The Ribarics, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Confirmed Ivan wears that earring and Andy’s got the knife scar Ivan gave him when they were kids. Also Andy’s got a hole in his arse the Robbers know about.’
He gestured to Ordonez, head of Armed Crimes.
‘Dates from a payroll job in Somerton in 1997,’ said Ordonez. ‘Security bloke shot him through the right cheek. Six years for that, Andrew, came out in 2002.’
‘The third one,’ said Villani. He took out the camera, found the image, offered the camera to Colby. ‘You might remember this bloke.’
Villani had served in the Armed Robbery Squad under Colby, they went to an in-progress at a bank in Glen Iris, he and Colby and Dance, arrived on the scene late, it ended with Colby jumping onto the bonnet of a moving yellow Commodore, the front-seat passenger stuck his gun out, a Magnum, wrong-handed, fired four shots, took away a big piece of Colby’s right pec, a bit of an ear. Colby crawled onto the roof rack, reached down, got his fingers into the driver’s hair, pulled his head half out the window and banged it against the frame, repeatedly.
Doing around eighty, the Commodore crossed tramlines, clipped an oncoming tradesman’s van, hit a concrete bus shelter, broadsided into a tree, spun into a small park, rolled twice, came to rest beside a sandpit. Children were playing in it, chirping.
When Villani and Dance got there, the driver was dead, the shooter was dying, the third man, Vernon Donald Hudson, was unharmed, whimpering. Colby—skull fracture, broken arm, rib piercing a lung—was on his feet, face a blood mask, right arm hanging like a dead fish. He spat, blood and a tooth, looked down at himself and said, ‘Jesus, a brand-new fucking suit.’
‘Vern,’ said Colby, eyes on the camera screen. ‘Less hair but it’s Huddo. He’s a survivor. Was. Where’s the cunt been?’
‘We haven’t heard of him for a long time,’ said Ordonez. ‘He’s supposed to be in Queensland. Retired.’
‘Retired now,’ said Colby. ‘So what’s this shit about?’
‘Ivan’s an animal,’ said Ordonez. ‘Smack addict and animal. High on our list. We reckon he killed the SecureGuard bloke in Dandenong last October, executed him. Also shot the customer at Westpac at Garden City in March, no reason at all. There’s other bashings, one woman’s got brain damage, can’t speak. We reckon these boys have done seven, eight jobs in the last two years. Maybe eight hundred grand. Dandenong was two hundred but that was lucky.’
‘What a pity we couldn’t cull the boys when we took out the old man,’ said Colby.
The coroner determined that Dance and Vickery fired twelve shots at Matko Ribaric before Vickery hit him in the left eye, no skill, just luck, the slug came off the roof. It was not textbook stuff but then Matko was shooting at them in a shopping mall carpark with a Benelli M4 Super 90 semi-automatic shotgun, the pellets hitting the cars like steel hail.
‘Anyway, this is all helpful and also not helpful,’ said Colby. ‘Who would kill the pricks?’
‘No idea,’ said Ordonez. ‘These boys are just robbers.’
‘I should say here,’ said Villani, ‘that the brothers have been worked over like I haven’t seen since Rai Sarris. Noses, tackle cut off, hair burnt. There is pleasure involved.’
‘Our belief,’ said Ordonez, ‘is that the Ribs have done jobs with one Russell Jansen and one Christopher Wales, both serious hardcases. Jansen is a near-fuckwit but he’s good with cars. Stealing, driving. Wales is another druggy. Everything we know is here.’
Ordonez passed a folder to Villani.
‘The Oakleigh address is in there?’ said Colby.
Ordonez pulled a tight-lipped face. ‘No, boss. We did not have addresses for any of them.’
‘They lived there?’ Colby said to Villani.
‘At least four people lived in the house,’ said Villani. ‘That’s at a glance. Vehicles parked all over the place, that’ll take a bit of working through.’
‘Mr Dance,’ said Colby. ‘Since you command the most expensive operation in the history of the force, you will have much to tell us about these cunts.’
Mr Xavier Benedict Dance smiled, long medieval face, ice-blue cattledog eyes. He had his chair well back from the table, ankle on a knee, buffed Italian shoe, cotton sock. Villani knew Colby had always thought Dance was gun-shy. Once, after a chaotic in-progress cock-up and a chase on foot, Colby stared at Dance and said, ‘You practise running on the spot?’
‘Our intelligence focus is on big players,’ said Dance.
‘Like calling the fucking phone book intelligence,’ said Colby.
‘Crucible’s brief is crime networks,’ said Dance.
‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Read drugs. What’s this look like?’
‘Well, Ivan Ribaric only comes on our radar because he did some muscle for Gabby Simon, that’s a few years ago. But he nearly killed a bloke in the Lord Carnarvon in South Melbourne and that was too extreme for Gabby. In public, that is.’
