by Peter Temple
Anything.
Every year, there were more bent cops, the number ran in tandem with the number of crims, particularly drug crims, making unthinkable amounts of money from selling ice, GBH, Special K, ecstasy.
The demand was insatiable, a dealer grew rich supplying just one private school, every kid over twelve had tried some of them. No night out was complete without drugs, tradies got stoned after they downed tools for the day.
On any Friday, an army of couriers hand-delivered snort, bazooka, incentive to customers in the CBD, to bankers, brokers, lawyers, accountants, advertising agencies, architects, property developers, real-estate agents, doctors.
The money was visible everywhere and everywhere you heard the resentment from cops.
Mate, the Holden’s clapped, the wife’s lost her job, now the holiday’s at the in-laws. It’s like fifty metres of fucking mud before the water. They’re all there, the zombie father, the brother, he’s a petrolhead bludger, the wife’s worse, whinges non-stop, doesn’t lift a fucking finger except to paint her nails. Compares with we pick up this piece of shit, he’s maybe twenty, he’s driving a Porsche, we know him, he’s got an apartment in Docklands, it’s A-grade whores, fucking Bali, he says you think I’m that stupid boys I’m driving around with shit in my car? Don’t waste your time, what do you blokes make? Fifty? Sixty? Fifty on a horse today, mate, fucking thing misses the start. Never mind, tomorrow’s another day.
Villani put his hands behind his head, tried to massage his neck.
Dancer had saved him. When the gambling had him by the balls, when Joe Portillo had sent his scum around with a message that there were ways he could pay his debt, Dancer saved him from the grip.
Thirty thousand bucks in the Myer bag.
‘Kitty’s healthy,’ said Dance. ‘Had a few big ones. I’m lending. Pay me when you sell your house and make five hundred grand capital gains.’
Save, pay Dancer back five grand at a time, that was the plan. Then Greg Quirk came along and it was on hold. When he offered the first repayment, Dance said, ‘Please, mate, no. Long forgotten. Forgiven and forgotten.’
Greg Quirk.
Greg was scum. His brother was scum. And his father. Grandfather too, the dog-killer.
For a long time, lying about Greg didn’t bother him. It wasn’t a problem. It wasn’t until the dreams started. Even then, it wasn’t just about seeing Greg die, the way the three of them stood there and watched him bleed out, he foamed, twitched, his legs kicked, little dreaming kicks.
It was about being an honest man. A man of honour.
Honour’s not cheap, son. Don’t give your word unless you’ll do it or die trying.
What the fuck did Bob know about keeping your word? He said he would come back for them in a few weeks and it was years. No car came down Stella’s street that Villani did not hold his breath and wait for it to stop. In bed at night, when cars passed, he put his head beneath the pillow, pressed his face into the mattress and with both hands pulled down the pillow.
His child out there, with the street animals, his Lizzie. The sum of his failure as a father and as a man. He simply had not cared enough. When the moment came to go to her, to show her that her father loved her, he turned his back.
Job first, everything else second. And it had always been so.
Bob Villani’s boy. The DNA glowed in him.
Did Bob have his Greg Quirk? His Greg Quirks? Small men executed in the dark paddies? A single shot. The trembling knees, the puzzled-dog eyes, the falling.
He could not go back on Quirk. It had entered into his being, his own blood. By his testimony and by his silence, he had given them his word. That was not disputable, he knew that, they knew that.
The dying Lovett. He had sought some redemption for his sins.
I leave you with the thought that we, that’s the three of us and by extension the whole fucking squad and the whole fucking force, we have failed the little Prosilio girl.
He switched off his lights and went to the window. Below, the bright ribbons of traffic. Across the road, the dark of the school and its grounds, the botanic gardens. Then, far away, the glow of the highways, and, in the sky, gleaming in the clouds, the full luminescence of the huge city.
BIRKERTS PICKED him up. When they were in the city, at the lights, Villani spoke.
‘Western Ring,’ he said.
‘What?’
‘I want to see where Kidd and Larter came unstuck.’
