Truth

ON THE Westgate Bridge, behind them a flat in Altona, a dead woman, a girl really, dirty hair, dyed red, pale roots, she was stabbed too many times to count, stomach, chest, back, face. The child, male, two or three years old, his head was kicked. Blood everywhere. On the nylon carpet, it lay in pools, a chain of tacky black ponds.

Villani looked at the city towers, wobbling, unstable in the sulphurous haze. He shouldn’t have come. There was no need. ‘This air-conditioner’s fucked,’ he said. ‘Second one this week.’

‘Never go over here without thinking,’ said Birkerts.

‘What?’

‘My grandad. On it.’

One spring morning in 1970, the bridge’s half-built steel frame stood in the air, it crawled with men, unmarried men, men with wives, men with wives and children, men with children they did not know, men with nothing but the job and the hard, hard hangover and then Span 10-11 failed.

One hundred and twelve metres of newly raised steel and concrete, two thousand tonnes.

Men and machines, tools, lunchboxes, toilets, whole sheds-even, someone said, a small black dog, barking-all fell down the sky. In moments, thirty-five men were dead or dying, bodies broken, sunk in the foul grey crusted sludge of the Yarra’s bank. Diesel fuel lay everywhere. A fire broke out and, slowly, a filthy plume rose to mark the scene.

‘Dead?’ said Villani.

‘No, taking a shit, rode the dunny all the way down.’

‘Certainly passed on that shit-riding talent,’ said Villani, thinking about Singleton, who couldn’t keep his hands off the job either, couldn’t stay in the office. It was not something to admire in the head of Homicide.

On the down ramp, Birkerts’ phone rang, it was on speaker.

Finucane’s deep voice:

‘Boss. Boss, Altona, we’re at the husband’s brother’s place in Maidstone. He’s here, the hubby, in the garage. Hosepipe. Well, not a hosepipe, black plastic thing, y’know, like a pool hose?’

‘Excellent work,’ said Birkerts. ‘Could’ve been in Alice Springs by now. Tennant Creek.’

Finucane coughed. ‘So, yeah, maybe the scientists can come on here, boss. Plus the truck.’

‘Sort that out, Fin. Might be pizza though.’

‘I’ll tell the wife hold the T-bones.’

Birkerts ended the call.

‘Closed this Altona thing in an hour,’ he said. ‘That’s pretty neat for the clearance.’

Villani heard Singo:

Fuck the clearance rate. Worry about doing the job properly.

Joe Cashin had thought he was doing the job properly and it took the jaws to open the car embedded in the fallen house. Diab was dead, Cashin was breathing but no hope, too much blood lost, too much broken and ruptured.

Singleton only left the hospital to sit in his car, the old Falcon. He aged, grey stubble sprouted, his silken hair went greasy. After the surgery, when they told him Joe had some small chance and allowed him into the room, he took Joe’s slack hand, held it, kissed its knuckles. Then he stood, smoothed Joe’s hair, bent to kiss Joe’s forehead.

Finucane was there, he was the witness, and he told Villani. They did not know that Singleton was capable of such emotions.

The next time Cashin came out of hospital, the second time in three years, he was pale as a barked tree. Singo was dead by then, a second stroke, and Villani was acting boss of Homicide.

‘The clearance rate,’ Villani said. ‘A disappointment to me to hear you use the term.’

His phone.

Gavan Kiely, deputy head of Homicide, two months in the job.

‘We have a dead woman in the Prosilio building, that’s in Docklands,’ he said. ‘Paul Dove’s asked for assistance.’

‘Why?’

‘Out of his depth. I’m off to Auckland later but I can go.’

‘No,’ said Villani. ‘I bear this cross.’

HE WENT down the passage into the bedroom, a bed big enough for four sleepers, mattress naked, pillows bare. Forensic had finished there. He picked up a pillow with his fingertips, sniffed it.

Faintest smell of perfume. Deeper sniff. The other pillow. Different perfume, slightly stronger smell.

He walked through the empty dressing-room into the bathroom, saw the glass bath and beside it a bronze arm rising from the floor, its hand offering a cake of soap.

She was on the plastic bag in a yoga posture of rest-legs parted, palms up, scarlet toenails, long legs, sparse pubic hair, small breasts. His view was blocked by the shoulder of a kneeling forensic tech. Villani stepped sideways and saw her face, recoiled. For a terrible heart-jumping instant, he thought it was Lizzie, the resemblance was strong.

He turned to the wall of glass, breathed out, his heart settled. The drab grey bay lay before him and, between the heads, a pinhead, a container ship. Gradually it would show its ponderous shape, a huge lolling flat-topped steel slug bleeding rust and oil and putrid waste.

‘Panic button,’ said Dove. He was wearing a navy suit, a white shirt and a dark tie, a neurosurgeon on his hospital rounds.

Villani looked: rubber, dimpled like a golf ball, set in the wall between the shower and the head of the bath.

‘Nice shower,’ said Dove.

A stainless-steel disc hung above a perforated square of metal. On a glass shelf, a dozen or more soap bars were displayed as if for sale.

The forensic woman said, ‘Broken neck. Bath empty but she’s damp.’

She was new on the job, Canadian, a mannish young woman, no make-up, tanned, crew cut.

‘How do you break your neck in the bath?’ said Villani.

‘It’s hard to do it yourself. Takes a lot to break a neck.’

‘Really?’

She didn’t get his tone. ‘Absolutely. Takes force.’

‘What else?’ said Villani.

‘Nothing I can see now.’

‘The time? Inspired guess.’

‘Less than twenty-four or I have to go back to school.’

‘I’m sure they’ll be pleased to see you. Taken the water temperature into account?’

‘What?’

Villani pointed. The small digital touchscreen at the door was set at 48 degrees.

‘Didn’t see that,’ she said. ‘I would have. In due course.’

‘No doubt.’

Little smile. ‘Okay, Lance,’ she said. ‘Zip it.’

Lance was a gaunt man, spade beard. He tried to zip the bag, it stuck below the woman’s breasts. He moved the slider back and forth, got it free, encased her in the plastic.

Not ungently, they lifted the bag onto the trolley.

When they were gone, Dove and Weber came to him.

‘Who owns this?’ said Villani.

‘They’re finding out,’ said Dove. ‘Apparently it’s complicated.’

‘They?’

‘The management. Waiting for us downstairs.’

‘You want me to do it?’ said Villani.

Dove touched a cheekbone, unhappy. ‘That would be helpful, boss.’

‘You want to do it, Web?’ said Villani, rubbing it in to Dove.

Weber was mid-thirties, looked twenty, an unmarried evangelical Christian. He came with plenty of country experience: mothers who drowned babies, sons who axed their mothers, access fathers who wasted the kids. But Old Testament murders in the rural welfare sumps didn’t prepare you for women dead in apartments with private lifts, glass baths, French soaps and three bottles of Moët in the fridge.

‘No, boss,’ he said.

They walked on the plastic strip, passed through the apartment’s small pale marble hall, through the front door into a corridor. They waited for the lift.

‘What’s her name?’ Villani said.

‘They don’t know,’ said Dove. ‘Know nothing about her. There’s no ID.’

‘Neighbours?’

‘Aren’t any. Six apartments on this floor, all empty.’

The lift came, they fell thirty floors. On the sixth, at a desk, three dark suits, two men and a woman, waited. The plump fiftyish man came forward, pushing back limp hair.

‘Alex Manton, building manager,’ he said.

Dove said, ‘This is Inspector Villani, head of Homicide.’

Manton offered his hand. It felt dry, chalky.

‘Let’s talk in the meeting space, inspector,’ Manton said.

The room had a painting on the inner wall, vaguely marine, five metres by three at least, blue-grey smears, possibly applied with a mop. They sat at a long table with legs of chromed pipe.

‘Who owns the apartment?’ said Villani.

‘A company called Shollonel Pty Ltd, registered in Lebanon,’ said Manton. ‘As far as we know, it’s not occupied.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘Well, it’s not a given to know. People buy apartments to live in, investment, future use. They might not live in them at all, live in them for short or long periods. We ask people to register when they’re in residence. But you can’t force them.’

‘How was she found?’ said Villani.

‘Sylvia?’ said Manton. ‘Our head concierge, Sylvia Allegro.’

The woman, dolly face. ‘The apartment’s front door wasn’t fully closed,’ she said. ‘The lock didn’t engage. That triggers a buzzer in the apartment. If it isn’t closed in two minutes, there’s a security alert and they ring the apartment. If that doesn’t work, they go up.’

‘So there in four, five minutes?’ said Villani.

Sylvia looked at Manton, who was looking at the other man, fortyish, head like a glans.

‘Obviously not quite,’ said the man.

‘You are?’ said Villani.

‘David Condy, head of security for the apartments and the hotel.’ He was English.

‘What’s not quite mean?’

‘I’m told the whole electronic system failed its first big test last night. The casino opening. Orion. Four hundred guests.’

‘The open door. The system tells you when?’

‘It should do. But what with…’

‘That’s no?’

‘Yes. No.’

‘Panic buttons up there.’

‘In all the apartments.’

‘Not pressed?

Condy ran a finger in his collar. ‘No evidence of that.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘It’s difficult to say. With the failure, we have no record.’

‘That’s not difficult,’ said Villani. ‘It’s impossible.’

Manton held up a pudgy hand. ‘To cut to the whatever, inspector, a major IT malfunction. Coinciding with this matter, so we look a little silly.’

Villani looked at the woman. ‘The bed’s stripped. How would you get rid of sheets and stuff?’

‘Get rid of?’

‘Dispose of.’

The woman flicked at Manton. ‘Well, the garbage chute, I suppose,’ she said.

‘Can you tell where garbage has come from?’

‘No.’

‘Explain this building to me, Mr Manton. Just an outline.’

Manton’s right hand consulted his hair. ‘From the top, four floors of penthouses. Then six floors, four apartments each. Beneath them, it’s fourteen floors of apartments, six to a floor. Then it’s the three recreation floors, pools, gyms, spas, and so on. Then twelve more floors of apartments, eight to a floor. Then the casino’s four floors, the hotel’s ten floors, two floors of catering, housekeeping. And these reception floors, that’s concierge, admin and security. The casino has its own security but its systems mesh with the building’s.’

‘Or don’t.’ Villani pointed down.

‘Under us, the business floors, retail, and hospitality, ground floor plaza. Five basement levels for parking and utilities.’

In Villani’s line of sight, the door opened. A man came in, a woman followed, even height, suits, white shirts.

‘Crashing in,’ said the man, loud. ‘Introductions, please, Alex.’

Manton stood. ‘Inspector Villani, this is Guy Ulyatt of Marscay Corporation.’

Ulyatt was fat and pink, cornsilk hair, tuber nose. ‘Pleasure, inspector,’ he said. He didn’t offer a hand, sat down. The woman sat beside him.

Villani said to Manton, ‘This person’s got something to tell us?’

‘Sorry, sorry,’ said Ulyatt. ‘I’m head of corporate affairs for Marscay.’

‘You have something to tell us?’ said Villani.

‘Making sure you’re getting maximum co-operation. No reflection on Alex, of course.’

‘Mr Manton is helping us,’ said Villani. ‘If you don’t have a contribution, thank you and goodbye.’

‘I beg your pardon?’ said Ulyatt. ‘I represent the building’s owners.’

Silence in the big room. Villani looked at Dove. He wanted him to learn something from this. Dove held his eyes but there was no telling what he was learning.

‘We Own The Building,’ said Ulyatt, four distinct words.

‘What’s that got to do with me?’ said Villani.

‘We’d like to work with you. Minimise the impact on Prosilio and its people.’

‘Homicide, Mr Elliot,’ said Villani. ‘We’re from Homicide.’

‘It’s Ulyatt.’ He spelled it.

‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘You might try talking to some other branch of the force. Impact minimisation division. I’m sure there’s one, I’d be the last to know.’

Ulyatt smiled, a genial fish, a grouper. ‘Why don’t we settle down and sort this out? Julie?’

The woman smiled. She had shoe-black hair, she’d been under the knife, knew the needle, the dermabrasion, detailed down to her tyres like a saleyard Mercedes.

‘Julie Sorenson, our key media person,’ said Ulyatt.

‘Hi,’ she said, vanilla teeth, eyes like a dead deer, ‘It’s Stephen, isn’t it?’

‘Hi and goodbye,’ said Villani. ‘Same to you, Mr Elliot. Lovely to meet you but we’re pushed here. A deceased person.’

Ulyatt lost the fish look. ‘It’s Ulyatt. I’m trying to be helpful, inspector, and I’m being met by hostility. Why is that?’

‘This is what we need, Mr Manton,’ said Villani. ‘Ready?’

‘Sylvia?’ said Manton.

She had her pen ready.

‘All CCTV tapes from 3pm yesterday, all lifts, parking,’ said Villani. ‘Also duty rosters, plus every single recorded coming and going, cars, people, deliveries, tradies, whatever.’

Ulyatt whistled. ‘Tall order,’ he said. ‘We’ll need a lot more time.’

‘Got that down?’ said Villani to Sylvia Allegro.

‘Yes.’

‘Also the CVs and rosters of all staff with access to the thirty-sixth floor or who could allow anyone access. And the owners of apartments on the floor and other floors with access to the floor. Plus the guest list for the casino function.’

‘We don’t have that,’ said Ulyatt. ‘That’s Orion’s business.’

‘The casino function was in your building,’ said Villani. ‘I suggest you ask them. If they won’t co-operate, let Detective Dove here know.’

Ulyatt was shaking his head.

‘We’ll show the victim on television tonight, ask for information,’ said Villani.

‘I can’t see the necessity at this stage,’ said Ulyatt.

Villani delayed looking at him, met the eyes of Dove, Weber, Manton, Allegro, not Condy, he was looking away. Then he fixed Ulyatt. ‘All these rich people paying for full-on security, the panic buttons, the cameras,’ he said. ‘A woman murdered in your building, that’s a negative?’

‘It’s a woman found dead,’ said Ulyatt. ‘It’s not clear to me that she was murdered. And I can’t see why you would go on television until you’ve examined the information you want. Which we will provide as speedily as we can, I can assure you.’

‘I don’t need to be told how to conduct an investigation,’ said Villani. ‘And I don’t want to be told.’

‘I’m trying to help. I can go further up the food chain,’ said Ulyatt.

‘What?’

‘Talk to people in government.’

Awake at 4.30am, Villani was feeling the length of the day now, his best behind him. ‘You’ll talk to people in government,’ he said.

Ulyatt’s lips drew back. ‘As a last resort, of course.’

‘So resort to it, mate,’ said Villani, pilot flame of resentment igniting the burner. ‘You’re dealing with the bottom feeders, there’s nowhere to go but up.’

‘I certainly will be putting our view,’ said Ulyatt, a long sour look, he rose, the woman rose too. He turned on his black shoes, the woman turned, they both wore thin black shoes, they both had slack arses, one fat, one thin, the surgery hadn’t extended to lifting her arse. They left, Ulyatt taking out his mobile.

‘No garbage to leave the premises, Mr Manton,’ said Villani. ‘I’ve always wanted to give someone that instruction.’

‘It’s gone,’ said Manton. ‘It goes before 7am, every day except Sunday.’

‘Right. So. How do you get up there?’

‘Private lifts,’ said Manton. ‘From the basements and the ground floor. Card-activated, access only to your floor.’

‘And who’s got cards?’

Manton turned to Condy. ‘David?’

‘I’d have to check,’ said Condy.

Villani said, ‘You don’t know?’

‘There’s a procedure for issuing cards. I’ll check.’

Villani moved his shoulders. ‘Getting into the apartment?’ he said. ‘How’s that work?’

‘Same card, plus a PIN and optional fingerprint and iris scanning,’ said Condy. ‘The print and iris are in temporary abeyance.’

‘Temporary what?’

‘Ah, being finetuned.’

‘Not working?’

‘For the moment, no.’

‘So it’s just the card?’

‘Yes.’

‘Same card you don’t know how many people have.’

Villani turned to Dove.

‘I’m off,’ he said. ‘If we don’t get the fullest co-operation here, I’ll be on television saying that this building is a management disaster and a dangerous place to live and residents should be alarmed.’

‘Inspector, we’re trying to be…’

‘Just do it, please,’ said Villani, rising.

In the ground-floor foyer, he said to Dove and Weber, ‘One, get Tracy onto the company that owns the apartment. Two, ID’s the priority here. Run her prints. See what vision they’ve got, get someone to take down every rego in the parking garage. And get that casino guest list.’

Dove nodded.

Weber said, scratching his scalp, ‘Fancy set-up, this. Like a palace.’

‘So what?’ said Villani.

Weber shrugged, awkward.

‘Just another dead person,’ said Villani. ‘Flat in a Housing Commission, this palace, all the same. Just procedure. Bomb it to Snake.’

‘Excuse, boss?’

‘Know the term, Mr Dove? Honours degree of any use here?’

