by Peter Temple
Then he went to Tracy’s desk, stood behind her. She was looking at her monitor, wrists up, hands dangling over her keyboard. She had long fingers. He had never noticed her fingers. She looked at him, the light caught the down on her upper lip.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Running him through the lot?’
‘Of course. Inspector.’
Villani went back, eyed the big room—the hung-up jackets, desks lost beneath files, boxes, stacked in-trays, mugs standing on walls of folders, cropped domes facing monitors. As if from a grave, a hand came up and drew down a speckled mug.
Ten years, how many hours here, sixteen-hour days? Would your daughter be on the streets with scum if you’d lived some other life, ordinary civilian kind of life? Home around six, check the homework, watch the news, join in the cooking, eat together, talk about things, what’s happening at school. Next weekend, get your backsides out of bed, I’ll teach you to ride a board, taught by an expert, now an expert will pass it on to you.
He became aware of eyes on him, aware of the dead air, of the humming, of a running-water sound—perhaps a failed lavatory cistern seal, a ruptured air-conditioner, fire sprinklers soaking empty offices above them.
He went back and rang Kiely.
‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘prepare to bring down the full weight of the surveillance state on this Kidd—family, friends, dogs, the lot.’
‘Inspector.’
‘But with delicacy. The prick gets a sniff…’
‘I’ve run this sort of thing before.’
‘In New Zealand,’ said Villani. ‘We’re not talking mystery sheep killings here.’ Too far—much too far, regret. ‘A bad joke. No more sheep jokes. I promise.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Kiely. ‘Runs off you. You know it’s only shitheads keep making them.’
‘Wow,’ said Villani. ‘That’s a throat punch. Take out a big woolly ram with that punch.’
He called Barry.
‘WE THINK we’ve got a vehicle at Oakleigh, boss.’
Barry said, ‘Boyo, tell me it’s much more than you think.’
‘We got the last two digits of a white Prado’s number off a security camera. We have a white Prado match on the tollway forty minutes on. The timing is right.’
‘And you have the owner’s name?’
‘Yes, sir. Doesn’t mean he’s the driver.’
Barry spoke to someone in the room with him. Villani couldn’t hear what he said.
‘What’s his name?’ said Barry.
‘Kidd. James Heath Kidd.’
‘James Heath Kidd. Now that’s promising,’ said Barry. ‘Told Mr Colby?’
‘About to, boss.’
‘Why don’t you wait a few minutes, Stephen? Ten. That’s a good wait.’
‘We may need a Section 27 from him in minutes. Emergency authorisation.’
‘Right. Do that then.’ Barry made a gargling sound. ‘You’ll be taking proper care here, Stephen? To avoid stuffing this thing up.’
‘My word, boss.’
‘But you won’t be taking too long?’
The call-waiting light.
‘Not a second longer than it takes to avoid a stuff-up,’ said Villani. ‘Boss.’
‘Good man.’
The waiting call.
Corin.
‘Dad, this cop rang. I told her everything. I think I should call Mum. She’s never going to forgive us…’
‘Ring her,’ said Villani. ‘She doesn’t return my calls. Tried Lizzie’s mobile?’
‘Yes. Every ten minutes. Off. What about you?’
‘Same. You home tonight?’
‘I’m having dinner with Gareth and his father. At Epigram.’
Gareth. Someone he should know. Someone who had a father, not a dad, a parent taken seriously, who took you to dinner at expensive restaurants.
‘Gareth is?’
‘I’ve told you. His father’s Graham Campbell. Campbell Connaught Bryan?’
His daughter dining with a super-rich corporate lawyer and his son.
‘Ah, that Gareth,’ he said. ‘Listen, you telling me Lizzie’s on drugs?’
‘Jesus, Dad, you a cop or what?’
‘I’d be happier as a what. Just tell me.’ He had set his mind against it.
‘Well, on, what does on mean? She’s hanging out with this shitface, don’t be naïve.’
It came to that.
Villani said, ‘Listen, when they find her, I might call you, spoil your evening, okay?’