Birkerts rested his forehead on the steering wheel, it was not a sign of respect. ‘We’ll have to go all the way around to be on that side.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Jesus,’ said Birkerts. ‘Feeling okay?’
‘I didn’t go there, it’s been bothering me.’
‘Did I not hear you say yesterday that it was time to move on?’
‘After this, we move on.’
They drove in the morning rush. Birkerts put the radio on. Villani read the paper, put his head back, drowsed.
‘Crash scene coming up,’ said Birkerts. ‘Blink and you’ll miss it.’
Villani sat up, they were in the left lane, closing on the spot where Kidd and Larter came undone.
‘Pull over,’ he said.
Birkerts indicated, they stopped a good fifty metres beyond the crash scene, just before the exit. Trucks rocked the car.
‘Now what?’ said Birkerts.
Villani said, ‘Just have a look. Sniff.’
‘Don’t need me, do you?’
Villani got out, choked on the heat. He walked back to where clumps of couch grass had greened, given life by the hosing down of the burning wreck, the seats, the tyres, the oil. On the dirt strip between the highway and a fence, a few stunted native trees clung to life, their limbs ceaselessly moving in the hot road winds. Beyond them was another dirt strip, a fence, then a wasteland, its only feature an abandoned building. A maker of explosives had sprayed its logo on the east wall.
He stood in the scorching day, the trucks howling by, buffeted by their winds, they flew his tie like a narrow battle standard.
There was nothing here. It had been a stupid impulse. Still, he walked across to the trees. As if decorated for some sad impoverished Christmas, they wore shiny chip packets and fast-food wrappings and one held a silver caffeine-drink can caught in its flight from a vehicle window.
Villani went to the fence, followed it for five or six metres, turned back, studying the trivial litter of a million passers-by, shallow-breathing the spent-fuel fumes.
His phone.
‘Dove … news …’
‘What?’
‘… our friend … morning …’
Looking at the ground, sightless, concentrating on hearing Dove against the booming of the highway, he said, ‘Dropping out, call you back.’
Focus came.
Cigarette pack? He moved it with the tip of his shoe, the dusty black brogue toecap of a shiny McCloud’s shoe.
Solid object.
Villani stooped, picked it up.
Plastic, gunmetal colour, cracked.
A mobile. Half a mobile, the front was missing.
Thirty, forty metres from the blast? Absolutely no chance whatsoever.
He walked to the Commodore, rocked by two fuel tankers travelling together, a concrete truck, a plastic plumbing pipecarrier, a tour bus, a jammed Merc looking for a way out, a double-B, all the highway horror.
In the car, he showed Birkerts the object. Birkerts moistened his lower lip. ‘Very nice. Resembles a mobile.’
A truck passed half a metre from Birkerts’ window.
‘Not saying it’s Kidd’s?’ he said.
‘No. Roadkill, that’s all.’
Birkerts started the Commodore. They waited to enter the bloodstream, classical music, Villani punched the button, familiar voice:
…the subject of a smear campaign. In the circumstances, I have suggested to the premier, and he agrees with my suggestion, that it is in the party’s and the governme
nt’s interest that I step down from my position as minister for infrastructure. That’s all I have to say at the moment. Thank you.
The woman said:
Well, that’s Stuart Koenig a few minutes ago announcing that he’s quit his ministerial post. Or been sacked. I lean towards the latter. Political reporter Anna Markham said on the First Light program this morning that Mr Koenig used the, um, services of a young woman of great interest to the police in connection with a murder and has since been interviewed by no less than the head of the Homicide Squad. And Mr Koenig has had his telephone records examined. Small birds say they make fascinating reading…
The pulse in his throat.
Anna Markham said…
She didn’t call him. She didn’t think she should tell him she was on the story. What was he to her, then? Nothing of any importance.
Villani rang Dove.
‘Hear the Koenig stuff?’
‘Yes, boss. That’s why I rang you. I heard Ms Markham earlier.’
‘Phipps. Bring him in. Now.’
