by Peter Temple
‘Yes.’
‘Off her face, boss.’
Fifteen years old. The child in her arms in the armchair wandering the hard streets of St Kilda. How had Laurie allowed this to come to pass?
‘Okay. Hang on to her, be there soon as I can.’
‘Boss, she’s a handful, there’s nowhere, just the cells…’
The cells.
No liquid known, not carbolic acid, not citric acid, not all the tears of the risen Christ could cleanse the holding cells of their perfume of sweat, blood, vomit, shit, snot, spit, semen, piss and fart and phlegm.
His daughter taken to the holding cells, on her father’s instructions. He should phone Corin, get her to fetch Lizzie. No, he couldn’t do that to Corin: call her away from dinner at Epigram with her young Trinity College smartarse and his millionaire lawyer father to fetch her freaked-out fifteen-year-old sister from the St Kilda police station.
Winter glanced at him. They were almost there. Jesus, what a time for crap like this to happen.
The cells wouldn’t hurt Lizzie. What the hell, give her a taste of what came from hanging around with shitheads, doing drugs.
‘Put her in a cell,’ Villani said. ‘Alone, mark you.’
‘Boss.’
They went in the long way. A cop in overalls waved them through a construction-site gate, they parked beside a crane. A woman from surveillance led him and Winter up rough stairs, the damp, sour, heady smell of new concrete. Outside a shadowy doorless chamber Birkerts stood. Inside, two people sat at the blocked-out window holes, one behind a camera, one with night-glasses, looking through a slit.
Kidd’s building was on a shrouded monitor. The woman gave him headphones with a throat mike. He was adjusting them when Jerry the tech, kilometres away, said, ‘Incoming. Mobile.’
In the dark room, looking at the windows on a monitor, they listened to a phone ringing. It went on, on, ten, fifteen seconds, it rang out, became a buzz. It began again, ringing…
Yeah?
Wake-up call, mate.
Fuck off.
Listen, listen, some worries. Serious.
What?
Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?
Yeah, okay, right.
Clicks.
‘What’s that about?’ Kiely’s voice.
‘Got the caller?’ said Villani.
‘Mobile,’ said Jerry. ‘Won’t get anywhere.’
The voice in Villani’s head.
Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?
Old girl? Old girl?
Kiely said, ‘Laser’ll be…’
‘Kidd’s aunt,’ said Villani. ‘Mrs Hocking. Run her for mobiles, the hotline.’
‘Right.’
They waited.
The sitting room lit up.
A big naked man in the room, scratching his scalp with both hands, then his chest, his right hand went to his groin.
Birkerts said, ‘Himself. The target.’
The man was going to the kitchen counter, they saw his bodybuilder’s wedge back, the muscular canyon of his spine, he was turning, they saw him side on.
‘My Jesus,’ said Birkerts. ‘Like a low branch. He’s dialling…do we have this?’
‘No,’ said Jerry.
Villani said, ‘The fixed line, Jerry?’
‘Too far away.’
‘I understood we’d have the laser by now,’ said Birkerts. ‘The highest tech known to man.’
‘Mr Kiely?’ said Villani.
‘Check that,’ said Kiely. ‘Want me to brief Mr Colby?’
‘Just get the fucking laser here. The Prado’s tagged?’
‘Elephant on the move,’ said Birkerts.
Kidd leaving the room.
‘Small arse,’ said Birkerts, thoughtful.
Three seconds, bedroom light, the vertical blinds opened, they saw Kidd sliding a window.
‘But a jockstrap designed for Phar Lap,’ said Birkerts.
Vision sliced by blinds, they watched the man moving around, pulling on clothes, sitting on the bed, shoes going on.
‘No shower,’ said Birkerts. ‘This isn’t date behaviour. Prado wired?’
‘Inspector Kiely to confirm that,’ said Villani.
It was dawning that this was a bad mistake. Colby and Kiely were right. He should have sent in the SOGs. If they lost Kidd now, it would be his fault, his alone.
Kidd up, leaving the bedroom.
