by Peter Temple
‘How’d you get this?’
‘The ether.’
‘Well thanks, ether. What the fuck do I do with it?’
‘We pass on intelligence.’
‘The phone book.’
‘Hurtful,’ said Dance. ‘You don’t want to join the Colby gang. Like joining the Kellys. They are few. We are many.’
‘Meaning?’
Silence.
‘Steve, wake up. Collo’s the last of the big land animals.’
‘Brood on that. So much to brood on. You can buy me a drink when you’ve got a moment off television.’
‘And fuck you too,’ said Dancer. ‘Our genius has sent you the audio.’
GAVAN KIELY in the door, putty slab of face.
‘Welcome,’ said Villani. ‘Chance to do a haka over there?’
‘Two things,’ said Kiely, rat teeth showing. ‘I’ve had Cathy Wynn from media. They’re keen for forward planning on Metallic.’
Villani said, ‘Tell her we’re still planning backwards. We’ll let them know how it works out.’
Kiely found a focus above Villani’s head. ‘Also, I think I should be playing a more upfront role,’ he said. ‘As the number two.’
‘Never a good number, two. Upfront how?’
‘Well, representing the squad.’
‘You want to be the spokesman?’
‘Rather than lower ranks, yes.’
‘It’s horses for courses,’ said Villani.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The practice has been to let squad leaders speak. Birk’ll keep you briefed.’
‘Actually, I don’t expect to be briefed by juniors,’ said Kiely.
Villani gave him the stare, let the time pass. Kiely couldn’t bear it.
‘Here’s an offer,’ said Villani. ‘You don’t get hissy and I promise to be more inclusive. Is that the word?’
Kiely went from pink to something deeper.
The clock above the door: 11.40. ‘That said, let’s see if we can find the Ribs’ mates Wales and Jansen.’
A HELICOPTER, glass buildings, silent explosions, people fleeing some unseen terror, a black-haired woman with a feline air said:
…homicide police were today called to the scene of a triple murder, three men found dead in a shed behind a house in Oakleigh in the city’s south-east…
Helicopter vision, the red-tiled roof, at odds with the huge tin factories, workshops and warehouses surrounding it, the street full of vehicles, the workers and media along the side fence. Villani saw the clump of Homicide cops, thought he saw himself. Then ground-level footage of the yard and the shed. He was walking towards the door.
…a security patrol discovered the grisly scene just before 6am today. Homicide detectives and forensic experts are still at the premises. The people who live in the house have only been glimpsed say workers at the electrical equipment factory next door…
Then it was Birkerts, the long, pale Scandinavian face.
…we don’t have any identification at this time but we hope to establish all identities shortly.
Can you tell us how they died?
All shot.
Can you confirm they were tortured?
The experts will tell us about injuries and cause of deaths. In due course.
Is this drug-related?
We can’t rule out anything at this stage…
Next: wind-shift reprieve for Morpeth and Stanton, protests over train delays, a new political poll had Labor in trouble, four hurt in a crane accident in the city, a dog saved from a drain, a Jack Russell. It appeared to want to go back.
Villani pressed mute, dropped his chin. Why would anyone want the job? Trapped in a dream that shifted from one ugly scene to another, all seen through a veil of tiredness. The full stupidity of his life overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was looking at the cardboard box in the corner, Singleton’s trophies and photographs, waiting to go somewhere. The silver boxer stuck out, crouching, throwing a left.
He saw it on his first day in the Homicide office, fresh from Armed Robbery, carrying a gruesome farewell-party hangover, keen to start anew, save his marriage.
‘Should’ve got that Dance decision,’ said Singleton.
‘He caught me a few good ones,’ said Villani. ‘Boss.’
‘Caught him a few more. Anyway, new life’s begun. No more bash and crash. What’s your wife say about this?’
‘She’ll cope, boss.’
Laurie was just about done with coping by then. Laurie had her own life, share of a business.
‘My condolences to her,’ said Singleton. ‘Kiddies, I see.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘They just lost their dad.’
Homicide ate you, your family got the tooth-scarred bone. Singo told them not to obsess but he judged them by how much they obsessed, how little time they spent at home. No one survived who didn’t pass the HCF test: Homicide Comes First.