Just one second too long. ‘I don’t actually want anything to do with her, Dad.’
‘She’s your sister, Corin.’
‘First she’s your kid.’
‘Okay, forget it,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’
‘Dad,’ said Corin. ‘I’ll come. Call me and I’ll come.’
His girl. Someone who loved him. What the hell had Laurie been thinking? Lizzie was fifteen, no one at home most of the time, what did her mother think would become of her?
Then, as if looking into a mirror, he saw his stupidity and he looked away from himself, shamed.
Tracy.
‘Boss, Kidd’s ex-force. Special Operations Group for three years, five years’ service in total. Resigned three years ago.’
‘Oh Jesus, what’s his record?’
‘On the beat, second year, cleared of using excessive force on a mental who died. Since quitting, two speeding offences.’
‘Get me the SOG boss, whatever musclebrain that now is.’
It took six minutes. Villani thought about Deke Murray, Matt Cameron’s best mate, the Armed Robber who became SOG boss. He was called The Unforgiver, never forgot, never forgave.
The man’s name was Martin Loneregan.
‘Mate, a James Kidd,’ said Villani. ‘Left three years ago.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Serious stuff.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, he quit.’
‘Why?’
‘People quit, they quit.’
Villani said, ‘I’d appreciate your help here, Martin. Concerns dead people.’
‘Kidd’s involved?’
‘The name’s got our attention.’
‘Well, there’s procedure, privacy. All that.’
‘Martin, Commissioner Barry will ask you the questions, that’ll take a few minutes I’d like to save. This a mate thing?’
Spitting sound.
‘Personality issues,’ said Loneregan. ‘A selection failure, basically.’
‘Took three years to notice?’
‘People comment on how you run Homicide?’
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll just say the arsehole pressed the down button three weeks after I took over. Had to send out for Kleenex for the whole squad.’
‘Not lovable then. So some violent drug thing, you’d say that?’
‘Any kind of shit you care to name. The boy’s psycho.’
‘Trouble you for an address?’ said Villani.
‘Hang on.’
He hung, closed his eyes, moved his head.
‘You there?’ said Loneregan.
‘Here,’ said Villani.
‘It’s a unit, 21, Montville, 212 Roma Street, South Melbourne.’
Villani tapped it in, the image of the area appeared, 212 arrowed. ‘Much obliged.’
‘Bob Villani. Relation?’
‘My dad.’
‘Vietnam?’
‘Yeah, he was, yeah.’
‘Still ticking?’ said Loneregan.
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Mate, ask him about a Danny Loneregan. Daniel. My old man. Just got this one photo, it’s three blokes, one’s a Bob Villani.’
Another member of The Team. First in, last out. Ten years, four months, sixteen days, the longest serving unit in any war, just a thousand men in all and four Victoria Crosses, a hundred and ten other decorations.
My dad says
your dad’s got war medals.
That was how Villani found out about Bob’s war. He would never have learned anything about Vietnam from Bob.
‘Yes, certainly do that,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Given under duress. We’ll be loaded with this cunt. Not the force, no. It only accepted him. It’ll be member of elite Special Operations Group gone bad, all that shit.’
‘Well, price you pay for fame.’ Villani was looking at the close-up. There was a house over the wall from the parking area, a long narrow swimming pool. ‘Kidd didn’t leave any mates with you did he?’
‘I can say not a single fucking soul.’
‘Buy you a coldie, then.’
‘Got my number,’ said Loneregan. ‘Listen, my old man. Ask, will you? When you see your dad. He might have a picture, y’know…’
In the kickarse voice Villani heard the boy who never had a father, only a photograph, a face, he would look for himself in that face.
‘Didn’t come back?’ said Villani.
‘No,’ said Loneregan.
‘Well. Honoured dead.’
‘Shot outside a bar. Bar, whorehouse.’
‘I’ll ask Bob,’ said Villani. ‘Get back to you.’
He rang Colby.
‘This is as of when?’ said Colby.