‘Just been talking to his mother. He’s overseas. Been gone more than a month. Tracy’s checking that.’
The flat, barren place, the hard light, the rushing, growling trucks.
Oh Jesus. Conned.
Conned, stiffed. Boned, rolled.
‘Prosilio is now to be pursued until there is no rat hole left to go down,’ said Villani.
‘A change of mind?’ said Dove. ‘Would you say we’ve been used and abused?’
‘I’d say shut the fuck up.’
He did not know how Prosilio could be pursued, he did not know how to find a rat hole to send anyone down. He had done this so badly.
HCF.
No. Homicide had not come first.
They used a lot of water at Preston.
Four people?
Bomb it to Snake.
He said, for no good reason, ‘Let’s revisit Preston. Meet me there, Mr Dove.’
THEY STOOD in the passage, chlorine still in the air, the sickly scent.
‘Like coming home,’ said Dove. ‘My mum liked a clean house.’
‘Lucky you,’ said Villani. ‘I cleaned the house.’
‘Some say you still do that, boss.’
It took nearly half an hour to give up.
‘Too clean,’ said Dove. ‘Too clean. Should have seen that.’
They went out the front door and walked around to the back.
‘Got a smoke?’ said Villani.
They lit up. Villani sat on the back step. Dove went to the fence, began a strip walk, up and down.
‘Never thought it would be like this,’ he said.
Slow steps, eyes down, a man in a trance.
‘Be like what?’
‘Me and the head of Homicide in some fucked-over back yard in Preston.’
Dove stopped.
He kicked at what looked like a pile of rotting carpet underfelt.
He kicked at it again, in a fastidious way, moved a piece with his right shoe, moved another piece, another, kicked at the earth.
He bent to look at something.
His head came up, lenses sparked.
‘Manhole,’ he said. ‘Up recently.’
Villani crossed the yard.
A square steel cover, rusted, crusted with dirt.
‘Don’t think they’ve drained a septic around here since 1956,’
Dove said. The edges were clean.
‘What’s 1956?’
‘Shorthand for a long time ago,’ said Dove.
‘Tell Trace we want a man,’ said Villani. ‘With a crowbar. A 1956-type person.’
Three men came. They put on the gear to protect them from a toxic firestorm, one opened the manhole with a crowbar. He stood back.
The smaller man went to a big grey nylon bag and took out a yellow torch, big, a spotlight. He shone it down the hole, had to straddle the hole, he signed to his partner, who looked. They both stood back, the smaller one came over to Villani, offered the torch and a mask.
‘Look, boss?’ he said.
Villani took the torch, put on the mask, crossed the space, clicking the torch, the foul smell came through the barrier.
He leaned over the manhole, shone the light.
The spotlight lit the pit white, he saw something, couldn’t make out what it was.
Then he could.
A rat.
A rat inside a human skull.
Its scaly tail was twitching out of an eye socket.
Villani walked back. To Dove, he said, ‘Now we need the full fucking forensic catastrophe.’
In time, the big band arrived, three vehicles pulled in, formation driving, they liked to do that when they could. Villani watched them disembark, the heavy lifters, inured to decay, decomposition, they reached into places other people didn’t want to go to.
By late morning, the tapes were up, the street was a parking lot, the media had pitched camp, the helicopters had hung overhead. Sweating scalp, disappointed air, Moxley looked around the small, desperate landscape, the people in overalls, the car bodies, the enlarged hole in the ground
‘A female,’ said Moxley. ‘Youngish, I would hazard. The whole foul thing will have to be excavated.’
‘How recent?’ said Villani.
‘With rats involved, it can be hard to make a judgment. Months, years.’
‘No one’s ever going to question your rat judgment,’ said Villani.
‘Not Oakleigh-related this, is it?’
‘Who knows?’ said Villani. ‘We take a holistic view of the world. The whole foul thing.’
‘You wouldn’t know holistic from a hole in the ground,’ said Moxley.
‘Holes in the ground, I know. When’s this excavating start?’