Villani thought, I’m another Singleton, have to know everything, don’t trust anyone to do the job properly, interfere, try to manage everything.
Unlearn Singo. The man should have died in a jail and not a nursing home.
But the truth was that, once you got used to it, working for Singo was comforting. He was hard on people, handed out cold, vicious reprimands, blood on the floor. But he looked out for you, never stole your credit, covered for you, even covered terrible shit like Shane Diab, dead because he thought Joe Cashin was the second coming, would have followed him down a snake hole.
Villani looked at nothing. Singo and his father. The same hardness, the air of bad things seen, of the right to sit in judgment on lesser, weaker people.
Phone. Birkerts. Villani said, ‘Had no time to miss you.’
‘On our way back,’ said Birkerts. ‘Been to three old addresses for Jansen, two for Wales, one is so old, the house’s history, four units on the site. Tomasic tells me they’ve done the first sweep at Oakleigh. He’s sent for an MD and the X-ray.’
Villani could see Dove at his desk, stretching. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, looked around, blinking. Tired, thought Villani, he’s tired. What right does he have to be tired?
‘Coffee,’ Villani said to Birkerts. ‘Pick me up. I’m not functioning.’
He put the plug in his ear, found the place on the player.
…listen, I’ve had a bloke, he’s offering.
Coughing.
Y’know?
Yeah? Source?
My understanding is accidental discovery, like.
Quantity?
Back up the truck, he says.
Oh yeah? What kind of bloke is this?
You know him. Ivan Ribaric. Bad. Very bad.
No, mate, the word’s not bad, the word is fucking lunatic, don’t want to go there. No.
No argument, the cunt’s mad but this is, this looks okay, it’s just something, y’know, get rid of quick, make a buck. Yeah.
He’s up for something? Jack trading?
No, no, no. What Jack’s going to trade with the Ribarics, mate? Jesus.
Yeah, well I’m not ruling it out, basically, we’d be…you’ve got to be fucking sure. I’d say you be sure of, ah, quality, then we talk. There’s cunts, I mean you do business, you have to kill them.
Okay. Get back to you.
Make it soon. Got a, ah, trip coming up. Holiday.
That’s nice. Soon, mate, soon…
THEY PARKED as close as they could and walked under an open sky, hot smoky afternoon wind, sweating, seeing the sweat on the faces coming at them, moving to the pavement’s edge to skirt a loose pack of tourists, bright garments, bodies all going south, Americans. A fat man fanning himself with a straw hat said, ‘Dart painting? How in hell they do that?’
They ordered, sat at a table in the back corner. Villani said, ‘Need some luck with this shit, fucking Orong’ll be on us next.’
Birkerts said, ‘Pretty basic brief from the Robbers. N
ot giving much away. How keen are they?’
‘I would say not very.’
‘And Crucible?’
Villani took the tiny player and the earphone out of his top pocket, gave it to Birkerts. ‘Listen,’ he said.
Birkerts plugged in, held the device below the table rim, eyes on it.
Villani flicked the room, stopped at a woman looking at him over a man’s shoulder. Straight black hair, grey eyes, clever eyes. He liked clever, he liked grey, Laurie’s eyes. The first time Laurie looked at him with her grey eyes, he knew she was clever. Clever had always been the sexiest thing. Looks he had never cared much about. Looks were a bonus.
Birkerts unplugged, handed back the player. ‘Cut and dried then,’ he said. ‘Who are these people?’
Villani told him they had half the story. ‘Archer’s got a pretty good out. In Malaysia with his offsider.’
The coffee came. Villani put sugar on the crema, watched it sink, change colour. ‘What shows out there?’ he said.
‘Three possible cameras in the vicinity. Tommo’s looking now, don’t hold your breath, nothing points the right way. Got the ID stash, there’s licences, Medicare, credit cards, you name it. Plastic bag in the freezer, who’d think of looking there? No weapons so far. Half a million prints in the house. There’s traces of a woman.’
‘What traces?’
‘Lipstick on cigarette butts in the sitting room.’
‘Two women,’ said Villani. ‘Different scents in the bedrooms.’