‘Just on the radar. We hope to need a Section 27. Mr Kiely will be on to you.’
‘I’ll pass the word. Run anything major by me. Think Cromarty, son. Think never again.’
Would they ever let him forget Cromarty? His crime was to trust senior officers to behave like trained policemen.
‘Yes, boss,’ Villani said.
‘A fucking arrest, that’s the ticket. Show we’re getting somewhere. With me?’
‘Boss.’
Villani looked at the tendon standing proud of his forearm. He relaxed his grip on the handset. Birkerts outside. Villani waved.
‘The Salvos have been there,’ he said. ‘Essendon is Kidd’s aunt’s house. Her name’s Hocking. She says he stayed there long ago, still gets mail, still drops by. Gave her an early Christmas present this year—thousand bucks, cash. Wouldn’t let her open the envelope while he was there.’
‘You could love such a boy,’ said Villani.
Kiely in the door.
‘The chopper says no vehicle visible at Cloke Street. We’ve got a J. H. Kidd off the tenants’ database. Roma Street, South Melbourne.’
‘That’s him,’ said Villani.
‘It’s a block of flats, third-floor flat. The chopper’s looking now.’
Villani waved, they left. He sat, hands in his lap, palms up, the scar ran from little finger to the right thumb pad, his first year in the job, sliced by a cook, the cut went to the bones.
Rose Quirk’s garden.
Jesus. He hadn’t been there since Cup Day, the day he put in the tomatoes.
He dialled. It rang, rang, he knew it was going to ring out, she answered.
‘Ma, Stephen.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Busy. Yeah. Really busy, tied up. You okay?’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit weak.’
‘Taking the tablets?’
She did a bit of her coughing, he knew her coughing, it was a tactical move. ‘Make me feel sick,’ she said.
‘For God’s sake, Ma, take them.’
‘Weeds takin over here.’
‘I’ll fix the weeds. Take the tablets. Tomatoes coming on?’
‘They like the hot. I give them a little drip every night.’
‘Good. I’ll be around soon as I can.’
‘Screen door’s buggered. Something wrong with the pump thing.’
‘I can get someone to fix it.’
‘Don’t want a stranger here.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it. Listen, got to go. Be around soon.’
‘PRADO’S AT Roma Street,’ said Birkerts. ‘At the back.’
‘Nice work,’ said Villani.
‘There’s a chance of vision from across the road. Building going up. Rear access.’
‘Section 27 from Colby,’ said Villani. ‘A 26 and a 27, cover all bases. He’s expecting you.’
‘My view,’ said Kiely, ‘my view is if he’s there we should take him out.’
‘Talk to the dogs, Birk,’ said Villani. ‘Impress upon them the need to get the stuff in now, immediately, sooner, they have no higher priority. Or they will answer to the minister. Or God.’
‘Sir.’
Birkerts left. Villani looked at Kiely. ‘Arrest him, you think?’
‘That’s prudent, yes. I think so.’
‘And then we’ve got him and he dobs the other pricks? Wow.’
‘Wow?’ said Kiely.
‘Yes, wow. Wow, wow. He still gets twenty years, twenty-three hours a day looking at walls, your fellow crims wait, they want to kill you, fuck you, they do so love a doggy.’
Kiely scratched his collarbone. ‘Well, not to move, I would say that should be cleared. Approved.’
‘The New Zealand way,’ said Villani. ‘Interesting. Now here on the mainland we’re different. What we don’t do here is seek approval for what we do not want to do. And moving on, let me say that if we lose Kidd, even if the cunt takes off in a balloon, I will be holding…’
Kiely raised a hand. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Made yourself perfectly clear.’
He left. Villani’s mobile rang.
‘What’s going on?’ Laurie said.
‘Corin tell you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s what’s going on.’
‘Can’t you find her?’
‘Doing my best. People are looking for her.’ ‘People? What about you?’
‘The whole fucking force is looking for her. Is that good enough? Is that doing enough?’
A sigh.