‘Brush teeth, take a piss,’ said Birkerts. ‘I would…Jesus Christ, who’s this?’
A figure in the sitting room, slim, long hair.
Going to the kitchen, ducking behind the counter, just the top of his head visible.
‘Flatmate?’ said Villani. ‘Boyfriend?’
Standing up, T-shirt, coming around the counter, hands behind his back, torso wriggling.
‘What’s he doing?’ said Birkerts.
‘Could be a piece,’ said Villani. ‘Inside-pants holster. Here’s Kidd.’
Kidd and the man talking, Kidd’s right hand in the air. The second man had a long nose.
Villani became aware of someone else in the dark room with them. Tomasic.
Kiely’s voice. ‘Problem with the tag. Some misunderstanding.’
‘Misunderstanding?’ Villani said. ‘What the fuck’s to misunderstand?’
‘Didn’t quite get the urgency.’ ‘Jesus Christ.’
It was too late but this was the moment.
‘I want the SOGs now,’ Villani said. ‘Highest priority.’
‘Well, that’s a…’
‘Just do it, inspector. Now.’
‘These blokes might be going out,’ said Birkerts. ‘Are we ready for that?’
‘Inspector Kiely?’ said Villani.
‘They say they’re stretched, thought they had more time.’
Villani said, ‘Three dead’s not a priority? I’ll personally kill every last cunt if we lose them.’
The second man left the room. Kidd silhouetted against the kitchen light. His head slightly turned, they could see his profile, the heavy ridge above his eyes. He was talking on a mobile, putting it away, crossing the room, sliding open the balcony door, going to the railing, looking at the street, putting his hands behind his head, moving his torso from side to side.
‘Go down,’ said Villani.
The street, nothing moving.
‘Up.’
Kidd rubbing his face with both hands, his scalp, looking at his watch, going inside, closing the door, leaving the sitting room. Out of sight.
‘Not going out, I’d say,’ said Birkerts.
They watched the empty rooms. Villani felt the tightness in his scalp, around his mouth. Something wasn’t right.
‘Don’t like this,’ he said.
They waited. A minute. Two.
Villani knew. ‘Fucking gone,’ he said.
Just walked out their own front door and no one there.
Get there before the Prado took off, that was all they could do.
‘Have to be our own SOGs,’ he said.
He went for the door, for the stairs, heard Winter and Tomasic behind him.
THEY CROSSED half a block down.
He sent Tomasic to go around the block, stopper the lane. Winter following, he walked down the street, ran up the narrow driveway of Kidd’s building, stopped before the corner, looked around it, one-eyed.
Two security lights lit the small parking area, perhaps a dozen cars, the Prado at the end, a high wall at the back.
Not gone. They were still in the building.
Villani drew the Glock. His mouth was dry. ‘I’ll take the door,’ he said. ‘You take the fire escape.’
Winter said, ‘Boss.’
Villani went to move and then the back door came open and a figure jumped the three steps, a big man, big upper body.
Kidd.
Villani shouted:
‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE!’
Kidd turned his head, kept going, Villani sighted on h
im, two hands.
Greg Quirk came into his mind. He didn’t fire.
A gun in Kidd’s hand, left-handed, that had not been noticed. Scarlet-violet muzzle blinks, two, three, whines off the wall above them, Villani was off balance.
Kidd running across the space, moving lightly for a big man, Villani tried to sight on him again, he was heading for the lane, changed direction, made a clean jump onto a car bonnet, seemed to trampoline, put both hands on the top of the wall. He heaved himself up, got his right leg over.
Gone.
To Winter, Villani said, ‘Tell them target over back wall, we’re following.’
He ran, holstering, climbed onto the bonnet of a VW, it was Laurie’s model, he registered that, clambered onto the cab.
Madness. Not the movies, this was SOG work.
He jumped for the wall, pulled himself up.
No Kidd.
A narrow back yard, a wall of glass, no light in the house, a long lap pool, it glowed the green of the inside of a high-summer wave.