Birkerts raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Phones?’
‘Not a one, should have said that.’
Birkerts touched his chest, felt for his mobile, went outside.
Villani tasted the coffee, passable, some ashy sweetness. The place was unreliable, baristas came and went, sacked, poached, some did a geographical, moved to the country in the childish hope that a change of scene, the clean air, would help them kick their drug habits. He looked up and met the eyes of the woman, a second, he looked away. Once he had exchanged looks with a handsome, sharp-faced woman here, that was in the days of big shoulders. Her name proved to be Clem, an interior designer, the man on the till gave him her business card when he was paying.
‘She said to give it to you,’ he said.
Birkerts came back, spoke behind fingers. ‘Three vehicles in the street registered to the Ribbos’ dud names. Also two stolens, can’t be stupid enough to park a stolen car in your own street.’
‘You’re not dealing with criminal masterminds here,’ said Villani. ‘You’re dealing with fuckheads. We’ll probably read the full story by Tony fucking Ruskin in the Age tomorrow, he’ll give us all the details, we look like complete twats once again.’
His mobile pulsed. He wasn’t going outside, it was too hot out there.
‘Interrupting anything?’ Cashin.
‘Got a cold?’ said Villani. ‘Like a man with tampons up his nose.’
‘Clearing my throat, first words of the day,’ said Cashin.
‘Of course. Mostly use sign language down there on the blue-balls coast. The two fingers, the kick, the fist. How’s the weather?’
‘We have wind today,’ said Cashin. ‘We have a great deal of wind.’
‘And still the place sustains life. Forms of life. Amazing.’
‘I saw Birk on television. What’s this torture stuff?’
‘Two blokes tied to pillars. Noses gone, teeth smashed, tackle cut off, hair burnt. Also stabbed and shot.’
Silence. ‘Sarris,’ said Cashin.
‘In the style of Sarris, yeah.’
‘It’s him.’
‘Plenty of torturers around, mate. But I’ll send what we’ve got. Might spark something in a fucking obsessive like you. Semi-retired obsessive.’
‘Fax it home if it’s after six.’
‘Be dark down there by then. Keeping warm? Is it true you should never wash your woollen longjohns? Loses the body oils?’
‘It’s summer here,’ said Cashin. ‘We are wearing shortjohns.’
‘I thought you went spring-autumn direct? Well, give the dogs a few kicks for me. Little kicks. Affectionate kicks.’
‘I was thinking about Bob just now. The heat’s getting close.’
‘He says he hasn’t noticed anything unusual,’ said Villani.
‘That’d be right. How’s Dove travelling?’
The grey-eyed woman was still looking at him. Villani gave her the measured blink, he could not stop himself, always the teenager panting for his first screw. Ashamed, he looked away.
‘Made a full recovery,’ he said. ‘Gives cheek. Wants to see my medical records. Check if I’m fit to work. So you’re now the only cripple on staff.’
‘I’m not on staff, Steve.’
‘Son,’ said Villani, ‘you’re on staff till I say you’re not. Currently on loan to police the sheepshaggers. Talk soon.’
Birkerts said, ‘Cashin?’
Villani nodded.
‘Tragic,’ said Birkerts. ‘Sarris is dead or he’s on his arsebone in the Bekaa Valley, snorting Cloud Nine. Rai didn’t invent torture. A bloke in Brissie, he’s a nothing, subsistence dealer, they flog him with barbwire and then they put him on a massive gas barbie. The Supreme Ozzie Partymaster, six turbo wok burners.’
‘Less Queensland information, please,’ said Villani. ‘Brief Kiely, will you? He’s unhappy. Feels neglected.’
On the way out, he avoided looking at the woman. What was the point?
Near the car, his phone rang. Barry.
‘Listen, boyo, I should have said when we were chatting earlier, there’s a little function this evening. I want you to take a break, hour or so, show yourself in public. Good for you.’
‘Not the best time, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Bit on, yeah.’
Silence. ‘Well, you make your own luck in this life, don’t you, inspector?’ said Barry. ‘And a good commander knows when to delegate. I’ll say no more.’