‘So what’s your non-intelligence-based view?’
Dance held up his hands. ‘Could be alternative dispute resolution involving ten million bucks. Could be argument over parking spot. The fuckers kill each other for anything. Nothing.’
‘And the torture?’
‘Torture is like a Playstation game for arseholes awake for three days on ice. I would say payback. By pricks who hate Vern Hudson a bit less than the Ribbos.’
‘At least you didn’t say gang war,’ said Colby. ‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s get back to what I hear are called our silos. Inspector Vill
ani, a word.’
‘I EXPECT to hear first, son,’ said Colby. ‘From you or whoever. Not from God. Gillam rang me, girl’s fucking hysterical. Then it’s Mr Garry O’Barry, the Irish deviant.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Yeah, well, listen, all the makings of a shit sandwich this. I see no joy, suffering all round.’
‘Very early days.’
‘I’m thinking get rid of it, handball it to Dancer. Crucible.’
‘It’s Homicide business.’
‘Sometimes you worry me,’ said Colby. ‘You don’t see the whole picture.’
‘No?’
‘No. All that Singleton justice-for-the-dead shit. Homicide, little island of fucking Boy Scouts. Get over it. Singo’s gone, he’s microscopic dust floating up there, he’s air pollution. Stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result in an hour and you’re a turd.’
‘We could get lucky.’
Colby sneezed, a detonation, another, another. ‘Fucking smoke’s killing me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll say this. Get lucky or have plans B to D ready.’
‘Do that then, boss.’
‘Stay in touch. Close touch. I want to know.’
‘Boss.’
When Villani was at the door, Colby said, ‘Career-defining moment this could be. They come, you know.’
‘Bear that in mind, boss.’
VILLANI SAT in the outer office, mobile off, eyes closed. Barry was on an important call, said the secretary. Villani didn’t mind, enjoyed the peace.
‘Commissioner Barry’s free, inspector,’ said the secretary, some signal given.
Barry’s desk was side-on to the window, the venetian blinds half closed, the vertical lines of the buildings thinly sliced.
‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Sit. Just got the chief off the line.’ He paused. ‘Tell me.’
Villani became aware of the aches in his forearms, across his shoulders. The mowing, the whole body tensed, the gripping of the throttle bar. ‘Ivan Ribaric and his half-brother,’ he said. ‘Croatians.’
Barry found a tissue, napkin-sized. He blew his nose, eyes bulged. ‘Never had a cold in freezing bloody Ireland,’ he said. He inspected the tissue, crushed it. ‘Now is that Australian of Croatian descent or citizen of Croatia?’
‘The first.’
‘I’ve found there’s a bit of sensitivity around this kind of thing.’
‘It’s a family with a wog name. Like me.’
‘What about me?’ Barry said. ‘Is an Irishman a wog?’
‘Mick is a kind of early wog as I understand it.’
Barry laughed, rolling pub laugh, he had hard bird eyes. ‘Moving on. Knowing the dead’s a step, catching the deaders, that’s the trick.’
‘Steep curve I’m on.’
Mouth too quick, always his failing. Villani looked at the view. He thought he liked Barry more than his predecessor, a useless Pom from Liverpool who left suddenly for a job in Canada.
‘A joke, Stephen,’ said Barry.
Villani nodded, humbly he hoped. He noticed a white substance on the side of his left shoe. Birdshit? Please, God, not something from Oakleigh.
‘This election. Now I’m no expert on local politics but I’m told there could be changes coming, people moving around. That’s likely.’ He stared at Villani. ‘We could work well together, you and me. A team. What’s your feeling?’
‘I think we could, boss.’ Villani had no idea what he meant.
‘Can I advise a bit of an investment in presentation? It’s important. Couple of new suits. Dark grey. Shirts. Light blue, cotton, buy half a dozen. And ties. Red, silk, Jacquard silk. Black shoes, toecaps. Good for morale, shoes, the women know that.’
Villani thought it best to say nothing.
‘Now I haven’t offended?’ said Barry.
‘No, boss.’
‘I’m looking out for you, Stephen.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Good. So Oakleigh, we need a result, that’s the ticket. Your clearance rate overall needs a boost.’
‘Boss.’
The clearance rate was all luck. A decent run of domestics gone sad, pissed fights, gatecrash stabbings, gang bashings, fatal clashes among the homeless and hopeless—easy, you could clear the lot inside a week or two, it looked pretty good, efficient.
‘And the Prosilio woman? What’s happening there?’
‘Making progress in identifying her. A lot of work done. Yes.’
‘Good, good. Keep me posted on anything I should know, won’t you?’ said Barry, raised his hands, made pistols, brought the muzzles together. ‘Directly.’
‘I will, boss.’
‘And I don’t think we need to refer to Prosilio. There’s a degree of sensitivity about that too. With me?’