Go over?
He was scared. But he had fucked this thing up and all that remained was not to show fear.
Never take a backward step, son. Bad for the soul.
Kidd wouldn’t be hanging around, Kidd would be running, trying to get as far away as possible, pick up a car, there was nothing to fear here.
Villani swung over. He hurt his balls, hung, dropped a good metre, hard landing, his knees gave, he lost balance, fell over backwards, rolled, the gun pressed into his lower ribs.
He got to his feet, took the gun out of the spring clip, went along the pool edge. How did Kidd get out of here? The building occupied the whole block, wall to wall, there was a roll-up door to the right, that would give access from the street, a garage with doors at each end.
A slightly open steel door to the right of the garage. There was a way out.
Villani ran for the exit, knelt against the garage wall and pulled the door open, tensed against the bullet.
A lane, another door at the end, open. Twenty strides and he was out onto the pavement.
A leafy street, jammed with parked cars, lamplight in ragged-edged puddles. Left, right? He went right, crossed the road, ran, heard the roar and squeal of a car around the corner, not far away.
He got there. Taillights, brake lights, a vehicle swung right, it was too dark to identify, he heard more tyre complaints, it had turned again.
Someone running. He came around the bend, gun drawn. Tomasic.
‘See it?’ said Villani.
‘Ford,’ said Tomasic. ‘Two men.’
Winter came up behind Villani, gun in one hand, radio in the other.
‘Tell Inspector Kiely we want a chopper,’ said Villani. ‘Highest priority. Two males, armed.’ He gestured to Tomasic.
‘Ford Mark 2,’ said Tomasic. ‘XR6, spoiler, dark colour. Travelling west.’
They walked back, Winter talking to control.
Career-destroying moment, Villani thought. At least he’d gone over the wall after Kidd. They couldn’t say he’d shirked it.
IN THE communications vehicle, they watched the monitors. Grey highway vision from the helicopter: four lanes, Western Ring Road, six or seven vehicles visible.
Target behind two semis, he’s not in a hurry. Skyeye Two falling back now.
The Ford and two early-start truckies travelling together. Receding vision.
The helicopter said:
Pursuit vehicles entering freeway.
Two cars on the entry ramp.
Static. Radio:
Control to CV, support vehicles on Deer Park ramp await instructions, please.
They looked at him.
Villani said, ‘Proceed, stay ahead, do nothing, we are accompanying target to Darwin if necessary.’
The operator repeated his words.
Copy that, Control.
Skyeye Two. Target in sight. He’s coming out…
The Ford pulling out, not fast, just overtaking.
Level with the back truck.
Deer Park exit approx one kilometre, CV, Control.
The Ford level with the front semi.
He’s picking up speed, left lane, could be looking to exit…Jesus, that’s grunt…Jesus…
The Ford seemed to jerk left, right, the driver losing control, it crossed two lanes, came back inside, fishtailing, seemed to be braking…
He’s lost control.
The Ford hit the left guardrail, a massive impact, the bonnet opened.
A puff, grey, like soiled cottonwool.
The semis passing the spot.
Fuck.
A fireball.
Target’s exploded. Like a bomb.
Control to all cars, this is Red, repeat Red, pursuit vehicles cordon freeway scene, we need medics…
The chopper went in low, hovered over the flames. There was no recognisable car. The engine block lay three metres from the drive shaft, the highway was littered with smoking pieces, the steering wheel a ring of flame, the back seat burning by the roadside. Beside it lay the upper half of a body.
In the van, hair wet with sweat, listening to the radio traffic, Villani watched the pursuit cars arrive, block the highway, apply the emergency drills.
Five dead now.
He said to the operator, ‘Tell them weapons in the car, that’s the priority.’
EYES IN sockets of gravel, Villani stood in Kidd’s kitchen. His mobile rang.
‘Stephen, Lizzie, what?’ Laurie.
‘Okay, yeah. Found her.’
‘Where is she?’
Hours ago, how many? His skin felt tight, as if he were expanding.