‘I’d say it’s a technical Homicide term,’ said Dove. He was cleaning his rimless glasses, brown face vulnerable.

Villani looked at him for a while. ‘Follow the drill. The procedure. Do what you’ve been taught. Tick stuff off. That way you don’t have to ask for help.’

‘I didn’t ask for help,’ said Dove. ‘I asked Inspector Kiely a few questions.’

‘Not the way he saw it,’ said Villani. His phone tapped his chest.

‘Please hold for Mr Colby,’ said Angela Lowell, the secretary.

The assistant commissioner said, ‘Steve, this Prosilio woman, I’ve had Mr Barry on the line. Broken neck, right?’

‘They say that.’

‘So he understands it could be an accident. A fall.’

‘Bullshit, boss,’ said Villani.

‘Yeah, well, he wants nothing said about murder.’

‘What’s this?’

‘Mr Barry’s request to you. I’m the fucking conduit. With me, inspector?’

‘Yes, boss.’

‘Talk later, okay?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Ulyatt hadn’t been bluffing. He’d gone close to the top of the food chain. Perhaps he’d gone to the top, to Chief Commissioner Gillam, perhaps he could go to the premier.

Dove and Weber were looking at him.

‘Media out there?’ said Villani.

‘No,’ said Dove.

‘No? What happened to media leaks? Anyway, if they show up, say a woman found dead, cause not established, can’t rule out anything. Don’t say murder, don’t say suspicious, don’t say anything about where in the building. Just a dead woman and we are waiting for forensic.’

Dove blinked, made tiny head movements, Villani saw his anxiety. His impulse was to make him suffer but judgment overrode it.

‘On second thoughts, you do it, Web,’ he said. ‘See how you go in the big smoke.’

Wide eyes, Weber said, ‘Sure, boss, sure. Done a bit of media.’

Villani passed through the sliding doors, the hot late afternoon seized his breath, his passage was brief, no media, down the stairs, across the forecourt, a cool car waiting.

On the radio, Alan Machin, 3AR’s drive man, said:

…35-plus tomorrow, two more days and we break the record. Why did I say that? People talk as if we want to break records like this. Lowest rainfall for a century. Hottest day. Can we stop talking about records? Gerry from Greenvale’s on the line, what’s on your mind, Gerry?

‘Radio okay, boss?’

‘Fine.’

…years ago, you ring the cops, the ambos, they come. Five minutes. Saturday there’s shit across the road here, I ring the cops, twenty minutes, I ring again, it’s a bloody riot out there, mate, girls screamin, animals trashin cars, they throw a letterbox through my front window, there’s more arrivin all the time, no cops. I ring again, then there’s two kids stabbed, another one’s head’s smashed in, somebody calls the medics.

So how far’s the nearest police station, Gerry?

Craigieburn Road, isn’t it? Too far’s all I can say. Twenty-five minutes for the ambos to get here, they say the one kid’s dead already. And the ambos load them up and they’re gone before the bloody cops get here.

So it’s what, more than an hour all-up before the police respond, is that…

Definitely. You notice they find hundreds when some dork gets lost bloody bushwalkin? That sorta thing?

Thanks for that, Gerry. Alice’s been waiting, go ahead, Alice.

It’s Alysha, actually, with a y. I wanted to talk about the trains but your caller’s bloody spot on. We get riots around here, I’m not joking, riot’s the only…

Where’s that, Alisha, where’s around…

Braybrook. Yeah. Police don’t give a stuff, let them kill each other, gangs, it’s like you don’t see an Aussie face, all foreigners, blacks, Asians. Yeah…

‘They don’t like cops much, do they, boss?’ said the driver.

‘They can’t like cops,’ said Villani. ‘Cops are their better side.’

IN HIS office, Gavan Kiely gone to Auckland, Villani switched on the big monitor, muted, waited for the 6.30pm news, unmuted.

A burning world-scarlet hills, grey-white funeral plumes, trees exploding, blackened vehicle carapaces, paddocks of charcoal, flames sluicing down a gentle slope of brown grass, the helicopters’ water trunks hanging in the air.

…weary firefighters are bracing themselves for a last-ditch stand against a racing fire front that threatens the high country village of Morpeth, where most residents have chosen to stay and defend their homes despite warnings to heed the terrible lessons of 2009…

When it was full dark, his father and Gordie would see the ochre glow in the sky, Morpeth was thirty kilometres by road from Selborne but only four valleys away.

A plane crash in Indonesia, a factory explosion in Geelong, a six-car freeway pile-up, the shut-down of an electronics company.

The wide-eyed newsreader said:

…four hundred A-listers, many of them high-rolling gamblers from Asia, the United States and Europe, last night had a preview of the Orion, Australia’s newest casino and its most exclusive…

Men in evening dress, women in little black dresses getting out of cars, walking up a red carpet. Villani recognised a millionaire property developer, an actor whose career was dead, a famous footballer you could rent by the hour, two cocaine-addicted television personalities, a sallow man who owned racehorses and many jockeys.

A helicopter shot of the Prosilio building, then a spiky-haired young man on the forecourt said:

The boutique gambling venue is housed in this building, the newly commissioned Prosilio Tower, one of Australia’s most expensive residential addresses. It’s a world of total luxury for the millionaire residents, who live high above the city behind layers of the most advanced electronic and other security…

His phone.

‘Pope Barry is pleased,’ said Colby.

Villani said, ‘About what?’

‘Prosilio. The girl.’

‘Nothing to do with me. The absent media, who arranged that?’

‘I’d only be guessing.’

‘Yeah, right. This Prosilio prick, Elliot, Ulyatt, his company owns the building. Came on like we’re from the council about overhanging branches.’

‘And you said?’

‘Well I said fuck off.’

‘Well I can say he went somewhere. I can say that.’

‘I don’t like this stuff, boss.’

‘They don’t want bad news.’

‘The casino?’ said Villani.

‘The casino’s not it, son,’ said Colby. ‘Up there in the air there’s like a whole suburb of unsold million-buck apartments. All spruiked to be as safe as living next door to the Benalla copshop in 1952. You make all this money and you can buy anything and then some deranged psycho shithead invades your space and kills you. Fucks you and tortures you and kills you.’

‘I see the unappealing part of that.’

‘So you’ll also try to grasp the charm of a murder in the building.’

Anna Markham on the screen, cold, pinstriped jacket. He had looked at the dimple in her chin from close range, thought about inserting his tongue into the tiny cleft.

‘I’ll work on that, boss,’ he said.

‘Front and fucking centre. In the big game now. Not in Armed Robbery anymore. Not you, not me.’

…today’s poll shock, the threat of a nurses’ strike, the questions over the Calder Village project and next week’s demonstrations in the Goulburn Valley. With the election weeks away, Premier Yeats has a few things to be worried about…

She had the private-school voice, the expensive tones.

The anchorman said:

…political editor Anna Markham. Now to finance news. In a surprise development in the media world today, a new…

The phone. Mute.

‘Media on the line, boss. Mr Searle.’

‘Stevo, how you going?’ Hoarse cigarette voice.

‘Good. What?’

‘To business. Like that in a man. Listen, this Prosilio woman, got anything?’

‘No.’

‘Okay, so we keep it off the agenda till you have, no point in…’

‘If we don’t ID her before,’ said Villani, ‘I want her on all news tomorrow.’

‘My word,’ said Searle. ‘And obviously it’s not stressing the Prosilio angle, it’s a woman we want identified, that’s basically…’

‘Talk tomorrow,’ said Villani. ‘Calls waiting.’

‘Inspector.’

Villani sat for a long time, head back, eyes closed, thinking about the girl-woman who looked like Lizzie lying in a glass bath in a glass room high above the stained world.

Three levels of security, panic buttons, so many barriers, so insulated. And still the fear. He saw the girl’s skin, grey of the earliest dawn, he saw the shallow bowl between her hipbones and her pubic hair holding droplets like a desert plant.

The water would have been bobbed, flecked and scummed with substances released by her body. He was glad he hadn’t seen that.

Time to go, put an end to the day.

No one to have a drink with. He could not do that anymore, he was the boss.

Go home. No one there.

He rang Bob Villani’s number, saw the passage in his father’s house, the phone on the rickety table, heard the telephone’s urgent sound, saw the dog listening, head on one side. He did not wait for it to ring out.

Inspector. Head of Homicide.

He knew he was going to do it but he waited, drew it out, went to the cupboard and found the card in her spiky hand. He sat, pressed the numbers, a mobile.

‘Hello.’

‘Stephen Villani. If I’ve got the right number, I’m exploring the possibility of seeing someone again.’

‘Right number, explorer. When did you have in mind?’

‘Well, whenever.’

‘Like tonight?’

He could not believe his luck. ‘Like tonight, I would have that in mind, yes.’

‘I can change my plans,’ she said, the arrogant voice. ‘I can be where I live in…oh, about an hour.’

‘You want to change your plans?’

‘Let me think. Yes, I want to change my plans.’

‘Well, I can be there.’

‘Don’t eat. Be hungry.’

‘So that’s how hunger works,’ said Villani. ‘Give me the address.’

‘South Melbourne. Eighteen Minter Street. Exeter Place. Apartment twelve.’

He felt the blood in his veins, the little tightness in his chest, the way he felt in the ring before the bell, before the fight began.

‘SATISFACTORY,’ said Anna Markham.

‘Can I get a more precise mark?’ said Villani.

He was on his side, he kissed her cheekbone. Anna turned her head, found his mouth. It was a good kiss.

‘It’s binary at this stage,’ she said. ‘Satisfactory, unsatisfactory.’

‘Before I rang,’ he said. ‘Where were you going?’

‘To see a play.’

‘With?

‘A friend.’ ‘Male friend?’ ‘Possibly.’

‘There are ways to tell.’

‘I like uncertainty,’ Anna said. ‘Don’t you want to know what play?’

A test. Villani felt the great space between them. She had been to university, the apartment was full of books, paintings, classical music CDs fanned on a sideboard. He had no learning beyond school, he learned little there that he could remember, in high school he had been in a play, shotgunned by a spunky teacher, he saw her face. Ms Davis, she insisted on the Ms. All he knew about art and music came from Laurie dragging him out until she grew weary of it. He read the newspapers, Bob had instilled the habit in him, he watched movies late at night when he couldn’t sleep.

And trees, he knew a fair bit about trees. For a start, he knew the botanical names of about fifty oaks.

‘What play?’ he said.

‘The Tempest. Shakespeare.’

‘Never heard of it.’

He put his head back and after a while he said, ‘The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces, the solemn temples, the great globe itself, yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve…’

Fingertips dug into his upper arm.

‘And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, leave not a rack behind,’ Villani said.

‘Who are you?’

‘It’s the new force,’ he said. ‘We find Shakespeare relevant. Plus inspirational.’

She moved onto him, silk, her hair fell on him. ‘I had a feeling you might be the thinking woman’s investigator. Great screw too. If a little hasty.’

‘I’ll give you hasty.’

She was thin but muscled, she pretended to surrender, then she resisted him, he tried to pin her down, aroused.

He saw the girl in the back seat of the car, blurred lipstick. Fear flooded him.

‘What?’ she said, ‘what?’

‘I thought you were…fighting me.’

‘I like fighting you. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Turned you off?’

He rolled over, saw the matted hair on his belly, there was flab.

‘Just tired,’ he said. ‘Up early.’

She said nothing for a while, reached for her gown, rose like a mantis, no effort. ‘Take a shower, we’ll eat.’

Villani was towelling his hair when his phone rang.

‘Dad.’

Corin.

‘Yes, love. What?’

‘I’m a bit spooked. There’s a car hanging around.’

The fear. In his stomach, in his throat, instant bile in his mouth. ‘Hanging around how?’ he said, casual.

‘Drove past as I got home, two guys. Then I took the bin out and it’s parked down the street. I went out just now and it was gone and then they came around the block and parked further up.’

‘What kind of car?’

‘They all look alike. New. Light colour.’

‘Won’t be anything, but lock up, be on the safe side. I’ll get someone to come around, I’m on my way. Twenty minutes max. Ring me if anything happens. That clear?’

‘Sir. Right, yeah. Thanks, Dad.’

His precious girl. Thanking him as if he were doing her a favour. He speed-dialled, spoke to the duty person, waited, heard the talk on the radio.

‘Car four minutes away, boss,’ said the woman.

‘Tell them I’ll be there in twenty, hang on for me.’

Anna was at the kitchen end of the big room, hair up, barefoot, thin gown. She turned her head.

Villani walked across the space, stood behind her.

‘Prime rump strips,’ Anna said. ‘To build strength.’

There was an awkwardness. Villani wanted to pull her against him. ‘Prime rump’s cost me my strength,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to go. Urgent stuff.’

She stirred the wok. ‘Slam bam.’

He tried to kiss an ear, she moved, he kissed hair. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is probably all a mistake.’

‘Let’s not do this as tragedy,’ she said. ‘Just a screw.’

‘You should have gone to the play.’

‘It’s on for a month. You, on the other hand, could close at any time.’

‘You should probably consider me closed,’ he said, a wash of relief, walked, gathered his coat from the sofa without breaking stride. At the front door, he could not stop himself looking back, down the gunbarrel. He saw the length of her neck.

All across the hot shrieking city, he thought about Corin, the joy of her, the lovely breathing weight of the tiny child asleep on him on a baking afternoon at the holiday house, he rehearsed the selfish pain he would feel if anything happened to her, the responsibility he would bear for having a job where animals hated you, dreamed of revenge, would kill your family.

In Carlton, at the Elgin intersection, he spoke to her.

‘There’s something happening out there,’ she said. ‘Cars.’

‘The force is with you. Stay inside, I’m a couple of minutes away.’

Turning into the street, he saw the cars, pulled up behind them. A uniform came to his window.

‘Couple of dickheads, boss,’ she said. ‘The one’s separated from his missus, she’s renting number 176 down there, he reckons she’s rooting his brother. So him and his mate, they sit in the Holden sipping Beam, now both pissed, they’re waiting for the poor bloke to arrive.’

‘Wasted your time then,’ said Villani.

‘Definitely not, boss,’ said the woman. ‘So many loonies around. These idiots, we give them a scare. The car’ll be here till tomorrow. Going home in a cab.’

Villani parked in the driveway, went in the back door. Corin was waiting, anxious face. He told her.

‘Sorry, Dad.’

He kissed her forehead, she put up a hand, rubbed the back of his head.

‘Sorry is the day you don’t call me,’ he said. ‘Jesus, it’s hot.’

Corin said, ‘You think kind of, your dad’s a cop, you’re bulletproof.’

‘You are. Just a car in the street.’

‘Yeah. Dumb. Eaten?’

‘Not recently, no.’

‘TCT suit?’

‘TCT and O. Shavings of O.’

‘If there’s an O. You grate the cheese.’

Like old times, girl and dad, in the kitchen, side by side, Villani buttering bread, grating cheddar, Corin slicing a tomato, an onion. Not looking, she said, ‘Damp hair.’

Villani felt his hair. ‘Showered,’ he said. ‘Long day. A sweaty day.’

‘You shower at work?’

‘Often. Head of Homicide has to be seen to be clean.’

Corin said, quickly, ‘Sam in my tute, he works a shift at this place, he says you were there with a woman.’

‘He knows me?’

‘Saw you on TV.’

‘Canadian criminologist,’ Villani said. ‘She’s got a grant to study Commonwealth police forces. Beats being interviewed in the office.’

An elaborated lie. Too much detail. These porkies usually fell over when you stared at the teller for ten seconds.

Corin went to the sink.

‘Sam says it was Anna Markham, the television woman. It was after midnight.’

‘There is a resemblance,’ he said. ‘Now that you mention it.’

‘Dad. Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Lie to me. I’m not a kid.’

‘Listen, kid,’ said Villani. ‘It was nothing.’

‘What about you and Mum?’

‘Well, it’s difficult, a difficult time.’

‘Don’t you love her anymore?’

Corin was twenty-one, you could still ask a question like that.

‘Love’s not just the one thing,’ he said. ‘There’s love and there’s love. It changes.’

In her eyes he saw that she had no idea what he was saying. ‘Anyway,’ he said. ‘Where’s Lizzie?’

‘Supposed to be staying with a friend for the weekend.’

‘See her today?’

‘Heard her. She was in the bathroom when I left. When did you last see her?’

Villani couldn’t remember exactly. Guilt, there was always guilt. ‘Few days ago. Where’s your mum this time? I forget.’

‘Cairns. A movie.’

‘Never worked out why these people have to take their own caterer. Don’t they cook in Cairns? Just raw fruit?’

‘You should spend more time together,’ said Corin.

Villani pretended to punch her arm. ‘Finish law first,’ he said. ‘Then the grad-dip marriage counselling.’

He ate his toasted sandwiches in front of the television, reading the Age. Corin lay on the sofa, files on the floor, taking notes. With the plate on his lap, he fell asleep, waking startled when she took it from his hands.