‘As soon as it can be arranged.’
‘You’ll let me know if, and I say if, you ever learn anything?’
Moxley produced a tissue, blew his nose. ‘Which of your handpicked geniuses should we inform?’
Villani pointed. Dove was leaning against the fence, indolent, smoking, talking on his mobile.
‘Mr Dove.’
‘An indigenous officer who’d now be the only non-bludger on the force,’ said Moxley. ‘What happened to the wound as a ticket to the Gold Coast on full disability pension?’
‘A Homicide officer, professor. We shrug off injuries of all kinds. Who does your media tip-offs? Do them yourself, do you?’
‘I’ve met Inspector Kiely,’ said Moxley. ‘A man with a professional manner. He’s got some education, I understand.’
‘In New Zealand,’ said Villani. ‘Ranks just ahead of the Congo and Scotland.’
He beckoned to Dove, he came.
‘I want you to front up to our media partners,’ Villani said.
‘Human remains.
But until the science is complete, we know nothing. Fuckall.’
‘Is that two words, boss?’
Villani saw a pulse in Dove’s right eyelid. ‘What’s wrong with your eye?’ he said.
Dove’s lips tightened over his teeth. ‘Just a tic,’ he said.
‘What’s that, nervous?’
‘There would be nerves involved, boss,’ said Dove. ‘The central nervous system would be involved. In an involuntary way.’
‘Not a brilliant look,’ said Villani. ‘I say that in an involuntary way. Cancel, I’ll do it, Detective Dove.’
Villani went out to the cameras and held the Homicide face, grave, concerned, said what had to be said, the natural order of the universe had once more been overturned.
He turned. Dove’s hand up. He followed him around the house.
‘Found a garbage bag in the pit,’ Dove said. ‘New bag.’
A man in overalls held a big black plastic bag, knotted.
‘Open it,’ said Villani, mouth dry. This bag was not months or years old.
The man put the bag on the groundsheet. Clumsy in gloves, he took a while to get the knot undone. He spread the mouth wide.
He lifted out a black dress, put it on the groundsheet. A black bra, tiny black knickers, another bra, more knickers, a cheap Chinese towel, another one, another black dress, one, two, three, four sneakers, cheap ones. A pair of black jeans. A silky shirt, off-white. Nylon zip-up jacket, yellow.
It was in his mind now. The water usage.
Another pair of jeans, blue. Two more blouses. Stockings. More stockings. A white shirt. Nylon jacket, red.
Koenig’s words:
An appendix scar, that’s all I saw.
Another blouse. A nylon toilet bag, blue.
Another toilet bag, green.
Villani put the bag down, picked up a bra and sniffed it. He put it down, sniffed to clear his nose, bent for the second bra, sniffed that, put it down.
He opened the blue toilet bag. Supermarket cosmetics. Perfume, an atomiser, eau de toilette. Poison.
He uncapped it, sprayed the back of his left glove, sniffed. He put the atomiser on the second bra.
Second bag. Same cosmetics. Different atomiser. Taboo.
‘Give me your hand,’ Villani said to Dove.
‘Under duress,’ said Dove. He held out his left hand, palm down.
Villani sprayed it, lifted it, sniffed.
Dove staring at him.
‘Two girls,’ Villani said. ‘Both at Prosilio.’
AT ST KILDA Road, Villani talked to Kiely.
‘Well, we’ve got a fair bit on our plate,’ said Kiely. ‘And this doesn’t have much of a profile.’
‘I want everybody in this establishment not actually engaged in making an arrest,’ said Villani. ‘That’s in the nature of an order.’
‘As you wish,’ said Kiely.
‘Dove and Weber, please.’
They came in, stood in front of the desk.
‘In the time frame we have from the Pommy lady across the road from Prosilio,’ said Villani, ‘on a direct route to Preston, I want every last bit of street vision. Black muscle car, three aerials. Mr Kiely will assign the manpower.’
They both frowned.
‘I want this done with astonishing speed,’ he said. ‘I want a result in hours.’