‘Boss.’
Rising in the building’s intestine, air like dry-cleaning fluid, Villani thought of lying down on a hard bed in a cool, dim room, pulling up his knees and going to sleep. His mobile rang.
‘Tentative conclusions,’ said Moxley. ‘Man near entrance is shot in the head at close range from behind. The other two, multiple stab wounds, genitals severed, other injuries. Also head and pubic hair ignited, shot, muzzle in mouth. Three bullets recovered, 45 calibre.’
‘So you can’t rule out an accident?’ said Villani.
‘Any other questions?’
‘Time. Not a problem on television, the cops get answers,’ said Villani. ‘Up to speed on modern forensics, professor?’
‘No more than twelve hours.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘May I say how much I miss the professionalism of Inspector Singleton?’ said Moxley. ‘Goodbye.’
VILLANI SAT at his desk and the phone rang.
‘Mr Searle, boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘Steve, mate,’ Searle said. ‘Mate, I’d love to be first call on stuff like Oakleigh. Just someone give me a buzz. You know we never sleep.’
‘There’s a long queue for first call,’ said Villani. ‘Why don’t you take it up with my superiors? As I plan to take up the issue of the strange treatment of the Prosilio murder on fucking Crime Stoppers.’
Searle whistled. ‘Steady on, that’s a bit hostile.’
‘As intended,’ said Villani.
‘Right. I’ll move on.’
‘Giving me an explanation or what?’
‘Some misunderstanding, that’s all I can say,’ said Searle. ‘I take it Oakleigh will go to Crucible?’
‘Don’t you know a homicide when you see one?’
‘Okay, okay. Huge story like this, I suggest I embed Cathy Wynn with you. Everything run by you, of course, you’re in total control.’
Singo had hated Searle. ‘Mongrels, every last fucking Searle,’ he said when he heard of Geoff Searle’s appointment. ‘This prick’s the runt of the litter.’
‘Embed?’ said Villani. ‘Emfuckingbed?’
‘I can promise you will be happy with the result. And the process. Absolutely no downside. At all.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Right. That’s fine. Respect your view. Who should we liaise with?’
‘Inspector Kiely.’
Searle coughed.
‘Steve, mate,’ he said, ‘Singleton had it in for me, buggered why. But can we move on? I mean, we’ve both got jobs to do, right?’
‘I’ve got a police job, yes,’ said Villani.
‘Well, managing your profile can’t hurt, can it?’
‘I have no idea what that means,’ said Villani. ‘Nor do I wish to. Call-waiting. Homicide business, murders, that kind of thing. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Appreciate that,’ said Searle. ‘Cathy Wynn is your point of contact.’
Villani thought about his profile being managed. The phone rang.
‘Mr Dance, boss,’ said the switch.
‘Okay. Dancer?’
�
�Comrade,’ said Dance. ‘Bloody Colby’s arsier every time I see him. You’d think I dreamt up bloody Crucible myself. Anyway, just had a word from Simon Chong, our boy genius, he’s run some program the nerds invented.’
‘Yes?’
‘It picks names out of the stuff we pull in. The soup. Our friend Ivan is mentioned. That’s last week, six days ago.’
‘Mentioned how?’
‘One budgie says Ivan’s got something to sell. He coughs. That means precursor. He says he’ll get back but we don’t have that. He didn’t talk on the same line again.’
The other phone rang. Tracy Holmes, the senior analyst.
‘Oakleigh,’ she said. ‘The name is Metallic.’
‘Another stroke of genius. Thank you.’
‘How many people you talking to there?’ said Dance.
‘No more than I have to,’ said Villani. ‘As the bullfighter said, these boys are robbers. What’s with selling cough medicine?’
‘The bullfighter is such a turkey, mate. It’s not like it was. When we were young. Younger. No division of labour any more. Drugs, whores, robbers, it’s all one fucking moshpit.’
Villani thought, a few seconds, he said, ‘So this is likely some drug shit gone bad?’
‘I would say so.’
‘Do anything?’
‘Mate, this shit we hear all the time. It’s like air-traffic control for the whole world here. We passed it on to our drug comrades, whatever they’re called now. Could be Illegal Substances Enjoyment Group.’
‘Who’s talking?’
‘The first one we don’t know,’ said Dance. ‘The second one is Mick Archer, he’s a former Hellhound, been tight with Gabby Simon, club scumbag, that may be why he knows who Ivan is. I mentioned him and the Lord Carnarvon business. But Mick’s also close to many other dangerous arseholes. Only mildly of interest to us.’
‘Didn’t know there was such a thing as a former Hellhound. Thought it was Hellhound or dead.’
‘Mick walked and lived. There may be an explanation.’
‘He’d do this if the Ribbos fucked him over?’
‘Capable of anything. But Mick wasn’t there. Nor his offsider. In Malaysia for sure.’