‘Bed, Dad,’ she said. ‘You’ve got to get more sleep. Sleep and proper food and exercise.’

‘The holy trinity,’ said Villani. ‘Goodnight, my darling.’

IN THE lift, Birkerts joined him. ‘I saw the lay pastor of the Church of Jesus the High Achiever sharing a moment with Mr Kiely the other day,’ he said. ‘Possibly planning a lunchtime bible-study group.’

‘At least Weber shows me some respect,’ said Villani.

‘He probably prays for you,’ said Birkerts. ‘Could lay hands on you, whatever that means.’

‘I want to encourage prayer,’ said Villani. ‘I want people to pray not to be transferred to Neighbourhood Watch Co-ordination.’

‘There’s a few here who don’t mind kneeling before the right man.’

‘Got nothing against Catholics,’ said Villani.

In his office, Villani checked the messages, summoned Dove.

‘How you going?’ said Villani. ‘Your health.’ He didn’t much care but you were supposed to be concerned. Dove was the force’s first indigenous officer shot on duty.

Dove rolled his shaven head, hand on neck. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Boss.’

‘Headaches?’

‘Headaches?’

‘Get headaches?’

‘Sometimes. I had headaches before. Sometimes.’

‘It says,’ said Villani, ‘it says headaches are a common post-traumatic stress symptom.’

‘I don’t have post-traumatic stress, boss.’

‘Flashbacks?’

‘No. I don’t have flashbacks, I don’t relive the prick shooting me. I remember it, I’ve got a perfect memory of being shot, everything till I passed out.’

‘Good. And stress? Feel stressed?’

Dove looked down. ‘Can I ask you a question, boss?’

‘Sure.’

‘Ever been shot?’

‘No. Shot at, yeah. Few times.’

‘Get flashbacks?’

‘No. Dreams. I’ve had dreams.’

Dove held Villani’s eyes, he wasn’t going to look away. ‘Can I see your medical records, boss?’ he said. ‘Discuss them with you?’

Villani thought about Dove’s attitude, always bad, not improved by being shot. He was a mistake. The best thing would be to issue formal cautions, starting today with insubordination. Then he could be posted elsewhere. In due course, someone else could fire him.

‘Right,’ said Villani. ‘You seem normal to me. It’s a low baseline but there you go.’

‘This’s because of yesterday. Boss? My questions to Kiely? Simple questions about procedure.’

Villani saw a chance. ‘Inspector Kiely to you. I get the feeling you’re unhappy here. No names, no pack-drill transfer might be the go.’

Dove held his gaze. ‘No, boss,’ he said. ‘I’m happy. To do whatever you want me to do.’

‘That’s normally the way it works in the force.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Tracy from the door. ‘Boss, bloke won’t give a name. Old mate, he says.’

‘His number, I’ll call him back.’

To Dove, he said, ‘Get Weber.’

They were back in seconds.

‘So tell me,’ said Villani.

‘It’s not good,’ said Dove. ‘They haven’t provided the video for the parking and the lifts. They claim technical difficulties. The publicity says state-of-the-art but nothing worked. Could be a building in the 1950s.’

‘New world of total security,’ said Villani. ‘New world of total bullshit. What about cards, the PINs?’

‘They actually have no idea who could get into the apartment. Just about anyone in security can make a card, program the PIN. Then later they could change back to the old ones.’

‘Shit. Okay, moving on. Scientists.’

Dove inclined his head at Weber.

‘No prints, they say DNA’s unlikely, it’s cleaner than a hospital,’ said Weber, the bright look.

‘No longer a benchmark, hospitals,’ said Villani. ‘What’s the butchery say?’

Weber had a printout. ‘Time of death around midnight on Thursday. C5 snapped, very likely head jerked back, no bruising or abrasions. Recent intercourse. Tearing to vaginal and anal passages. No semen. Used cocaine. She’s sixteen to twenty. Scar on left tricep, more than a year old. Bruising on her ribs left side, probably punched, that’s recent. Slightly displaced septum, probably in the last six months.’

Silence.

‘So what do they offer?’ said Villani.

Weber coughed, he looked at Dove.

Dove said, ‘She’s possibly had her hands tied, she’s gagged, something soft, there’s vaginal and anal intercourse, he’s behind her, he’s very big, as in huge or he’s wearing something or it’s an object, that kind of thing. He at some point jerks her head back violently, breaks her neck. He would have her head in his hands. He places her in the bath and washes her, pulls plug.’

‘Then,’ said Weber, ‘then he disposes of her clothes, shoes, everything and wipes all surfaces touched.’

‘Just another homey night in the Prosilio building,’ Villani said. ‘Before the sex, they probably ate pizza, watched a DVD. Checked for that, did you, Mr Dove?’

Dove blinked. ‘Ah, no. No.’

‘Possibly Pretty Woman,’ said Villani. ‘Religious text for hookers. Hooker’s New Testament. Message of salvation. Familiar with it, Mr Weber?’

Weber made a smile, perhaps he forgave the levity, they would never know. ‘You’re saying that, boss? A hooker?’

‘No,’ said Villani. ‘I’m just leaning that way. I’m close to falling over. Checked the laundry chute, the garbage?’

‘Nothing in the laundry chute,’ said Dove. ‘Garbage taken on Friday morning. It’s in the landfill.’

‘That’s really promising,’ said Villani. ‘The manager produce the other stuff?’

‘I don’t think Manton’s flat out on this,’ said Dove, stroking his head. ‘He referred us to Ulyatt, to Marscay. The owners.’

Ulyatt. The man who could speak to someone who could tell the chief commissioner what to do.

‘What about the casino guests?’

Dove looked at Weber. Weber said, ‘Uh, I left that with Tracy, boss. Casino security is run by a company called Stilicho. Sounds like it’s part of Blackwatch Associates.’

‘Well, retrieve it,’ said Villani. ‘That’s not her job. Since when do Blackwatch do this kind of thing?’

‘Don’t know much about Blackwatch, boss,’ said Weber.

‘The name Matt Cameron mean anything?’

‘The cop?’

Villani had served under the legendary Matt Cameron, gone to the scene of the killings of his son and his girlfriend, taken part in the massive, fruitless man-hunt.

‘Once the cop. He runs Blackwatch. Part owns.’

‘This lot is a new company,’ said Dove. ‘I think it’s Blackwatch in partnership with someone else.’

‘Okay,’ Villani said. ‘Dead woman, no clothes, no ID, no idea how she got there, no vision, so we have dogshit.’

‘Encapsulated it, boss,’ said Dove, the little smile-smirk.

Villani rose, stretched his arms up, sideways, rolled his head, some bones clicked, he went to the window, he could not see the eastern hills, lost in smoke. He thought about his trees. If they went, he would never go back there, he would not be able to bear that sight. Smoke, he needed a smoke, he would always need a smoke. Weber would always be a pain, his purity a living reprimand, but he would worry and lose sleep, do a good job. Dove was another matter. Too clever, too cocky, not enough dead seen.

Villani thought about the dead he had seen. He remembered them all. Bodies in Housing Commission flats, in low brown brick-veneer units, in puked alleys, stained driveways, car boots, the dead stuffed into culverts, drains, sunk in dams, rivers, creeks, canals, buried under houses, thrown down mineshafts, entombed in walls, embalmed in concrete, people shot, stabbed, strangled, brained, crushed, poisoned, drowned, electrocuted, asphyxiated, starved, skewered, hacked, pushed from buildings, tossed from bridges. There could be no unstaining, no uninstalling, he was marked by seeing these dead as his father was marked by the killing he had done, the killing he had seen.

Villani said, ‘Tell Mr Searle we want her on all channels tonight, hair up, hair down, a women found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building in Docklands.’

‘Is that like being murdered?’ said Dove. ‘Is murdered a word that can be used?’

‘That’s it, Detective Weber. Detective Dove, a minute.’

Weber left. Villani gazed at Dove, blinked, gazed, didn’t move his head, his hands were in his lap. Dove blinked, moved his head back and forth, wouldn’t look away, blinked, touched an ear.

‘Understand that I don’t like a smartarse,’ said Villani. ‘You’re only here because when they offered you around trying to get rid of you, I took you on. Now all you’ve got going for you is you got shot. The sympathy vote.’

‘Haven’t exactly had much of a chance,’ said Dove.

‘This is your chance,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t stuff it up. Tell Manton we don’t get everything today, staff names, CVs, who came and went, we will say some very nasty things about the Prosilio building. And we want that Orion guest list too.’

He did paperwork, read the case notes, wrote instructions, gave instructions, spoke to squad leaders. Things were in hand, the day ticked by. At 5.40pm, he left, bought Chinese on the way, reached the empty house in time for the television news. They showed her face. The resemblance to Lizzie was strong, he hadn’t imagined it. Even in death, she was lovely, serious, but she looked no more dead than if it were her passport photograph.

No mention that she was found broken-necked. No mention of the Prosilio building. Just an unidentified young woman. He changed channels, caught the item on Ten. The same.

He rang four numbers, he could not find Searle or anyone else to rage at, left a short message for Dove.

He was watching the 7pm ABC news when Dove rang.

‘Before you say anything,’ said Villani, ‘who decided no broken neck, not found at any particular place?’

‘Not us, boss. I used your words. A young woman found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building.’

The woman on screen. Hair down.

…police are appealing for information about the identity of this young woman. She is Caucasian, brown hair, in her late teens and would not have been seen for several days…

New image. Her hair was up.

…please contact Crime Stoppers on…

‘Searle will turn in the wind for this,’ said Villani. ‘Anything comes in, let me know.’

‘Is that any time, night and day?’ said Dove.

‘When you make a bad call, I’ll tell you. It’s a sudden-death thing.’

Saturday night. Once high point of the week. He showered, found crumpled shorts, opened a beer, went shirtless into the hot night. He took a piss on the former vegetable strip along the fence, dead hard-baked soil, heard voices, laughter from two sides. A splash, splashes. How had he missed a pool going in next door?

He sat in a deckchair on the back terrace, drank another beer, ate cold Chinese. It wasn’t bad, possibly better cold than hot, hot was less than wonderful. He registered the rough brick paving underfoot, laid by another him and another Joe Cashin in another age. It took a weekend.

Sudden craving for red wine. He found a bottle, the second last one in the case.

In the kitchen, the corkscrew in hand, his mobile on the benchtop sang.

‘Is this a good time?’ said Dove.

‘Speak,’ said Villani.

‘Crime Stoppers call from a woman in Box Hill. I just talked to her.’

‘So?’

‘She’s pretty sure she saw our girl at a truck stop on the Hume about two months ago, sixteenth of December, about 9pm. This side of Wangaratta.’

‘Saw her how?’

‘In the toilets. There was a man waiting outside for her and they spoke in a foreign language. Not Italian, French or Spanish, she reckons, she’s been there. Went to a new Holden SV, black or dark green. Another man was driving. She says there might have been someone else in the back seat.’

‘Rego?’

‘No.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Well, HSV, that’s a muscle car, only driven by men with big balls,’ said Dove. ‘Web’s asking our traffic and New South if they had an offender on the day.’

‘That’s not stupid. I’m off to sleep soon, looking forward to it like a first root. Tomorrow I’m going up country. You don’t get me the first time, keep trying. Reception’s rough up there.’

‘I’ll just keep bombing it to Snake,’ said Dove.

‘Quick learner,’ said Villani. ‘You’re a bright young man.’

He sat outside, drank wine, it seemed to be getting hotter. He showered again, went outside and rang Bob Villani. It rang out.

VILLANI ROSE in the dark and stifling house, stood in the shower, dressed, took his canvas bag and left. The world was spent, only the desperate were on the streets. On the ramp before the exit, a tall black man, head shaven, was walking, behind him a shorter person, hidden in grey garments.

In the mirror, Villani saw she had only a slit through which to see the world.

It took three hours, the country drying out, the last stretch up the long yellow hills, paddocks skun, the livestock skinny, handfed.

…today is a day of total fire ban. Four fires are still burning out of control in the high country around Paxton and the town of Morpeth has been evacuated. Firefighters fear the blazes will join into a sixty-kilometre fire front…

From a cafe called Terroir in the last town before Selborne, Villani bought poached chicken breasts, a loaf of sourdough, a lettuce and a container of mayonnaise. He asked for the bread to be sliced.

‘If you wish,’ said the man, too old for his tipped, gelled hair, silver nostril stud. ‘You realise it won’t keep as well.’

‘I have no long-term plans for it,’ said Villani. ‘I propose to eat it within weeks.’

The man tilted his head, interested. ‘You local?’

Passing through Selborne, he looked for changes, it was his town, any alteration or addition caught his eye. And then the last winding stretch, the gate. Villani got out, did the lift and drag, twice, he drove down the driveway and parked beneath the elm. He had climbed this tree a hundred times, it was not looking good.

Out of the vehicle, he stretched, tested his knees, looked at the house. His father came around the corner, something different about his walk, the way he held himself.

Nodding, nothing said, they shook, soft hands, they were beyond gripping. Having touched like boxers, they could get on with it.

‘Grass’s a bit fucking much,’ said Villani. ‘Serious fire hazard.’

‘Gets this far, you’re buggered anyway,’ said Bob.

‘That’s not what the CFA manual says.’

‘They know fuckall, they start the fires. Lukie’s coming, staying tonight.’

‘Thrilling news. When d’you last see him?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘When?’

‘Haven’t seen your lot for a while. Bloody years.’

‘Kids,’ said Villani. ‘You know.’

‘No, never worked out kids.’

‘Well, lack of effort could be involved.’

His father never asked about Laurie and she never asked about him. From the start, she and Bob behaved like dogs who’d had a bad fight, shifty eyes, didn’t kiss, had nothing to say to each other.

‘Eaten?’

‘Yeah. Brought us lunch.’ ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Might do some mowing first. Get this stuff down.’

‘Can’t mow. Total fire ban day.’

‘Leaving it’s a bigger risk than the mower.’

‘Gordie’ll do it.’

‘Not sure I want to trust my inheritance to Gordie coming around one day.’

‘Who made you the prince? I’ll leave the place to Luke.’

You did not want to take Bob seriously, he could take and give, he could dissolve everything you thought solid.

Villani got the Victa out of the garage, fuelled it, pushed it around to the front. He opened the throttle and tried to pull the cord. It wouldn’t move. He upended the machine, tried to move the blade, brushed his knuckles, quick blood. He went to the woodpile, chose a length, came back and hit the blade, the third blow shifted it.

‘First resort,’ said his father. ‘Brute force.’

‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Learned from you.’

He righted the mower, pressed the nipple a few times, it was covered in grease and dirt. He pulled the cord. The motor plopped. He tried again. Again. Again, a wire of pain up his arm, into his shoulder.

‘Not getting juice,’ said his father. ‘More tit.’

‘Filthy, this machine. What happened to never put a tool away dirty, that’s what you always said.’

‘Dust,’ said his father. ‘Whole fucking Mallee’s blowing over here.’

Villani thumbed the plunger until he smelled fuel, stood up and pulled the cord: a piston puff, he tried again, the engine puffed twice, he gave another rip. A roar, dust, lapwings rose from the grass. He trimmed the throttle, pushed the mower down to the northern corner of the house block and began.

On the second tank, he saw Bob Villani wave. They sat on the gap-planked verandah and drank tea. The dog, yellow of hair and eye, lay with his long snout on his master’s boot.

For another half-hour, he pushed the machine. The dust he raised mingled with petrol fumes and stuck to his skin, a headache began. It was over thirty, wind gone, nothing stirring, a hot, dead world smelling of smoke. On the long east-west run, itching, dust in his eyes, sticking to his face, he could look at the blue-grey mountain, the treeless dark of the upper slope. It appeared close but it was an hour away, the country was deeply folded.

At noon, he throttled back, the motor stuttered, didn’t want to die. It was minutes before he could hear the silence. He walked to the tank, disturbing a pair of crested pigeons. They strutted off, offended. He washed his hands, splashed his face. When he opened his eyes, the world dimmed. You didn’t notice this in the city, you needed to be away from the smog for clouds to change the colour of the land, of your flesh.

‘Missed a bit down there,’ said Bob, pointing.

‘I didn’t actually drive up here to cut your grass,’ he said. ‘The phone rings out. What happened to the answering machine?’

‘Buggered,’ said Bob.

‘Well, get another one.’ He drank from the tap. The rainwater tasted ancient, of zinc nails held in the mouth.

Villani cleaned the mower, sprayed it with WD-40, pushed it into the garage. He went inside, washed his face and hands in the kitchen sink, made chicken sandwiches with mayonnaise and iceberg lettuce.

They ate in the kitchen, the dog under the table.

‘Bread’s tough,’ said Bob.

‘It’s expensive bread, handmade.’

‘They done you, mate.’

‘Mark been here?’

‘The doctor doesn’t need his old man.’ ‘Maybe he phones and no one answers.’