‘I’ll be there around midnight,’ she said. ‘Ring me if you find her.’
‘I’ll certainly do that. Keep trying her mobile.’
‘I don’t need to be told that, thank you.’
Line dead.
Villani tried Lizzie’s number again. Off.
THE TARRED top of a building, a lift housing. The camera moved down, glass distortion, a room, a big television, squat furniture, coffee table holding bottles, cans, cups, junkfood containers.
Jerry the tech in headphones, fiddling, tapping, talking to his throat mike. ‘Yeah, piss-poor, yeah, okay, here we go. On air, mate.’
Birkerts at the scene, scratchy, said, ‘Across the road on the sixth floor, very trying conditions here, wet concrete, no windows, just holes.’
‘Picture’s very poor,’ said Kiely, fiddling with his earpiece.
‘Spot that?’ said Villani.
Birkerts said, ‘Prado’s at the back, two ways in. Here we go, you can see a kitchen. So to speak.’
Slow zoom in to a littered countertop—boxes, bottles, a shiny object.
‘Boy’s got an industrial coffee machine,’ said Birkerts. ‘The red, that’s from the back window, sunset in the west.’
‘My, the west,’ said Villani. ‘Know your compass.’
‘Pulling back, that’s a door at left.’
A dark shape.
‘Passage probably runs front door to balcony. The kitchen and lounge to left. Right, it’s bathroom and bedroom.’
Villani said, ‘We can get in the back?’
‘Fire escape and there’s a door to the lobby from the parking area.’
The camera roved left to a blank window, right to another, down to the floors below, to the forecourt, the street, parked cars, two men with briefcases, a car, another, a delivery van, a strung-out scuffle of teenagers, four, nothing.
They watched for a while. The camera went back to Kidd’s windows, lingered, dropped. The street seemed to have darkened. Streetlights came on, small white flares.
Back. Kidd’s windows dark now, the sun gone from the back of the building, fallen.
‘Nice little street,�
� said Villani. ‘You comfy there? Got the toothbrush?’
Angela motioned from the door. He went out.
‘Mr Colby, boss.’
Villani took the call at his desk.
‘Got him?’ said Colby.
‘Got his unit. Vehicle’s out the back.’
‘And the plan is?’
‘A good look.’
‘Steve, if the prick’s there, take him. Get the SOGs.’
‘And give away upstream?’
‘Not listening, son. Still not fucking listening.’
‘Can you say again, boss?’
He heard finger taps.
‘The head of Homicide,’ said Colby. ‘You’re in the tower, it’s your call. We rely on your judgment.’
Villani went back to the operations room, put on the headset, looked at the dark building. The camera pulled back. Lights on in the units on both sides of Kidd’s and the one below.
‘Dunny,’ said the tech. ‘Someone’s there.’
‘How’d you hear?’
‘The hard line. Phone must be close. Bedroom or the passage.’
Kiely coughed. ‘Tell Mr Colby?’
‘Nothing to tell,’ said Villani. ‘Could be anyone. Girlfriend. Flatmate. House-trained dog.’
They waited. Five minutes, ten, it was soothing, doing nothing, watching the camera wander around, the operator bored, up, down, sideways, along the street. Villani closed his eyes.
Lizzie. In the early days, he sometimes came home to find them asleep, in the big bedroom or on Lizzie’s bed. Often they were in the armchair, mother and child as one, Laurie’s hair fallen like dark thatch over the infant’s face.
IN HIS ear, Birkerts said, ‘He’s gone back to sleep.’
Villani looked at his watch. Forty minutes since the lavatory was flushed. ‘I’m coming to join you,’ he said. ‘On-site inspection.’
‘We have nothing to hide. Please use the servants’ entrance.’
Finucane drove, Winter came. A few blocks away from the street, Villani’s phone rang.
‘Inspector, Senior Willans, St Kilda, your daughter Lizzie’s here, brought in by officers.’
‘Found where?’
‘The parade, boss. With a group.’
‘She’s okay?’
‘Um, speak freely, boss?’