‘Ah, picked up on Beaconsfield Parade with these streeters, shitfaced. She’s at the station, I’ve been tied up, I was on my way…’
‘Police station?’
‘Where are you?’
‘On my way from the airport. She’s where?’
‘St Kilda. They’re hanging on to her.’
‘Quarter to two, how long’s she been there?’
‘A while, yeah. Hours. Can you collect her? Bad night for me, I’m not quite done.’
‘This is your daughter we’re talking about,’ said Laurie. ‘You miserable fucking bastard.’
End of call.
Colby came in, slit-eyed, slicked hair, hands in windcheater pockets, looked around like a man hired to fumigate the premises.
‘Up early, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Or late.’
‘Complete cock-up here,’ Colby said.
‘Can’t argue.’
‘No. When did this fucking death wish grip you?’
‘I’ll say, I’ll say there’s interesting stuff on the tape.’
Colby stared at him, blood in his eyes, deep lines from his nose. ‘Need a leak,’ he said. ‘Take a piss at your crime scene? Piss in a plastic bag?’
‘Down the passage, second left,’ said Villani.
He waited, dull mind, watching the fingerprint techs. He felt the weight of his body, the ache in his shoulders, his calves, felt the time since waking.
Finucane at his shoulder. ‘Boss, they say ID is going to take time. There’s near nothing left of the blokes. But they’ve got two guns.’
Colby came back. Finucane retreated.
‘Putting it mildly,’ Colby said, ‘you are in damage control big time. Forget about interesting stuff on any fucking tape, that’s in lock down, Fucking can of worms.’
‘Why?’
A Bob Villani look, the Jesus, how often do I have to show you?
‘Consider,’ said Colby, ‘how many people are inside this. The tollway people who told you. Your own holy mob. How many heard the name? Barry’s office. Me. What about me? Maybe I’m your dog.’
‘So?’
‘You tell your people they say a fucking word to anyone about interesting stuff on the tape it’s career over. Okay?’
Colby’s assistant arrived, spoke to him in a whisper.
‘Hyenas are here,’ Colby said. ‘C
ourtesy of Searle’s meerkats. I’m out the back. Need advice on what to say?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve learned something? Don’t fucking shock me.’
Villani waited a while. Finucane waited, hands in pockets. They went down, crossed the narrow yellow-tiled space to the glass doors, a uniform opened one. The line was a few metres away, three cops, lights, cameras, fat microphones, scruffy techs.
The talent dropped their cigarettes, stepped up, third-string talent, hair stiff with chemical preparations.
Villani went to the pack, blinded for a few seconds.
‘Good morning,’ he said, waited.
The Channel Nine youth raised a hand, said, ‘Inspector, the Oakleigh killings, this is, we’re told, can you confirm…’
‘No,’ said Villani.
‘It’s not the Oakleigh killings?’
‘All I have to say is this is a search of premises in the course of an investigation.’
Silence. This was not the script.
‘Inspector, the shots fired…’
‘It’s an attempt to interview someone of interest who left the scene before that could take place,’ said Villani. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to fit in before dawn.’
A woman said, ‘Inspector, don’t you think we deserve…’
Villani wanted to say Channel Seven deserved whatever it got, but he said, ‘I can’t say anything more because there’s nothing to say. Thank you.’
Finucane went ahead, the crowd parted, they walked in the street to the car, halfway down the block. Finucane did a careful U-turn.
‘Home, boss?’ he said.
‘What’s that again exactly?’ said Villani. ‘And where?’
Laurie’s VW was in the drive, the passage light on. In lead shoes, Villani walked down the path, stood before the door, looking for the key.
It opened.
Laurie.
‘Well, hi,’ said Villani. He went to kiss her, a reflex, but she moved back, said nothing.
‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very bad day for drama. You got her?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘I was parked down Chapel Street. We walked together, I had my arm around her. When we got to the car, I went to my side and she went around to the other side and then she ran away.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘She looked at me and she said, Mum, I can’t come home, and she ran off, around the corner.’