‘He doesn’t phone.’

‘Yeah? The phone doesn’t work. I’ll talk to him. The compost heap’s dead. No tomatoes in either.’

His father chewing, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Not growing anything, you don’t need compost.’

‘Not over yet, Dad. You’re still eating, I presume?’

Bob Villani said, ‘Gordie’s growing vegies for a fucking army, what’s the point me growing tomatoes?’

‘Fair enough. How’s he going?’

‘Gordie’s Gordie. Be here five minutes after Luke shows up.’

‘Doesn’t do that for me.’

‘Scared of you.’

‘Bullshit.’

Bob said nothing, took his plate to the sink.

‘Anyway he’s a boofhead,’ said Villani. ‘Always been one. Like his mother. Why you limping?’

‘Fell.’

‘How?’

‘No particular way.’

‘What, your hip?’

Bob turned. ‘You’re not the doctor, boy,’ he said, ‘you’re the fucking copper.’

Bob wasn’t going to look away. Villani put up his hands, they went outside.

‘Ibises,’ said Bob. ‘Never seen so many ibises. That’s a very bad sign.’

‘What happens when the fire gets here?’

Bob turned his head, the long, appraising, pitying look. ‘Fire’s not coming,’ he said. ‘Fire’s going where the wind says.’

‘Just got lucky the last time.’

‘That’s what I am. Mr Lucky.’

‘I hope so,’ Villani said. ‘I very much hope so. Let’s have a look at the trees.’

‘You go,’ said Bob. ‘I’ll wait for Lukie. Take the dog.’

Villani looked at the dog. It was studying the ground like an anteater waiting for food to appear.

‘Walk?’ he said.

The dog looked at him, alert, cheered, a sentry relieved at last. They walked across the bottom paddock, it had provided no horse feed this season, went through the gate to the big crescent of dam, stood on the edge. The dog wandered down the dry fissured side to an unhealthy yellow-green puddle, stepped in and lapped. The hole was carved before they began planting, a man came with a bulldozer on a truck, shifted tonnes of earth, rerouted a winter creek. For years, it was never empty, often it overflowed, its lip had to be raised.

Below them a forest, wide and deep and dark, big trees, more than thirty years old. Planted by hand, every last one, thousands of trees-alpine ash, mountain swamp gum, red stringybark, peppermints, mountain gum, spotted gum, snow gum, southern mahogany, sugar gum, silvertop ash. And the oaks, about four thousand, grown from acorns collected in two autumns from every russet Avenue of Honour Bob Villani drove down, from every botanical garden he passed. He stored the shiny amber capsules in brown-paper bags in their own fridge, place of origin and date, sometimes a species, written in pencil in his squat soldier’s report-writing hand.

In the spring, Villani helped him fence off a big rectangle behind the stables, rabbit-proof fence. They put the acorns in plastic pots, in a mixture of river sand and soil, a weekend just to do that. Villani was thirteen that year, already alone all week with Mark, making their breakfast and tea, sandwiches for school, washing clothes, ironing. He remembered the delight of the morning he saw tiny green oak tips had broken the soil, dozens and dozens, as if they had received some signal. He couldn’t wait for Bob to get home to show him.

‘What’s wrong with the others?’ said Bob. ‘Water them?’

The others emerged in the next weeks. All that summer, he watered the seedlings by hand, half a mug each from a bucket filled from the tanks.

On a Saturday morning in late summer they walked down to the bottom gate and across the road that went nowhere, stood at the gate opposite. Bob waved a hand. ‘Bought it,’ he said. ‘Hundred and ten acres.’

Villani looked at the overgrazed, barren, pitted sheep paddocks. ‘Why?’ he said.

‘A forest,’ Bob said. ‘Going to have our own forest.’

‘Right,’ said Villani. ‘A forest.’

That winter they dug the first holes, at least a thousand, left paths, clearings, Bob appeared to have a master plan in his head, never disclosed. They dug in icy winds and freezing rain, numb black hands, your cold skin tore, you only found out you had bled when you washed off the dirt. Towards spring that year and the next two, Saturdays and Sundays, eight hours a day, they created the forest. They planted the oak seedlings and the bought eucalypt seedlings through squares of old carpet underfelt, protected them with house-wrap cut from fifty-metre rolls, Bob got these things somewhere, perhaps fallen off the back of some other driver’s truck, like the plastic pots.

In the cold spring when it was done, when Bob said it was done, Villani was heading for sixteen, marginally shorter than his father.

Now he looked at what had once been a burrowed, bumpy landscape covered with little silver tents, then with hair-transplant plugs, and said to himself, ‘Looking good.’ The sight filled him with pleasure, with joy even.

He went around the dam, the dog came up, muddy-pawed, and they entered the shade by the path once wide as a street, now narrowed to a track. From the time the trees were head-high, every time he walked the forest he heard new bird calls, saw new groundcovers spreading, new plants sprung up, new droppings of different sizes and shapes, new burrowings, scrapings, scratchings, new holes, fallen feathers, drab ones and feathers that flashed sapphire, scarlet, blue, emerald, and soon there were tiny bones and spike-toothed skulls, signs of life and death and struggle among the arboreal mammals.

‘Lots of little buggers in there now,’ said Bob one day. ‘Echidnas, bandis, God knows where they come from.’

The walk took almost an hour. When they got back to the house, Villani said, ‘We should’ve done something about the understorey a long time ago. Well, got to go. Long day tomorrow.’

Bob raised a hand. ‘He’ll be here in a minute, hang on.’

‘See Luke some other time.’

‘Give him a chance. Don’t often get two of you here.’ He rose. ‘Come. Got two new horses.’

They walked along the horse paddock fence. The ten-year-old Cromwell had sensed they were coming, stood near the trough with his rough head over the wire.

‘Having a little rest, Crommie,’ said Bob. He fed the horse something, stroked his nose.

‘What was the last payday?’ said Villani.

‘Third at Benalla, that’d be…a while. Still, got a run or two left in him.’

‘Encourage them to have a race for ten-year-olds,’ said Villani. ‘No more than four non-metropolitan wins. A level playing field.’

They went into the stable, a long building, doors open at both ends, cracked and pitted concrete floor, twelve bays. It smelled of manure and urine and straw. Two heads looked at them from adjacent boxes on the left.

They stopped at the first one, a big animal, colour of rust. ‘This’s Sunny,’ said Bob. ‘Red Sundown, six-year-old. Bought him off Billy Clarke at Trenneries, three hundred bucks, he’s got this leg. Only had the six runs but he’s out of St Marcus.’

‘If he can’t actually run, he might as well be out of St Peter,’ said Villani.

‘I’ll fix him,’ said his father. ‘The lawang.’

‘The what?’

‘Oil. From a tree in Indonesia. Costs a fucking bomb.’ He fed the horse something out of his cupped hand.

‘What happened to magnets? Last time it was miracles from magnets.’

‘Lawang’s better than magnets.’ Bob moved to the next horse. ‘My baby. Tripoli Girl.’

The coal-dark animal was skittish, jerked its head, white-eyed them, backed off, toed the floor. Bob showed his palm, closed his hand, opened it, took it away, turned his back on the horse.

‘Cairo Night out of Hathaway,’ he said. ‘Cairo won two, maiden by ten lengths. He bled and then he came back and run terrible, they gave up on him after a year or so. Just produced the four fruits.’

‘All duds?’

‘Bad luck early, badly handled, that’s the way I read it.’

‘How much?’

‘Cheap. Cheap. Dollar Dazzler.’

Tripoli Girl was nudging Bob with its silken head, moving it from side to side. He turned, kept back from the horse, extended an empty hand. The horse nosed it, looked at him. He offered the other hand, opened it slowly, Tripoli nuzzled into it, found something.

They went back to the house, shoes disturbing the dry mown grass. Bob fetched two beers, a VB and a Crown. He gave Villani the Crown. It cost more than the VB.

‘Said he’d be here around three-thirty,’ said Bob.

They sat on the shady side of the house. After a while, Villani said, ‘Why’s Gordon scared of me?’

Bob wiped a beer tidemark from his upper lip. ‘Well, you know. People.’

‘What?’

Bob frowned at the landscape. ‘You’ve got a manner.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Boss manner.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since a kid. Just got more so.’

Villani could not believe that he had always had a boss manner. ‘No one’s said that.’

‘Be like telling a bloke he’s got red hair.’

‘Where would I get a boss manner from?’ said Villani.

‘Don’t look at me.’

They sat drinking, Bob looking at his watch every few minutes. They heard the car, Bob was up, gone. Villani sipped beer and looked at the hills, row upon wavy row, greying now, darker in the foreground. He put the bottle on the table and got up.

Luke got out of a black Audi, embraced his father, kissed his cheek. A woman got out, tall, dark hair pulled back. Luke saw Villani.

‘Steve. Been a while, mate.’ He had a tan, he’d lost weight, white shirt worn outside his pants.

Villani stepped off the verandah. They shook hands.

‘This’s Charis, works with me,’ Luke said. ‘Charis, this’s my dad, best bloke on the planet, my brother Steve, he’s another matter entirely.’

‘Hi.’ Charis smiled, uneasy, offered a hand.

She was young, a teenager.

‘You didn’t say Steve was coming,’ Luke said to his father.

‘Didn’t know. Beer time.’

They sat on the verandah. Bob brought beers, glasses. Luke and the woman drank Crown from the bottle. Luke was a race-caller, all he ever wanted to be. He did all the talking, asked questions, didn’t hear the answers, gave answers himself. The woman giggled at everything he said.

‘Charis does T-WIN weather,’ he said. ‘Just a start, she’s going to be big-time.’

Charis smiled, showed all front teeth, a for-the-camera smile.

‘Oh, Luke,’ she said.

‘How’s Kathy?’ said Villani. ‘The kids.’ There were two. He couldn’t remember their names.

‘Great, good.’ Luke didn’t meet Villani’s eyes. ‘Yours?’

‘Same, yeah.’

A cough. Gordon McArthur, the neighbour’s son, approaching thirty, a fat twelve-year-old face, checked shirt beneath clean overalls.

‘Gordie, my man.’ Luke went to him, tapped his cheeks, hard, both hands. ‘How you doing, big fella?’

‘Good, Lukie, good.’ Gordie’s eyes were lit.

‘Charis, meet Gordie. Seen Charis do the weather, Gordie?’

‘Seen her,’ said Gordie. He didn’t quite look at Charis and she didn’t quite look at him.

Villani’s mobile went. He stepped away, to the far end of the verandah.

‘Tried you a few times, boss,’ said Dove.

‘Comes and goes,’ said Villani. ‘What?’

‘Two things. One, got an HSV doing 130 on the Hume about 9.40 on the night of sixteen December. Driver is a Loran Alibani, address in Marrickville, Sydney, vehicle registered to him.’

‘That’s good. What shows?’

‘We’re waiting. Second thing, Prosilio now says it’s got no vision at all from the lifts and the parking, the basement, from Thursday 4.23pm to 8.55am Friday. Recording malfunction.’

‘This is shit. Happened before?’

‘That’s not clear,’ said Dove. ‘The company runs the electronic security for the building. Stilicho. They offer cutting edge, you expect bugs. It’s the first time they ran the full casino system and it sort of blew other bits. The CEO is blaming the techs, they’re not happy.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘Weber. He talked to people.’

Villani was looking at the mountain. ‘Really?’ he said. ‘That’s an old-fashioned thing to do.’

‘He’s from the country,’ said Dove. ‘Manton says Prosilio management’s not responsible for Stilicho’s technical failures. He says talk to Hugh Hendry, he’s the Stilicho boss.’

‘Is that Max Hendry’s son?’

‘Don’t know, boss.’

‘Find out. And the other stuff?’

‘Running the names. Unless someone pops up for killing women, even one, it’ll be a while.’

‘Takes as long as it takes,’ said Villani. ‘Do it right and sleep tight.’

Oh God, another Singo saying. He killed the call before Dove could say something clever, walked back down the verandah.

‘Got the meat, the Crownies,’ Bob Villani said to Luke.

‘Can’t, Dad,’ said Luke. ‘The talent dropped out, some weak-dog excuse. I can’t say no, it’s in the contract. Really pisses me off, been looking forward to talking ponies.’

Luke rose and they all stood. Luke put an arm around his father’s shoulders, walked him along. It struck Villani that he now looked completely unlike Bob. At the car, the girl inside, Luke took out a wallet, thumbed fifties.

‘Thursday,’ he said. ‘Benalla. Stand in the Day in the third. The little thing’s rough as a brush.’

He tucked the notes into Bob’s shirt pocket.

‘Four hundred,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you a bell about ten if it’s on, you and Gordie pop over to Stanny. Probably a hundred each way, the rest, we’ll box a few. Thirty per cent commission, how’s that?’

‘Reasonable,’ said Bob. ‘Stand in the Day. Good name.’

‘Just my dough, Dad, okay?’ said Luke. ‘No insurance here, could run stone motherless.’

He turned to Villani. ‘Want to be in this?’

‘No thanks.’

‘Oh yeah, forgot you’d given it away.’ He offered a high-five to Villani. Villani didn’t take it, he was not a high-five man.

‘Catch you, mate, right?’ said Luke. ‘Soon. Ring you.’

‘Good.’

Luke put his arms around Bob. ‘This fire gets serious, mate, I want you out of here, okay? I’ll come up and drag you out myself.’

‘Be fine,’ said Bob. ‘Got Gordie to look after me.’

‘Do that, Gordie,’ said Luke. ‘I’m holding you responsible for this bastard.’

‘Do that, Lukie,’ said Gordie.

Luke hugged him.

They watched the car reverse, swing, fat tyres spat stones, Luke gunned it down the drive.

‘My turn to go,’ said Villani.

His father looked down, rubbed his stubble. ‘You could stay, have the barbie,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you up at sparrer.’

To say no was in Villani’s mouth, he had the excuses. But his father turned the black stone eyes and he could not utter them. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘The meat, the beer.’

‘Fire up the bugger, Gordie.’

‘Total fire ban,’ said Villani.

‘For dickheads,’ said Bob.

The day ended slowly, a fever in the western sky. Villani ate too much steak, smoked Gordie’s cigarettes, slept in his old bed. Some time after midnight he woke, felt the storm coming, the trembling stillness, then the first solid movement of air and the thunderclap, it shook heaven and earth, a wind struck the house, squeaked the timbers, squealed the roof iron, rain hit like buckshot, two or three minutes under heavy fire, gone, the dying sluice of water in the downpipes.

His father didn’t have to wake him. When he came into the pewter day, Bob was there, shorts, bare-chested, all rib and bone, sinew and muscle.

‘No need to get up,’ said Villani.

‘Hear the rain?’

‘Woke me.’

‘Yeah. Done buggerall, need a soaking.’

‘The finances,’ said Villani. ‘Coping?’

Bob Villani flexed his arms. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Just asking.’

‘That boss stuff,’ said Bob.

‘I’m not worrying about it,’ said Villani.

‘The way things were, you looking after the little buggers.’

‘You can let this fucking house burn down,’ said Villani, ‘but if the forest goes I’m coming after you.’

They shook hands, just touched skin. He wanted to hug his father as Luke had done and give him something, some evidence that he too was a worthy son, but that was not possible.

Before first light, still cool, he drove down Selborne’s curt main street. Beneath the pub’s sole elm, a man slept on his ute tray, he was embalmed in a grey blanket, one naked marble-white foot showed. Around his head was a rough semi-circle of empty stubbies.

On the main road, Villani switched on the radio.

… firefighters arrive from West Australia today to support the weary teams battling to save three towns now under threat in the high country…

When the mobile rang, the towers were in sight, he was in the early Monday commuter traffic, all slit-eyed men, close-shaven, dreaming of Friday afternoon so far.

‘Villani,’ he said.

Birkerts said, ‘Three dead, it’s a shed in Oakleigh.’

‘Three?’

‘Yeah. Pretty fucking rough.’

THE SMELL was of a slaughterhouse, of excrement and piss and blood and fear.

Breathing shallowly, Villani stepped over the black creek and stood just inside the tin cavern. Light from the doorway lay across a man near them, on his front, his fluids had formed a clover shape before they ran out under the door.

Ten metres away, against a side wall, two men sagged from steel roof pillars, hands tied above their heads with gaffer tape. They were naked, covered in caked blood, feet in black ponds.

‘Jesus Christ,’ said Villani. ‘Jesus H. Christ.’

He took the long route to the first upright man, kept close to the wall, stopped well short.

The man was tanned, muscular, big-calved legs, small paunch, tracks on his arms. His hair appeared to have been burnt off, his genitals cut off, a thing of flesh lay on the concrete, head like a kicked cabbage dipped in blood, glint of teeth. Skeins of viscous material, gobbets of flesh, stuck to the tin wall behind him.

Villani went to the second man. He was paler, bigger beer gut, semi-circle of scar tissue under his left nipple. The same damage had been inflicted upon his face and genitals.