Villani sidestepped two teenagers, a skinny ginger, a bow-legged fat wearing sunnies, neither walking straight, the skinny was moving his hands as if winding something, like wool.
‘But I’ll be there, boss,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Where is that?’
‘Persius. The Hawksmoor Gallery. Six-thirtyish. They’ll have your name.’
‘Right.’
‘Good. Buck’s can probably fix you up with a suit that fits. Respectable tie, et cetera.’
‘I’ll try them,’ said Villani.
DOVE AND Weber in the doorway. Villani nodded, they entered. Dove sat on a filing cabinet, Weber stood like a soldier.
‘Go,’ said Villani.
‘First,’ said Dove, ‘this Alibani on the Hume, he flew to Greece two years ago, no re-entry. Dead end there.’
‘Unsurprising,’ said Villani. ‘Pinched ID. Well, could be family, the thickheads stick close to home. Get the Alibanis unto the thirteenth cousins, the fucking lot, every name.’
Dove, looking at the back of his left hand, he tickled the skin, he said, ‘Done that, asked for the names.’
‘Don’t make me wait to hear what you’ve done, detective,’ said Villani. ‘Whatever the practice was in the feds.’
A cough, Weber had his notebook open. ‘Boss, the company that owns the Prosilio apartment? Shollonel, registered in Beirut?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Marscay says it’s not obliged to disclose details.’
‘I’ve had it with Marscay,’ said Villani. ‘Okay, let’s be clear. A woman comes into this palace, we don’t know how. Unless she’s got a card, she can’t get to the floor, she can’t get into the apartment. She does, she dies there, maybe it’s accidental, heavy sex. But the place is wiped, her clothes, everything she had, they’re disposed of. Killer or killers leave. No CC vision, no one in the building sees a fucking thing. As for ID, three days, not a clue except a possible sighting on the Hume, probably crap.’
‘That’s about it,’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’
‘Jesus, we are looking pathetic,’ said Villani.
‘Not a good look,’ said Dove, the rictus smile.
Villani thought about how unsuited Dove was, he should be in some desk job, trading shares on a screen, that would suit him, you couldn’t resent the screen, it didn’t give a shit about your life, your history, your colour, your complexes, the size of your dick.
‘Mr Dove,’ he said, ‘in shorthand, I’m saying I want some progress. Know shorthand?’
‘Is that a disability?’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’
An officer shot in the line of duty. On the cold tiles, a small hole in his front, a fist-sized hole in his back, serious damage inside, the blood flowed, made a pool. And then, just before the curtain fell, it stopped flowing, it clotted.
In the main, cops hurt this badly you never saw again unless you went to visit them in retirement, bloated, semi-drunk, on antidepressants, sleeping pills, wake-up pills, they often took to smoking dope, they had the stupefied look, the wife always angry, shouting at them, at someone on the phone, the fat little dog on the chair, farting.
Eleven weeks, Dove came back to work.
‘I want you to shake Manton and Ulyatt, fucking Marscay,’ said Villani. ‘All details or we guarantee media about non-existent security in millionaires’ building, residents gripped by fear. That kind of shit.’
‘I’m authorised to make that threat?’ Dove said.
‘What threat?’
He remembered the call at Bob’s. ‘What’s the security company called?’
‘Stilicho.’
‘Is that Max Hendry’s son running it?’
‘Yes, Hugh,’ said Dove. ‘I forgot to say. Blackwatch owns half.’
‘What’s Blackwatch want with another security company?’
‘Stilicho’s bought this Israeli technology, puts it all together—secure entry, the ID stuff, iris scanning, fingerprints, facial recognition, suspicious behaviour, body language, all the casino cameras. We’re talking hundreds of inputs. Cameras, ID entries, door contacts, smartcard readers, all kinds of electronic stuff. They say it’s a first. Stilicho’s even trying to get access to the crimes database, photos and photofits, prints, records, the lot.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, preemptive strike. Your face’s in the base, you show up somewhere Stilicho’s doing the security, that’s just come in the door, get into a lift, walk down a corridor, you’re on camera. The technology recognises you, red light goes on somewhere, you are stopped, tracked, barred, whatever. Shot.’