He looked around. The shed was a vehicle tip-carcasses of cars, doors, bonnets, windscreens, wheel rims, pistons, seats, dashboards, steering wheels, engine parts, they lay as if dropped from the sky.

Behind him, Birkerts cleared his throat. ‘Forensics two minutes away. Ditto coroner.’

‘We’re out of here, then.’

At the door, it was dead quiet, Villani heard something, looked up and saw a starling in ragged flight beneath the silver ceiling it had bounced off.

They passed through the door, the uniforms parted for them, and they went outside and stood on the concrete apron and sucked the dirty city air, so clean now. Birkerts offered, they lit.

Gawkers lined the side fence, workers from the car repair shop next door.

‘Shit,’ said Birkerts. ‘This is a step up.’

‘Who found them?’

‘Security bloke. Walking along that fence, he saw the blood, went around to the front of the house, door open, no one home, he came through and had a look. He’s in shock.’

A warm wind from the north-east now. Villani looked at the sky, thin streaks of high cloud the colour of tongue fur, heard the sound of a train, the rip and flap of a loose truck tarp in the nearest yard.

‘Well, three,’ he said. ‘Three is just one times three.’

‘Simple as that,’ said Birkerts, he was looking over Villani’s shoulder. ‘The scientists.’

People in blue overalls were coming down the side of the house, the crime-scene team, blood, ballistics, fingerprints, photography, they carried bags, not in a hurry. They walked across the concrete yard, chatting side-on, could be tradies coming on site.

Two of Birkerts’ crew came around the corner, in black, scratching, yawning, Finucane in front, work needed on his shave, as much hair on face as scalp, the pitbull Tomasic behind him.

Next was the forensic pathologist, Moxley, a balding ginger Scot. Villani raised a hand.

‘Doctor Death,’ he said.

Moxley grounded his bag. ‘The head of Homicide. Isn’t this early for someone so important?’

‘Never sleep. Three deceased here, two with no clothes on. May I request an extreme hurry-on?’

‘ASAP is always the aim,’ said Moxley.

‘Of course,’ said Villani. ‘Must be painful always to fall short.’

‘Well, it takes more than your nine or ten years of third-rate schooling to understand professional procedures.’

‘Yeah, but in Australia,’ said Villani. ‘Outranks a Glasgow PhD.’ ‘Probably couldn’t find Glasgow on a map,’ said Moxley and left.

Villani watched him go. ‘When I kill him, I want three days’ start,’ he said. ‘Like Tony Mokbel. Sum up the position for these two, Birk.’

Birkerts said, ‘Three dead. One shot, the others, the Christ knows, could be tortured to death, make you puke, I can tell you. Found by security. That’s it. Boss?’

‘It would be at night,’ said Villani. ‘Can’t be long ago.’

The day was warming quickly, cracks and pings from the tin building, the structure around them. ‘Not exactly in the bush,’ said Villani. ‘Someone around here must have seen something.’

‘Kill three people,’ said Birkerts. ‘Tie two up. How many does that take? You’d want to come in force, wouldn’t you? Say two cars, at least.’

‘Unless they came in a little bus,’ said Villani. ‘Like an outing.’

‘Non-linear thinking, boss.’ Birkerts gestured at Finucane, Tomasic. ‘Let’s get out there and ask about the place, start with those dorks at the fence.’

‘Media,’ said Finucane.

Villani looked. Television crews were arriving at the side fence, jostling.

A faint chop in the west, a television helicopter, a second one, bugs on the surface of the huge pale pond of sky. He said to Birkerts, ‘Since you look so sharp, when the time comes, you talk to them.’

‘People love to see me on television,’ said Birkerts.

‘So do we all. Say nothing. Check the whole street for security vision, that’s the priority. Along with all mobiles in the vicinity, starting, oh, 6pm Saturday.’

‘My exact thoughts,’ said Birkerts.

‘What took you so long then?’ said Villani. ‘Are we assuming the killers took these boys from the house to the shed to work on them?’

‘I am,’ said Birkerts. ‘The back door’s been smashed in.’

Villani crossed the concrete apron, inspected the back door. The latch was lying on the floor, all four screws forced out, that was one heavy, practised blow. He smelled disinfectant before he entered the kitchen, clinically clean.

The smelling he learned not on the detective course but from Singleton, who walked around murder scenes sniffing like someone with a lingering cold.

‘Stay with you, smells,’ Singo said. ‘All your life.’

Villani did not know of any occasion when sniffing had detected something that would not have been found by other means. But the more he sniffed, the more doglike he became, the more aware of the smells of the world.

The day would come, sniffing would pay off.

Empty pizza boxes stacked beside a bin, plastic plates in a drying rack, empty sink, two scourers. He crossed the room. A dim passage with a bare parquet floor led to the front door, two doors to the left, three to the right.

He looked into the first left-hand room. A bedroom, single bed. Prim like the kitchen, bed unmade, two pairs of runners lined up under it, clothes folded on a chair, a comb stuck in a clean hairbrush, like a porcupine with a fin.

The room opposite, a bathroom, towels hanging from rails. Clean as the kitchen, it smelled of chlorine bleach.

Next, another bedroom, king-sized bed, not made, cheap Chinese cotton clothes peeled from a body, dropped to the floor, layers of clothes. He sniffed cigarettes, dope, alcohol breath, sweaty runners.

Something else. Perfume, cheap. He sniffed above the bed. A woman had slept in it recently. Or a perfumed man.

The next room on the right. Duplicate of the previous one but dirtier and with two drug pipes. Different perfume here, also cheap.

The room on the left, a sitting room. Oversized chairs of cheap leather, foam escaping through splits, glass coffee table three metres square, cracked from corner to corner, a landing strip for burger wrappers, empty beer cans, cans of Cougar, HotRod, Stiff, HighLand. A chrome hubcap served as an ashtray, it held perhaps forty or fifty stubs, others missed the ashtray, burned out on the table, left cylinders of ash, dark nicotine stains. A fifty-inch flatscreen stood on a stand, the sound muted, a man and a woman with thick make-up, sprayed hair were talking to the camera: a breakfast show. The male frowned at the end of sentences, his eyebrows sloped, a dog face, sometimes happy, sometimes puzzled, sometimes sad. The pretty woman was excited in an awkward way, she knew she was meat, they had told her to be herself, she had no idea of what she was herself except pretty, so that did not help.

Someone had slept on a sofa against the wall, an unzipped sleeping bag on it, a grimy pillow, on the floor a full ashtray, a half-empty cigarette pack, a plastic lighter.

Beside the fireplace, newspapers were neatly stacked on a small table beside an obese and lumpy chair. Villani looked.

The Age.

Saturday’s paper. In this house, who read the broadsheet of record, the druggies or the tidy man, the cleaner and disinfector?

They had always kept the Age for Bob Villani at the milkbar in Selborne. When he was driving all week, they accumulated. On Sunday mornings, Bob arranged them in order and father and son read them at a sitting, Bob passing each paper on as he finished it.

Villani went back down the passage, through the antiseptic kitchen, into the day. Moxley was coming from the shed wearing a green surgical mask, pushing it onto his forehead.

‘Three Caucasian males, bullet wounds only on the one nearest the entrance, shot in the head, the two hanging have multiple wounds, including bullet wounds,’ he said. ‘No identification. Except.’

He handed Villani a card.

VOLIM TE IVAN, written in slanting capitals.

‘What’s this,’ said Villani.

‘Engraved on an earring on the nearest hanging male,’ said Moxley. ‘The two are both late thirties, I’d say. Give or take a few years.’

They watched him go back into the building.

‘I like him more with the mask on,’ said Villani. ‘More kissable.’

He showed the card. The crew stepped close.

‘I love you Ivan,’ said Tomasic. He was an only child, his parents dumped him when he was seven, he was fostered, shopped around, spoke four languages. ‘That’s what it says.’

‘In what?’

‘Croatian. Slovak.’

Villani felt the little tingle, looked at Birkerts. ‘Get in there and tell Moxley I’d like details of tatts.’

‘That’s going to be helpful?’

Birkerts had been Singo’s star pupil, picked in spite of having a degree, in spite of getting up the nose of every superior he’d ever had.

Villani had an acid surge, beer, nicotine, vinegary tomato sauce. ‘You reckon not, detective?’ he said. ‘Should I have asked you first?’

‘Sorry, boss.’ A small head bow, Birkerts went.

Villani and the crew stood in the warming day, the air alive with electronic squawk and grate and twitter, waited for his return, watched him step around the blood, come back.

‘Both got a little shield with a sword across it,’ said Birkerts. ‘Like a chessboard.’

He patted his left upper arm. ‘Here.’

‘Matko Ribaric’s boys,’ said Villani. ‘Who says there’s no God?’

He walked to the building. They would have turned the third man onto his back by now, he could take pictures.

IN THE CAR, at the lights at Belgrave Road, the phone rang.

Kiely’s fat vowels. ‘Gather I’m the last to hear about Oakleigh,’ he said. ‘Makes me unhappy.’

‘What’s your unhappiness got to do with me?’ said Villani.

‘Just a comment. So I’m playing catch-up, what’s the prelim scenario?’

Villani wanted to close his eyes for a long time, but the lights changed.

‘Could be drugs,’ Villani said. ‘That’s a possibility.’

‘Really?’ said Kiely, smart little inflection. ‘I thought it might be something like, ah, farm produce.’

Kiely had a degree in criminology and an MBA, done parttime. He was head of Homicide in Auckland when he got the nod, they thought New Zealand was clean and green. Kiely was certainly green.

‘We’ve had farm produce, mate,’ said Villani. ‘Many dead. The Mafia war. But you wouldn’t know.’

The silence sang.

‘Anyway,’ said Villani, ‘Tomasic’s sent through three names, we’ll get the paper on these boys soonest. The house is going to take all morning. That’s the priority.’

‘Shouldn’t this be a Crucible matter?’

‘Unnatural deaths. Homicide. Not the case in Auckland?’

‘Just contributing to our ongoing professional conversation.’

‘Whatever the fuck that is. Forget Crucible.’

Hunger.

Villani detoured to South Melbourne, parked in a disabled space, he felt disabled. They knew him at the greasy, run by Greek outlaws, he customised the hamburger with the lot, subtracted the cheese, he couldn’t hack plastic cheese, the bacon with the pink stains of meat in the white fat. Four orders ahead of him, he went down the street, bought a paper, came back and watched the two-station assembly line at work.

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 Villani, 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.’

‘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. Not 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.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Talked to people. Boss.’

Villani nodded, acknowledged the reference, did not show amusement. ‘Interesting. Do away with cops. I can understand why the system doesn’t work but this lost-all-vision shit, no, I’m unhappy. Make sure that message gets to Mr Hugh Bloody Hendry.’

‘Tried that, boss. Repeatedly.’

Angela from the door. ‘Your mate. The old days. Says it’s urgent.’

Dove left, he took the call. Afterwards, he thought about Colby’s advice. There was no upside to Oakleigh. It was just wading into a swamp. What did it matter if homicides went to some other outfit, they had enough dead people. He sent for Birkerts.

‘I’m leaning to the view that Oakleigh should go to Crucible,’ Villani said. ‘Let’s stick to women drown their babies, men knife their wives, that’s our comfort level.’

‘Well excuse me, we have…’

‘Drugs,’ Villani said. ‘This is drugs, it’s like spit, no natural end. You never nail anyone who matters, never have the final day in court.’

Birkerts’ head inclined to the window. ‘Well, just turn it over before we have a chance, I mean…’

‘Not running a democracy,’ said Villani.

‘You can’t run a democracy, that’s the thing about democracies, they…’

‘Tell Angela to ask Mr Kiely to step in, will you?’

Villani looked away until Birkerts had left, two fingertips in the hollow of his throat, feeling the pulse, before a fight it was a way to steady yourself, get your breathing right.

‘Inspector,’ said Kiely, face stiff.

‘Take the media gig this afternoon?’

‘Well, yes, certainly. Yes.’

‘Give them the waffle. Can’t name Ribarics. On the torture, it’s out there, so the line is horrific and so on. We’re shocked. Scumbags’ inhumanity to other filth. With me?’

‘Urge people to come forward?’

‘Mate, absolutely. In large numbers.’

Kiely smiled, uneasy.

‘Anyway, the communication expert will guide you,’ said Villani. ‘Ms Cathy Wynn. Just don’t embed her.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Joke.’

‘Your jokes,’ said Kiely, ‘are either very crude or very obscure.’

‘Let me think about that, will you?’

‘It’ll probably take you a while.’

‘That’s cheeky for a subordinate,’ said Villani.

‘THE OLD DAYS,’ said Vickery. ‘My fuck, some good ones, right?’

They drank, set glasses on the counter cloth. The bar was in the basement of an office block, smell of pissed-on camphor balls, nylon carpet outgassing, the fears of failed salesmen.

‘Think about them?’ said Vickery.

‘Oh, yeah. The good times.’

Villani often thought about the rushes, about being young, unbreakable, stupid. He never thought about them as the good times.

‘We missed you,’ said Vickery. ‘Always miss a steady bloke. Reliable bloke. Bloke likes a joke.’

Vickery and a cop called Gary Plaice almost killed a half-arsed little robber called Ivanovich, they said he broke free, tripped and fell down a flight of stairs.

‘The lesson the scum can draw from this,’ said the boss, Matt Cameron, ‘is that you don’t get between Vick and a hard Plaice.’

Villani knew what Vickery was saying. ‘Different jokes now,’ he said.

‘Oakleigh, got a joke there. Good fucking riddance. Listen, won’t hold you. The reason is, we heard a story.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Um.’ Vickery’s tongue bulged his upper lip, did a few wipes over his gums. ‘Lovett carked it, hear that? Lung cancer.’

‘I heard that,’ Villani said. He had felt no loss at the news, every day dawned brighter without Alan Arthur Lovett.

‘Didn’t break down myself neither,’ said Vickery. ‘But he’s on a fucking video, coughing and spitting, the twat says we fitted the little Quirk bastard.’

‘Why would he say that?’ said Villani.

Vickery gave him the long look. ‘Yeah, well, the drugs fuck with your brain, my brother-in-law, another prick, he came up with all kinds of shit, incest, you name it. It’s the Super K.’

‘When was it made?’

‘What?’

‘The tape?’

‘Dunno. What’s it matter?’

‘Could matter a lot.’

Vickery turned his back to the bar, glass in hand, looked around the dungeon. ‘Anyway, the problem here’s the wife, bloody Grace’s found God, fucking never-never-land shit and she’s sent the DPP the tape.’

Down the bar a blade-faced man coughed and coughed, could not stop coughing, it was painful to hear, he bent his head, ejected something into an expectant palm.

‘Fucked,’ said Vickery. ‘Another cunt going Lovett’s way. My guy says they’re talking second inquest. And there’s people very keen to see us go down. So we need to consider taking steps.’

He looked into his glass. ‘Coming man like you, you can raise this in the right places.’

‘Don’t know about that,’ said Villani.

Vickery turned to be at a right angle to Villani, he was the same height, heavier, torso sausaged in cold blue polyester.

‘Mate, mate,’ he said. ‘Clarity here. Courtesy this mad prick we can go down as killers, perjurers, eternal disgrace to the fucking force.’

In dreams, Villani always saw the fire escape, the kitchen’s grey vinyl tiles, dirty, peeling, the blood, on the ceiling, on the walls, on the windowpanes, lying on the carpet like drops of scarlet syrup. He never saw Greg Quirk’s face, never the blown-away throat, he never saw the face of the dying man.

‘See what I can do,’ he said, finished the beer.

Vickery made a nasal pipe-hammer sound. ‘Stevo,’ he said, ‘we don’t get smart here, we’ll know what arsefucked by a whole footy team feels like. Those who don’t already.’

‘Well, you heard a story,’ said Villani. ‘Could be some mistake.’

‘My whole life’s a fucking mistake,’ said Vickery. ‘With one or two exceptions I can’t remember. No mistake here.’

On the stairs, carrying his parcels, Villani passed two young women arguing, blotchy drug faces, hookers. The street door resisted him, then the outside hit, hot air of wood smoke and petrochemicals, fuels ancient and new.

‘I’M NOT sayin Greg was a good boy,’ she said that day.

‘You wouldn’t want to,’ said Villani, ‘because it would be a very big porky.’

He had been on his knees, pulling at the last clump of the couch grass, the roots yielded, no warning, his hands struck him in the mouth. He spat, an elastic string of sputum, no lift-off, the bloody line fell down his chin, lay on his T-shirt.

He put a finger into his mouth, felt his inner lip.

‘Fingers in your mouth, son,’ Rose said. ‘That’s a big no-no. Feedin yourself germs.’

She was on the verandah, a filter cigarette in a pink plastic holder.

‘Pity I didn’t meet you earlier,’ Villani said. ‘You could have spared me so much.’

‘On the other hand, Mick,’ she said. ‘Always thought Mick would come good.’

‘Just got in with bad boys, I know.’

Rose closed her eyes, tilted her head back, blew smoke. ‘Too right. Rotten homes, every last one of that lot.’

Villani took the watering can to the rainwater tank behind the house. Tap watering was banned. It hadn’t rained much for a long time but Rose’s tank was always full. He didn’t ask questions. It wasn’t beyond her to pass through next door’s rotten fence in the deep of night, connect her hose to their tap and fill the tank.

In the house, over time, he saw items well beyond the means and needs of an aged pensioner, French cologne, a leather purse, handbags, chocolates, jewellery, CDs, DVDs.

Once he picked up a small camera. ‘Where’d you get this?’

‘Found it,’ she said. ‘At the bus stop.’

‘Same stop as the Chanel No. 5?’

‘Don’t be cheeky, copper.’

‘Hate to see you in court.’

‘What, gonna dob me? Serve me bloodywell right lettin you into me house. And who the hell are you to talk? Bloody bent, every last prick of you. Believe me, sonny, I know.’

Villani came back, watering can brimming. ‘Lucky with rain here,’ he said. ‘Microclimate. Tiny zone of high rainfall.’

After a while, Rose said, ‘Kids. You don’t want to blame yourself, do you? God knows, you done your best.’

‘What if you haven’t done your best?’

‘Me?’

‘No, me.’

‘Well, you’re not a mum.’

‘No,’ said Villani. ‘That lets me off then.’

He sprinkled water, special attention for the carrots and potatoes in the drum. He liked underground vegetables. When he was seven, Bob Villani left him and Mark with their grandmother, Stella. Couple of weeks, son, he said. More than three years passed, he came back only twice that Villani could remember.

But he already knew by seven, knew from his mother, that what adults told you was only true while it suited them for it to be true. He had become expert at detecting grown-ups’ moods, always alert for signs of anxiety, for false cheerfulness and unnecessary lies, for the appearance of sincerity. He knew all the danger signs-extra attention and being pushed away, hushed conversations, the unexpected and frightening outbursts that gave way to hugs and kisses.

The first spring, Stella showed him how to plant carrot seeds. She put them in a glass jar with sand, drew a furrow in the black soil of her back garden with a finger, trickled a line. When the tops came up, he went outside in the evenings, after tea, lay on the path next to his little carrot bed, warm bricks beneath his body, trying to hear the little carrots expanding, pushing downwards.

‘Time to put the radishes in,’ said Rose. ‘Love a tiny little radish.’

‘April,’ said Villani, ‘that’s when the radishes go in.’

‘April,’ said Rose. ‘Doubt I’ll see April. Feelin a terrible tiredness. Body and soul.’

‘Ten years you’ve been saying that,’ said Villani. ‘Still be saying it in ten years.’

Rose said, ‘Ten years? Be bloody eighty. No desire to be eighty. I can see what bloody eighty looks like. Looks like bloody hell.’

Rose Quirk hadn’t got much older since their first meeting. On his second visit, dusk on that long-ago October day, coming from a barren surveillance, he stood at her front door, regretting the impulse. ‘Out this way, thought I’d see if you…’

‘No,’ she said.

‘Nothing?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if something comes up, if I can do…’

‘No,’ she said.

Going down the cracked concrete path, Villani’s eye fell on crusted earth, faded seed packets. At the gate, he said, ‘Need to get the summer vegies in soon.’

‘Greg did the vegies.’

They had shot Greg dead, he wasn’t going to do the vegies.

On the next Saturday, Villani woke early, heard Laurie’s car grate the gravel in the driveway, it was her busiest day of the week. He lay in bed thinking about the old woman’s vegetables, sighing. After making breakfast for the kids, he drove to a nursery and bought blood and bone, mulch, seeds, seedlings. Rose Quirk didn’t answer his knocks. He went around the back, found a fork in the shed, dug up the beds, dug in blood and bone. He planted carrots, beans, two kinds of tomatoes, peas, cucumbers, beetroot, mulched the beds, watered thoroughly.

He was sweaty, looking at his work, the bright seed packets on sticks, when he heard the gate.

‘What’s this?’ said Rose, hoarse cigarette voice.

‘Put some vegies in.’

‘What for?’

‘I thought we could share them.’

‘Why don’t you grow your own?’

‘No room.’ A lie.

‘Can’t hardly walk, never mind lookin after vegies. Buy em at the super’s easier.’

‘They don’t need much. I’ll come around.’

Black eyes, Rose looked at him as if he were a Jehovah’s Witness, wouldn’t take no. He thought he had been stupid, he would take no. At the gate, he said, ‘Got my number, Mrs Quirk,’ he said. ‘You can get me.’

‘What kind of copper are you?’

‘Not just a copper,’ he said. ‘I’m a human being too.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’d be a first,’ she said. ‘Thirsty. Go a beer?’

‘I could go a beer.’

They sat on the front verandah in fraying, swaying wicker chairs and drank Vic Bitter out of glasses with green and red bands around the tops.

‘Smoke?’ said Rose.

‘Given up,’ said Villani. He took one. Rose clicked a pink plastic lighter, he leaned across.

‘Family man?’ she said.

‘Two girls and a boy.’

‘Wife?’

‘Wife. Their mother.’

‘Where you from? You Melbourne?’

‘No. A few places.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘My dad was in the army.’

Loud clattering noise.

Villani jerked, alarmed, heads in the street, beanies.

Skateboarders.

The street sloped, full of holes, they would come from all around to run it. He put his head back, felt the tension in his neck.

‘A wharfie, me dad,’ Rose said. ‘Bashed mum, bashed me, bashed us all. Me brother Danny run away, twelve years old, never ever saw him again. Biggest bastard ever lived, me dad.’

There was nothing to say about that.

‘Broke me little doggy’s head with a half-brick,’ she said. ‘No bigger swine ever lived.’

Villani was on the fire escape at the back door of the third floor unit when he heard the shots. He went in, weapon drawn, filthy kitchen, pizza boxes, beer cans, opened the door, a passage, went left down it, put an eye around the corner and saw Gregory Thomas Quirk, Rose Quirk’s second-born.

So you say that from the fire escape you heard Detective Dance shout?

Yes, sir.

What did you hear?

He shouted, Put it down, Greg.

You heard that clearly?

Yes, sir.

It says here, you say here, he shouted it two or three times?

Yes, sir.

And then you heard the shots?

Yes, sir.

You were outside the back door?

Yes, sir.

How far away was the back door from the front door, sergeant?

I don’t know exactly, sir.

I’ll tell you, sergeant. More than ten metres.

That could be right, yes.

Certainly is. So you say that, across this distance, through double-brick walls, you heard Detective Dance shouting?

Yes, sir.

Put it down, Greg. He barked those words?

No, sir.

No?

He didn’t bark them. He shouted them.

Of course. Sharp point, my apologies. Not a dog then. Nothing worse than a dog, is there, Mr Villani?

Detective. Sir.

Yes. Moving on, you say you heard Detective Dance shout and then you heard shots? Yes, sir.

What was the interval between the shouts and the shots?

Quick. Short.

What, a second or two? More?

I can’t estimate that, sir. He shouted, there were shots.

Four shots, you say here.

Yes, sir.

You could count them?

Yes, sir.

Widely spaced?

No, sir.

In the passage, he looked into Greg Quirk’s black sleepy eyes. Greg’s left hand was on his chest, blood running, over his fingers. He coughed, from his throat blood spurted, his chin dropped, long black strands of hair hid his face, he went to his knees.

Tell us what you saw when you first saw Greg Quirk.

There was blood coming from his throat. He dropped a firearm, a handgun, and he took a step and sort of knelt down.

And?

Detective Dance was in the door. Detective Vickery. Behind him.

And Detective Lovett?

I didn’t see him. Not then.

Nothing prepared you for it: the volume of blood; the weak sounds of life leaking away.

COLBY SAID, ‘So you put the sheepshagger on TV to say you have no idea who these dead pricks are.’

‘No. Didn’t do that.’

‘That’s the impression of the girl Gillam, who’s been shat upon by the branchstacker Orong, who rang Mr Larry O’Barry to complain.’

‘I told Kiely don’t name anyone,’ said Villani. ‘I didn’t say we don’t know who they are. Anyway, he was in the hands of Searle’s media expert. Cathy Wynn. Handpicked by Searle.’

‘So she told Kiely what to say?’

‘Well they tell you what not to say, don’t they?’

‘That’s better. I don’t know Cathy Wynn.’

On television, Anna Markham raised her chin and tilted her head a few degrees east. Good-looking women did that, it was in their genes, they had to do it.

‘Just come on board,’ said Villani, cold in his heart. ‘From the Herald Sun, possibly the fashion pages. They say recently seen going into Lake Towers in Middle Park with someone. Two-thirty in the pm.’

‘What kind of someone?’

‘Resembling a communications expert.’

‘That’s from?’

It came from an off-duty uniform via one of Birkerts’ squad.

‘I forget,’ said Villani. ‘Reliable enough.’

‘So the defence line is Homicide badly advised by said slut?’

‘We are not the defendant, boss.’

‘Moving on. Reconsidered passing this Oakleigh shit to Crucible?’

That impulse was gone. ‘No, sir.’

Colby put the phone down. Villani unmuted. Anna Markham was speaking:

…in Wangaratta today new state Liberal leader Karen Mellish rated water, health, public transport, economic mismanagement, public safety and police corruption as key issues for voters in this election…

The Opposition leader standing on the back of a truck, hair pulled back, check shirt and denims, a sea of hats in front of her.

…Labor’s brought this great state to its knees. They talk about being the party of working people. Rubbish. Party of the merchant bankers and the consultants and the investment advisors and the branchstackers, that’s what they are. It’s time to chuck them out…

Cut to the anchor, who said:

… Melbourne will tonight hear details of what its proposers call ‘a public transport revolution’ when a consortium headed by businessman Max Hendry outlines its plans at a function for city councils. Among the guests will be the premier, the leader of the Opposition and…

Villani muted, looked at what the computer offered on the current cases. It offered nothing except the blindingly obvious. He logged out, went back to the files, worked at the paper, the never-diminishing, self-replenishing paper, took calls, hoping for a call from Barry withdrawing the invitation. Maybe he should quit the job, take a package, he had the years. He could join Bob, use mysterious Indonesian oils to patch up horses, go to the races, look after the trees.

They had to think about thinning or it would be impossible to walk in some parts of the forest. Dig another dam too, it would rain again, sooner or later.

At 6pm, Stephen Villani took the pins out of the new blue shirt, changed into the new suit, dark grey, put on the tie, red, and the shoes, black with toecaps. He sat for a moment, head back, eyes closed, felt the weight of the day begun far away in the high country, before dawn.

VILLANI TOOK a glass of white wine from a penguin boy’s tray, looked at the crowd, all suits, men and women, walked around the rim of the crowded room. It was in the sky, windows all around, it offered the city, the bay, the hinterland, the meek hills, all gauzed in smoke.

‘Something of a view, is it not, Stephen,’ said Commissioner Barry.

‘Don’t often get this high, sir,’ Villani said.

Barry was drinking champagne. He looked different, shorter, his dark hair gleamed, his cheekbones glowed, there was moisturiser involved. ‘Nice suit,’ he said. ‘Also tie and shirt.’

His eyes went down. ‘Ditto shoes. That’s the way, Stephen.’

Villani felt a flush, he willed it away. He would not forget this moment, he felt like a girl.

‘I’ve reassured my leaders on your handling of the media,’ Barry said. ‘A bit of paranoia at the political level. The problem is wanting always to be seen to be on top of the baddies. Now is that not a total misunderstanding of the world?’

‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for the invitation. Happy crowd here.’

‘Well, they would be, the oysters, the champers,’ said Barry.

Probably Laurie’s outfit, thought Villani, caterers to the big end of town, minimum hundred-and-fifty bucks a head, feeding the A-list on Cup Day was three hundred.

‘Good to see you out of your silo,’ said Barry. ‘Can’t have you buried like Singleton. Get some perspective. If you’re going up, you need to have a wide view.’

He winked. ‘Mind you, I say that to all the girls.’

Villani made a smile, looked away, into the eyes of a young woman.

‘The minister and the chief commissioner are here, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Would you care to follow me?’

‘Of course,’ said Barry. ‘Lead on, darling.’

She took their glasses, gave them to a waiter. Then, like a safari guide, she led them through the throng.

As they skirted groups, Villani saw faces he knew from television, the newspapers. He saw the premier, Kelvin Yeats, slick brown hair, yellow eyes, he was laughing, bright teeth, looking at a man in his sixties, tanned, close-cropped grey hair: Max Hendry. The premier’s plump, blinking wife was talking to Vicky Hendry, Max’s second, third or fourth wife, a looker, shortish fair hair. As they passed, she met Villani’s eyes, registered him.

Then came infrastructure minister Stuart Koenig talking to Tony Ruskin and Paul Keogh, radio bookends of the working day, some people’s working day, two self-appointed opinion-makers. Sucking up to them before an election would be a priority for both parties.

They came close to a buffed couple, slash-mouthed Opposition leader Karen Mellish, kite-tight face, and her husband, Keith, usually called a farmer, he would have soft Collins Street hands.

From five metres, Villani saw the targets, two men drinking champagne: the police minister, Martin Orong, wolf-faced thirty-year-old, black hair, greasy skin, the latest model of outer-urban party branchstacker, and David Gillam, the chief commissioner.

As they approached, Gillam adjusted his uniform jacket. His features were a size or two too big for his face, as if they had grown ahead in the way of teenage boys’ feet.

Barry got there first, shook hands. ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ he said.

Orong tried some pathetic muscle, Villani didn’t respond.

‘How’s this Oakleigh shit going?’ said Orong, squeaky voice.

‘We’ll get there, minister,’ said Villani.

‘Drugs. Give it to Crucible.’

Villani looked at Barry, at the chief commissioner, read nothing in their faces.

‘Homicide investigates suspicious deaths,’ he said. ‘I’m a traditionalist, minister.’

Gillam sucked his teeth. ‘Tradition, absolutely. Steve, the minister’s just been talking about balance. Informing the public, that’s a given. While not creating undue alarm. Right, minister?’

Orong looked at Barry, at Villani. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Had the premier on the subject this very day. Balance, that’s the theme tune.’

Orong made a beckoning gesture. Gillam and Barry bent towards him.

‘An example is Prosilio,’ he said, eyes on Villani, ‘where you don’t want some hooker bitch thing to tarnish a multi-million dollar project, flagship project, jewel in the crown for the precinct.’

Villani looked away, at the people intent on the expensive morsels, the French champagne. In the old days, Laurie brought experiments and leftovers home, they ate them at the kitchen table, drinking wine. It often led to sex.

‘Find the sluts dead every day, right, inspector?’ said Orong.

Villani paid attention.

‘Dogshit on the shoes of society. In fucking alleys.’

The beautiful child in the bathroom in the sky, her palms open, her neck broken, pulled back and back and back until the man behind her gained the satisfaction he sought.

Lizzie. She looked like Lizzie.

Who was seeing to Lizzie? Not her mother, her mother was feeding a film crew somewhere. Where? What had Corin said? He didn’t listen properly to family things.

‘Certainly find women dead in alleys, minister,’ said Villani.

‘Oh yes,’ said Barry.

‘Druggy sluts,’ said Orong. ‘Good riddance.’

‘Can I tempt you, gentlemen?’ said a girl penguin. She offered a silver tray of tiny puffed pastry balls on toothpicks. ‘Blue swimmer crab with foie gras en croute,’ she said. ‘But if you’ve got seafood issues, I’ll…’

The minister took two. Gillam and Barry did the same. Villani took one. They would be four dollars a pop.

Orong added champagne to the puff in his mouth, chewed, looked around. The penguin was close.

‘More, sir?’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ said Orong.

He put his glass on her tray and popped puffs into his mouth-one, two, three, four, five, he collected toothpicks. Mouth full, he said, ‘So anyway, you’ve acted responsibly over the Prosilio matter. The premier’s pleased, I can tell you that.’

Without looking at the penguin, Orong held up his toothpicks, a delicate fence between thumb and forefinger. She took them impassively, surgically, put them on her salver.

‘French,’ he said, eyes on Villani. ‘Not the local muck. In a clean glass. And bring the steak thingies, the Wagyu.’

‘Sir,’ she said.

‘You following me, inspector?’ said Orong.

Villani knew why he was there, what was at stake for him, how he should behave in the presence of this shoddy little arsehole, a nothing, no talents, just a political creature who knew how to slime around, how to get the numbers, how to suck up to those who could advance him, screw those who couldn’t, how to claim credit, duck responsibility.

‘Closely, minister,’ he said. ‘Balance.’

‘Balance is the key,’ said Gillam.

‘Oh, definitely,’ said Barry. ‘Balance.’

‘That’s good,’ said Orong, wiped his lips. ‘The boss’s got a saying. Can’t lead unless you can follow. Can’t give orders unless you can take them.’

Villani thought of the people he’d taken orders from. Bob Villani’s army life, had he taken orders from dickheads and arselickers like this man? Did they have them? Was the army different? Was there another Bob Villani, a servile Bob?

‘Being looked after, minister, gentlemen?’ A big man with dense silver hair combed back, he tugged at his double cuffs, small ruby cufflinks.

Orong gleamed. ‘Clinton, yeah, very nice, great. Listen, you know Dave Gillam, Mike Barry…’

‘I certainly do,’ said the man. ‘But I don’t think I…’

‘Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ said Barry. ‘Meet Clinton Hulme.’

‘Steve, good to meet you,’ said Hulme, soft handshake. ‘I feel very safe here. So many policemen.’

‘Clinton’s CEO of Concordat Holdings,’ said Barry. ‘Max Hendry’s company. Our hosts.’

‘Just one of them, please,’ said Hulme. ‘This consortium’s so big only Max knows everyone.’

A soft drum roll, a plump man on the small stage, wired for sound, behind him his image on a huge screen. Villani knew he was once a television star, a game-show host perhaps. The amplified voice said, ‘Ladies and gentleman, good evening and welcome. I’m Kim Hogarth representing the AirLine Consortium.’

Through the crowd, Villani could see television crews, still photographers.

‘A great pleasure today to welcome so many people who serve our great city and our great state,’ the man said. ‘And at such a wonderful venue, the Hawksmoor Gallery at Persius.’

Applause, canned.

‘I’d like to offer a special, special welcome to the premier and his ministers and their partners, the leader of the Opposition and her colleagues and their partners,’ said Hogarth. ‘We appreciate them joining us. The AirLine project isn’t a secret. It’s been speculated about in the media for months. Tonight we put an end to that. We’ll spell out our dream.’

A long pause.

‘Of course, we all know that dreams don’t often come true. We give up because achieving them is just too hard, needs too much work, needs too much courage. And more boldness than we have.’

Triumphal symphonic music. On the giant screen, images of primitive machines and Saturn rockets lifting off, the Wright brothers and jet airliners taking off, three-masted sailing ships and supertankers, dusty paddocks and shimmering pictures of city skyscrapers, it went on.

Then the screen showed the city from a great height, zoomed in, cut to speeded-up helicopter-shot footage of gridlocked highways, bridges and city streets, of overcrowded railway platforms and rail carriages. Over the images, voices announced train delays and cancellations, warned of road blockages, diversions, malfunctioning traffic lights, sluggish flows, stoppages.

‘AirLine has a bold dream, a bold vision,’ said Hogarth. ‘It comes from a great citizen of Melbourne, a great Victorian, a great Australian.’

Soaring music.

Still and moving pictures of a man, from slim youth onwards, hair short, long, short, running, playing football, laying bricks, beside a light plane, at a drawing board, in a hardhat on building sites, leading in a winning horse at Flemington, walking bunch-muscled through the shallows after a Pier-to-Pub swim, talking and laughing with politicians, Whitlam, Fraser, Hawke, Keating, Howard, Rudd, with artists, musicians, athletes, being hugged by Nelson Mandela.

It went on too long. It ended in silence with the man walking down a country road, fire-black tree skeletons and paddocks on both sides. An elderly couple came to meet him in front of a burnt down house and outbuildings. He put his arms around them and they stood, heads together, a tableau of sorrow and sympathy.

Silence.

Hogarth said, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, I give you AirLine’s visionary, its founder and chairman, I give you Mr Max Hendry.’

Max Hendry was on the platform, moving easily.

‘That bloke in the pictures,’ he said. ‘Looks a bit like Harrison Ford. Anyone remember Harrison? Only taller. And a damn side handsomer.’

Long, loud applause, the sombre mood dissolved. Max Hendry made a palms-out gesture.

‘Guests, friends, it’s good to have you here,’ he said. ‘And enemies too. You are all welcome. My father used to say it’s hard to dislike a man who pours you a glass of the Grange.’

The crowd laughed, they liked him.

He waited, looked around the room. ‘I want to ask you a question,’ he said.

‘Is there anyone here, and that includes you Mr Premier and your ministers, who can say with hand on heart that this city’s public transport isn’t woefully inadequate?’

Murmurings.

‘No takers?’ said Hendry. ‘Of course not. Woefully inadequate is being polite. It’s a disgrace. That’s why our consortium wants to give this city at least one system that is super-fast, safe, and comfortable. A great system for a great city. It looks like this.’

The screen showed an elevated train bulleting along above a highway, passing another going the other way. Then a map of the city with bold lines along the arteries, all meeting in the heart of the city.

‘It’s not another toll road. It’s not another train. It operates in the air, in useless space above the highways. In the airspace. We call it Project AirLine.’

More applause.

‘We have no small ambition,’ he said. ‘We want to build the most advanced transport system in the world. Passive magnetic levitation, suspended pods, lightweight advanced metals, cuttingedge engineering. But we need the state government to help us. We need all the councils on all the routes to come to the party.’

Applause.

‘We can have the Monash line operating in around twenty months from the go-ahead,’ said Hendry. ‘Imagine fifteen minutes from the outer suburbs to the heart of the city. Then we’ll do the western feeder. Melton, Caroline Springs, ten minutes. And that’s just the beginning.’

Longer applause, Max Hendry nodding, camera flashes winking.

‘Two other things,’ said Max Hendry. ‘I like the idea of fear-free mass transport. Very much. Some people here know my wife’s nephew was beaten to death near a station a few years ago. He was much loved.’

The respectful silence, the wait.

‘Makes you think, that kind of violence, doesn’t it?’ he said. ‘It plagues our city.’

On the big screen, a panning camera was on the premier, no expression, hands steepled under his bottom lip, bovine Robbie Cowper, the planning minister. It moved to Orong, to Gillam, to Barry. Villani saw himself. Then it came to a nodding Paul Keogh.

‘So this will be the world’s safest public transport,’ said Hendry. ‘I give my solemn word.’

He was on the screen now, five metres high, he pulled loose his tie, a man coming into the pub, friends waiting. He smiled. It was a good smile, all the better for being so long awaited.

‘The second thing,’ he said. ‘I’ll tell you a commercial-inconfidence secret.’

The wait.

‘We’re greedy bastards. We hope to make some money out of this. Of course, greedy bastards have built a lot of the world. Some things greed builds outlive the greedy bastards who built them.’

More applause.

‘So our message for the state government and the councils is this. Forget about more freeways. They solve nothing and make many things worse. Forget about more tunnels. All they do is take the problems underground for a while.’

Pause.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this project is about actually doing something to stop this city choking to death. In the major corridors, we can take at least twenty per cent of passenger vehicles off the roads. We can cut greenhouse emissions dramatically. It’s the greenest thing any level of government could do. It’s a gift to the present and the future.’

Applause, flashbulbs popping. Hendry took breath.

‘What will it cost? Frankly, we don’t know precisely yet. Big bikkies. Our people are working flat out on costs. Do we seek a public-private partnership? Absolutely not. Do we have merchantbank robbers involved? Bugger them. So do we want government contributions? Bloody right we do. Contributions from government at all levels, from the federal government down.’

Louder, longer clapping.

‘So, you may ask, why make this announcement now? Because we’ve done our private talking. We’ve talked our heads off and we’ve had nothing more than polite expressions of interest. Now we want to go to the people.’

Thunderous applause.

‘This huge project ramifies in all directions. It’s political at every level. So, as we approach the state election and with a federal election less than a year away, we’d like this city’s people to tell their representatives, local, state and federal, that they want the cleanest, greenest, fastest, safest transport option in the world.’

Someone handed Hendry a glass of water. He held it up.

‘What’s this liquid? Desalinated water? Never touch it.’

Laughter.

‘Mr Premier, leader of the Opposition, members of parliament, mayors, councillors, I want to urge you to think about this chance to do something important for your city, your state, and, in a small way, for your country and the planet.’

A camera was on the impassive premier, they cut to Karen Mellish. She wasn’t giving away anything either.

‘I thank you,’ said Hendry. ‘This project’s taken three years of my life, three years of spending my own money, which hurts, I can tell you. I’ve done it because I believe in it with passion. It will be the best thing I do in my life.’

Long and emotional applause. Hendry waited again.

‘The challenge I’m issuing to all of you,’ he said, ‘and particularly those standing for election in a few weeks, is this. Declare yourself for or against this project. In principle. That’s all we ask. Then we’ll let the people of this city and this state speak with their votes.’

The applause lasted minutes. Gillam, Barry and Orong didn’t join in. Clinton Hulme made a lot of noise.

‘That’s about as good as a speech gets,’ he said to Villani. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘Has he done any public speaking before?’ said Villani.

Hulme smiled, patted Villani’s arm. ‘I like dry in a man. Come and meet Max.’

‘I don’t think Max’s hanging out to meet me,’ Villani said.

‘So wrong. He wants to meet you, Vicky wants to meet you.’

VILLANI WAS taken through the crowd, Hulme’s hand in his back. A long-legged woman in black led them.

They followed Max Hendry on a tour, the spruiker Kim Hogarth and two women escorting him, they read name tags, did introductions, Hendry shook hands, he spoke, the guests laughed, he laughed, he went serious, they went serious, nodded, he left them with a few words, another clasp, a touch on the arm, a woman kissed him on his cheek.

The woman in black intervened. Hendry turned.

‘Max, Vicky,’ said Clinton Hulme. ‘I’d like to introduce Stephen Villani, head of the Homicide Squad. He thinks you’re too royal to meet him, Max.’

They shook hands. They were the same height. Hendry had light eyes, disconcerting, the colour of shallow water over clean sand.

‘Meet Vicky,’ said Hendry.

Vicky Hendry wasn’t much older close up, fine lines, high-cheekboned, handsome.

‘Stephen, I have to tell you my family thinks Homicide walks on water,’ she said. ‘After my nephew was murdered, someone rang every day, always saying you’d find them.’

Villani’s scalp itched. Praise, flattery, to deal with them perhaps you had to be praised when you were young, he had very little experience of praise. For Bob, not getting things right was bludging, slackarse behaviour, not paying attention.

Stephen, don’t take your kids’ achievements for granted.

Laurie said that one day when he had found the time to read Tony’s school report and just nodded.

‘I suppose you know how much that means to people who’ve lost someone?’ said Vicky Hendry.

‘We try to understand,’ said Villani.

The fourth of Singo’s Five Commandments: Thou shalt speak to the family as often as possible. As avenging angel, not fucking undertaker.

‘And you got them,’ said Vicky Hendry. ‘Because for them to be out there free, laughing, that was a knife in our hearts.’

Through a gap, he saw the shimmer of black hair, Anna, laughing, just metres away. Their eyes met, she looked away.

‘We were watching television and you came on and my sister said, That’s him, he caught them.’

‘Well, it’s always a team effort,’ said Villani.

‘Not always,’ said someone behind him. ‘Sometimes it’s just one bloke with brains.’

Villani turned and saw Matt Cameron, the first time in years. Sixty-odd, he was still unlined, still whipstick thin, the big shoulders, the tight grey curls.

‘If you say so, boss,’ Villani said.

Max Hendry patted Cameron’s shoulder, Vicky Hendry touched him too, affectionate, they knew one another well.

‘This is about as secure as it gets,’ said Hendry. ‘Whole hierarchy of the police force and Mr Private Security himself. You know each other then?’

Cameron said, the soft voice, ‘Taught the boy everything he knows. Things he shouldn’t know too.’

When Villani joined the Robbers, Cameron was boss, in his early forties then, the hardest man, still boxing, just muscle and sinew, a phenomenal reach. He sparred with him, it was like fighting Inspector Gadget. He left the force after his cop son and his girlfriend were murdered on a farm near Colac, still unsolved. His wife killed herself a month later. Now he was rich, co-founder with Wayne Poland, another cop, of Blackwatch Associates, the country’s biggest security firm.

‘Gentlemen, got to keep moving,’ said Hendry. He put hands on Villani and Cameron. ‘Steve, Vicky’ll arrange something. Do us the honour?’

‘Of course.’

Vicky Hendry offered a hand, she took his in both hands, silken, the extra second of clasp, not flirting, the couple moved on.

‘Interesting bloke, Max,’ said Cameron. ‘I see Colby’s not choosing your suits anymore. Nor ties.’

‘Got a new advisor.’

‘Smart people always take advice. But only from smarter people. How’s the Oakleigh thing going?’

‘Not as fast as you’d like,’ said Villani. ‘Remember Matko Ribaric?’

‘Trying to forget Matko.’

‘It’s his boys. And Vern Hudson.’

Cameron smiled, the rare smile, Villani remembered it was gold. ‘Well, best fucking thing I’ve heard for a while,’ he said. ‘Vermin born of vermin. Be drugs. Everything’s drugs.’

‘Not unlikely.’

‘Handballing to Dancer and the Crucible dancing girls?’

‘No.’

‘Brave. Still, boy’s got worries enough. Machinery for deep-level mining, can’t crack a walnut.’

Cameron drank something pale from a whisky glass. ‘I heard about Lovett. Grace Lovett.’

‘Before me,’ said Villani. ‘I heard ten minutes ago.’

‘Out of the loop. Still, no leaks, media don’t crack a fat, it’ll go away. Working on that, are you? With Searle?’

‘We’re not that close.’

‘Son, a Pom once said England had no permanent alliances, only permanent interests. Look after your permanent interests. With me?’

‘Suck up to the prick?’

Cameron looked at him, Villani saw his father in Cameron’s gaze, you never knew what it meant until it was too late, you had got it wrong.

‘Well, world’s imperfect,’ Cameron said. ‘Don’t be the twat ends up on the cross. Need a hand, I still know a few people.’

Villani knew that he should bow his head and say something, with gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a favour, he didn’t want one.

‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.

A man came up, tall, handsome, floppy fair hair, fleshy mid-thirties. Villani knew who he was.

‘The old man gives a nice party,’ he said. He wore a grey suit, snowy shirt, no tie.

‘Know Steve Villani?’ said Cameron. ‘Steve, Hugh Hendry.’

The handshake was perfect, firm, gentle.

‘Your man Dove’s a bloody Jack Russell,’ said Hendry.

‘Trained to be so,’ said Villani. ‘Paid to be so. Encouraged to be so.’

The perfect smile too, the big teeth, white and even. Rich teeth. ‘Respect that. It’s getting it over to him that we are pleading guilty to a software failure and not guilty to whatever else he has in his mind.’

‘People feeding us bullshit,’ said Villani. ‘That’s what we have in mind. Total loss of vision on this scale is new to us.’

The tiny narrowing of Hendry’s eyes.

‘We’re a bit new on that too,’ he said. ‘Our techs are hotbunking to solve the problem.’

‘Doesn’t the software write a log?’

‘A log?’

‘Have a code that writes a detailed log on glitches, breakdowns?’

Hendry didn’t get it.

‘Certainly a technical challenge,’ said Hendry. He was looking at Cameron in the way of someone who wanted to be rescued from a bore.

‘Dead girl in the building,’ said Villani. ‘That’s our technical challenge. Low-tech challenge. Girl screwed to death.’

Cameron ran a finger across his upper lip. It was a signal to Hendry. The feeling of being patronised triggered the icy rage in Villani.

‘Maybe we should be talking to you, boss,’ he said to Cameron. ‘Maybe we’re talking to the office boys. This’s a Blackwatch cock-up, not so? Blackwatch high-tech challenge. No back-up, no log.’

Cameron smiled, not the golden smile now, no eye-crinkles, Villani knew this smile too and he wished he could take back all his words.

‘Growing in the job, Stevo,’ said Cameron. ‘Crawling out from under Colby and Dance and Singleton. That’s a good thing for a man your age. Mature man, family man.’

In the crowded room, in the hubbub, Cameron’s words made their own silence.

‘Got to move on,’ said Cameron. He was looking over Villani’s shoulder, raised a hand to someone. ‘Keep sane.’

Cameron walked and Villani looked.

Anna. His hand was on her arm. She touched it.

He saw Cameron stoop, kiss her cheek, another cheek.

Jesus, when did he take up this shit? The last time he saw Cameron stoop to kiss it was to kiss Joey Colombaris with his forehead, the prick bled for so long they exhausted the shit paper, called the medics. Joey turned out to be a bleeder, needed a transfusion, almost died.

‘Not the best few days,’ said Hendry. ‘Casino’s screaming at me, the hotel, bloody Marscay. I’m supposed to be at the beach.’

‘That’s tough,’ said Villani. ‘A last point. This stuff doesn’t go away. You and Marscay and Orion can fuck with us but we don’t go away.’

Hendry put up his hands. ‘No, no, we want to know what happened up there as much as anyone. We understand our obligations. But the technology failed us. The bloody Israelis gave us a demo in this hot lab in Herzliya. Worked like a charm. Infinitely scaleable, they said. You know what that…’

‘I know what that means,’ said Villani.

A couple were at Hendry’s shoulder, the woman tall and thin, pale hair in a man’s cut, her loose shirt showed hollows behind her collarbones deep enough to hold water. Small birds could sit on her shoulders and nod to drink. The man was shaven-headed, hooded eyes, an art dealer, Daniel Bricknell, often in the media.

She put a hand on Hendry’s shoulder. ‘Darling, that Orong creature made an advance,’ she said.

She smiled at Villani. ‘Oh shit, he’s not your closest friend?’

‘Like brothers,’ said Villani.

‘Caitlin Harris, Daniel Bricknell, Stephen Villani,’ said Hendry. ‘Stephen’s the head of the Homicide Squad.’

‘I know who Stephen is,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen Stephen on television. The serious face. It turns me on. Stephen, that old “City Homicide” show. Is it really like that?’

‘Only the names were changed,’ Villani said.

‘You’re not bad in the flesh,’ she said. ‘I mean without the make-up. That’s unusual.’

‘Nice to meet you,’ said Villani. ‘I have to go, attend to bodies.’

‘Well, I’m a body,’ said Caitlin. ‘I need attending to.’

‘Forgive her,’ said Hendry. ‘The beauty-brain imbalance. Scientists are working on it.’

‘Nothing wrong with a beauty-brain imbalance,’ said Bricknell. ‘It’s the ugly-brain balance I don’t like.’

Villani passed close to Anna, Cameron gone, he met her grey eyes, he was a stranger, could read nothing.

Near the door, Barry came from nowhere. ‘A rewarding outing, boyo. Talking to the right people. Doesn’t hurt to get to know people, does it?’

‘Thanks for the invitation,’ said Villani.

‘My pleasure. You went really well. Just a little tip?’

‘Yes?’

‘Smile more. You can be a bit forbidding, bit grim. Makes people uncomfortable, know what I mean? Like you’re going to arrest them.’

Villani smiled, he felt the resistance in the muscles of his cheeks. ‘Point taken, boss,’ he said.

‘Excellent,’ said Barry. ‘Now it’s an early night. That’s an order.’

ANNA WAS on his mind all the way home. So striking, so handsome. And so clever, so confident. She could choose from all the smart people around her. Why had she slept with him? Perhaps she was like him, perhaps she felt the compulsion to possess.

The house dark, murmur of television from the back, the family room, no complete family ever gathered in it, one hundred and fifty thousand dollars worth of extension, half what the house cost, Laurie arranged the money.

Corin asleep on the sofa. He killed the television, said her name, twice, a third time, she was startled, grumpy, puffy-eyed, rose and went away without a kind word.

He went down the passage, sat on the bed, took off his shoes and his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, ready to shower, lay back, just for a little minute, closed his eyes.

It was not like television. His second or third month on the job, a late-night kicking in Flinders Street, the man unconscious, then induced coma, two days later they cut the power. The premier went on television, said symptom of all that was rotten in society, the whole force including traffic was on the case day and night, results expected hourly. The truth was they had nothing. They looked at security footage from every working camera in the area. All they got was a glimpse of four figures, grey shadows, a block away, the time right. Unless they got a dobber, they had nowhere to go and so the media unit fed a stream of rubbish about positive identifications in the hope that one of the pricks in the group who didn’t actually kick the man more than five or six times would dob in those who did.

No one came forward. They took turns talking to the victim’s family, rich people in Toorak, he didn’t know anything about them, just rich people. He spoke to the mother and the father, they always thanked him warmly but he knew he was just a reminder of what they had lost.

On a night in August, freezing wind off the bay, it had rained at last light, Villani and Burgess went to Footscray, a sad domestic, woman stabbed, the blood-spattered husband was in the local cells, picked up at the milkbar while buying cigarettes. Villani tried to talk to the man, who was incoherent with drink, drugs, possibly this was his natural state. After a while, Villani went outside for a smoke, stood against the wall in the cold, stained concrete yard, the sky now blown clear, he could see the Southern Cross, the wind blew the cigarette coal white-hot.

A van came in, they unloaded two youths, black trackies, beanies, still full of fuck-you attitude, it showed they had been treated with the respect owed to citizens, even those who were lawless scum.

‘What?’ said Villani to the senior.

The man knew him from the Armed Robbers, most cops in those parts knew him, he had been seen in the company of legends, it attached to you.

‘Bashing a black kid, kicking him, boss,’ he said. ‘We come around the corner, the hugely intelligent pricks run straight up a dead end.’

Villani flicked away his stub, watched the party go up the steps into the building and, through the legs of the cop behind, he registered the second youth was wearing Blunnies.

He followed. Inside, he said to the senior, ‘Give us a minute with these dorks. One to start.’

The man looked at him, the moment of query, uncertainty.

‘Sure, boss. Just do the paper, they come in unharmed, okay?’

They did the paper, put the boys away, it took time, it was late when Villani went into the smaller one’s cell, his name was Jude Luck. Now the fuck-you boy was alone, had no beanie, no shoes, no trackie, he had some homey tatts, his eyes showed a lot of white, not good dairy white.

Villani started in the normal way, he smiled and said, ‘Hello, Jude, I’m the chaplain from St Barnabas,’ and he kicked Luck’s feet out from under him, he fell sideways and Villani stopped him meeting the concrete, not with love, laid him to rest, put a shoe on his chest, tested his weight, moved it up to the windpipe and pressed, tapped, you did not want to mark the cunt.

‘I’ve been looking for you, son,’ he said. ‘So long I’ve been looking for you. You and your fucking Blunnies.’

They recorded the interview with Jude Brendan Luck at 12.47am. A while later, they put Luck’s story to the bigger one, Shayne Lethlean, he went to water. They picked up the other boys, the brothers, two years apart, ginger-freckled angels fast asleep on the floor in the garage of their sister’s house in Braybrook, they did not wake when the door rolled up, they had to be shaken, slapped, there was some pleasure in the work.

Villani woke, fully dressed, unrefreshed, as if from a brief fainting spell, the new day was grey in the east window, the city was making its discordant birth cries.

CORIN WAS eating cereal. She was dressed to go, damp hair back, looking twelve or thirteen but for the nose, the neck, the strong shoulders.

‘Early?’ Villani said, whispery voice.

‘Job interview,’ she said. ‘Six-thirty.’

Third year at university, so clever, she was always so sharp. He could not believe his sperm played a part in her creation.

‘Where?’

‘Slam Juice. Lygon Street.’

‘Dawn interview?’

‘They test you. When’s Mum get back?’

He was looking into the fridge. ‘I don’t know. Jesus, this needs high-pressure steam. Don’t you talk to her?’

‘Don’t you?’

‘She doesn’t phone you?’

‘She’s working, Dad. Do you ring me?’

Toast. Vegemite. Peanut butter. That would do.

‘Heard from Tony?’

‘He’s in Scotland. Don’t you know that?’

‘Scotland? I thought he was in England.’

‘He’s on an island, working on a fishing boat.’

‘Nobody told me that.’

‘Maybe you weren’t listening, Dad. Preoccupied.’

‘Give me a break,’ said Villani. ‘I’m human. Lizzie talked to her mum?’

‘I have no idea.’

Corin went to the sink, he saw the sad and lovely curve of her nose, it was his mother’s profile in one of the two photographs he had, kept with her letter.

‘Well, ask her,’ Villani said. ‘She may be in the loop.’

He sliced bread, it was good bread gone a little stale, he cut three slices, went to the toaster.

Silence.

He looked up, Corin was drying her hands.

‘What?’ he said.

‘I can’t talk to her,’ said Corin.

‘Your mum?’

‘No. Lizzie.’

‘Since when?’

‘Since a long time. She’s a stranger.’

‘Say this to your mum?’

‘Dad, you are so out of touch with this family.’

He depressed the toaster lever.

Corin said, ‘Saw her yesterday near the market. Three-thirty, around then.’

‘Yes?’

‘With streeters. Shitfaced. She’s crossed over, big time.’

There had been a previous episode of wagging school. How long ago was that? Months? A year?

‘I thought this stuff was over?’ said Villani. ‘I thought she’d settled down.’

‘No, Dad. The school wants to kick her out.’

‘Well, Jesus,’ said Villani, ‘I don’t know this.’

Corin was putting her plate and spoon away. Silence.

‘Why?’ said Villani. ‘Why was I not told?’

‘Dad, you only sleep here, you pass over this house like a cloud shadow.’

Corin left the room. He waited and he heard the front door close. She’d always kissed him goodbye. She’d never gone out without a kiss. Or had she? Perhaps she’d stopped long ago?

The toaster clicked, toast shot up. He removed the slices, burnt, wrong setting. He gave them to the bin.

He went down the passage and opened Lizzie’s door, it was on the cool side of the house, the room dark, air dead, heavy with breathed air, sour, and faintly sweet. A small, curved, broken ridge rose from the landscape of the bed. He could see a thin arm, fallen to the floor, elbow joint white as an old bone, fingernails almost touching the carpet.

The room was a tip-clothes, bags, shoes, towels, no floor visible.

He went to wake her and then he could not bring himself to. Let her sleep, I’ll talk to her later.

He closed the door and left the house. He knew he was being weak. He knew he should have woken her, talked to her, showed concern, put the hard word on her. What the hell was Laurie doing in Queensland while her daughter was running wild?

At the gate, he leaned out of the car window and cleared the mailbox: junk, bills.

IN THE ghostly city, he saw the newspaper bales being dumped, the lost people, the homeless, the unhinged, a man and a woman sitting on the kerb passing a bottle, a figure face down, crucified in a pool of piss, the unloaders of fruit and vegetables, men lumping pieces of animals sheathed in hard white fat and shiny membrane, a malbred dog in a gutter, eating something, shaking his grey eusuchian head. As he crossed the bridge, the mist opened and showed a skiff thin as a pencil, two men drawing a line on the cold river.

Parked, the world waiting for him, every minute would be taken, he sat head down. Laurie had begun to go on the two or three-day advertising shoots around the time she fell pregnant with Lizzie, she didn’t tell him until she was more than four months. It wasn’t until Lizzie was about five that it occurred to Villani that she looked like neither of them.

He hadn’t been much of a father to her.

He hadn’t been much of a father to Corin and Tony either. He’d never given any thought to being a father. He wasn’t ready for marriage, never mind children. He went to work, paid the bills. Laurie did the take and fetch, the school stuff, the worrying about temperatures, coughs, pains, sore throats, a broken wrist, tooth knocked out, parent-teacher meetings, reports, bullying. She told him, he half-listened, made sounds, went out the door or fell asleep.

He’d looked after kids. He’d had his turn. All the years seeing to Mark and Luke, see to was his father’s term, you had to see to the horses, the dogs, the chooks-helpless creatures, they suffered, they died, if you didn’t see to them.

Mark got his mother’s genes, a teacher’s genes, not the genes of Bob Villani, brumby-hunter’s son left school at fourteen, found a home in army barracks, found his vocation in killing people in Vietnam. Luke was another matter. His mother was a bike called Ellen. Bob Villani bunned her in Darwin. Just before dark one July day, she arrived at the farm in a taxi, tight pants, red-dyed hair.

They were alone, the two of them, Bob was on the road, he was driving Melbourne-Brisbane then, gone the whole week, came home, five or six beers, four eggs scrambled, half a loaf of bread, he slept face down till around nine on Saturday. Mark went into his room every ten minutes from sunrise, looked for signs that he was breathing, studied him for signs of waking up.

Monday morning, Bob Villani left before dawn, blast on the airhorn at the gate, money on the kitchen table.

‘He’s not here,’ said Villani.

‘When’s he comin back?’ she said.

‘Not sure,’ said Villani.

She looked at Mark behind him, back at Villani. ‘You his kids?’ she said, she had a grating voice.

They nodded. She waved the taxi away.

‘Brought your half-brother,’ she said.

Luke came out from behind her, a fat little shit, long hair. For the first three days, he whined, she smacked him, he howled, she kissed and hugged him, he started whining again.

Bob Villani came back on Friday night just before nine. Mark and Ellen and Luke were watching the snowy television. Villani was making a model plane on the kitchen table. He caught the sound of the rig five kilometres away, the downshifts climbing Camel Hill, the chatter of the jake brake as it slowed on the steep slope before the turn-off from the main road. And then the airhorn, long and lonely, hanging in the aching-cold black.

He went to open the gate, waited in the dark, shivering, the mover came around the bend like a building. It slowed, inched through the gate, towered above him, he closed the gate, walked down the drive.

Bob was out of the truck, stretching.

‘Where’s Mark?’ he said.

‘There’s a woman here,’ said Villani. ‘Ellen. With a kid.’

Silence. Bob put a hand through his hair.

Deep in the night, the sounds from his father’s room woke him. He thought his father was killing Ellen. It was the first time he ever heard fucking.

Mark woke. ‘What’s that?’ he said. ‘Stevie, what’s that?’ He was a boy who frightened easily.

‘Nothing,’ said Villani. ‘She’s having a bad dream. Put your head under the pillow.’

On Monday morning, Bob Villani took Villani and Mark to school in the truck, they rode like gods, they looked down on tiny cars, utes.

‘They staying, Dad?’ said Mark.

‘We’ll see,’ said Bob. ‘Keep an eye on Tomboy, Steve. Off his feed.’

When they got out, Bob gave Villani the thumbs up, said what he always said: ‘Carry on, sergeant-major.’

On the Friday, when Luke was asleep, Ellen walked to the farm gate, a tradie gave her a lift to Paxton. She was never heard of again, not by the boys-not a letter, not a postcard. Villani and Mark came home from school, found the boy snailed on his bed, keening, snotted cheeks.

Looking at Luke, weeks after his mother had shot through, Bob Villani said, ‘And the bloody taxi driver reckons I owe him sixty bucks for taking her to Stanny.’

It came to Villani that, in never giving a thought to being a father, he was just being his father’s son. All of Bob was in him: the big hands, the hair, the delegation of responsibility, the eyes that saw everything through crosshairs. Everything except the courage. He didn’t have that. He had learned to behave as if he had it because Bob Villani expected it of him, took it for granted. He had joined the cops because he didn’t have courage, started boxing because he didn’t have courage.

Never take a backward step, son. Bad for the soul.

Bob Villani’s terrible injunction had been at his throat all his life.

Villani raised his head. Winter, standing in front of his car, head forward, peering.

He got out.

‘Worried me there, boss,’ said Winter, a reed-thin man with a moustache grown to hide an unpredictable upper-lip twitch, some nerve short-circuit, two threads coming close, arcing.

‘Meditating,’ said Villani. ‘Going inward. You should try it.’

In the lift, he said, ‘Getting home before they’re asleep?’

‘Trying, boss, yeah.’

‘Well, bear in mind the clients are the dead,’ said Villani. ‘We are the living. Although it may not always feel that way.’

‘Staying level’s my aim, boss.’ Winter’s gaze was down.

‘And that’s a receding target around here,’ said Villani.

They arrived, Winter stood back. He was Singo’s last recruit, a CIB junior. Singo had broken the rule that Homicide only took senior detectives. Senior detectives brought with them attitude. Singo wanted people in whom he could instil attitude. His.

At his desk, the trilling, the incoming paper. Soon, two calls on hold, two people outside. The morning went, he ate a salad roll at 11.30, standing at the window, phoning Laurie. Wherever she was, Darwin, Cairns, Port Douglas, she didn’t answer her mobile. He sent an SMS: Call me.

What was Birkerts doing on Oakleigh? Why hadn’t Dove reported?

Phone. Tomasic.

‘Thought I should let you know, boss,’ he said. ‘Oakleigh, there’s an electronics outfit around the corner. They just got back from a trade show thing, looked at their security set-up.’

‘Yes?’

‘Got a camera, triggered by sensors. Covers 90 degrees. They’ve got vision of the street. Vision Sunday night, early Monday morning.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s 2.23am, a vehicle. Then opposite direction, vehicle, 2.51am.’

‘Get it in here,’ said Villani. ‘Maximum speed.’

THE VEHICLE in the frozen frame was a blur, red-tinged. In the top right-hand corner of the picture, a display said: 2.23.07.

‘A Prado, I’d say,’ said Tomasic. ‘They all look a bit the same.’

2.51.17: vehicle, opposite direction.

‘Prado again.’ said Tomasic.

‘Petrolhead?’ said Birkerts.

‘Just an interest, boss.’

‘Let’s see it coming and going,’ said Villani.

They watched at different speeds.

‘What’s that in the background?’ said Villani.

‘Can’t say, boss.’

‘Street vision, please, Trace.’

On the big monitor, the overhead view of Oakleigh moved from the house across the tin roofs to the corner, changed to an eye-level view.

‘Left,’ said Villani. ‘Stop.’

It was a long low building with showroom-sized windows.

‘Run the tape,’ he said.

The Prado, turning left…

‘Stop,’ said Villani. ‘Back slowly…stop.’

Silence in the room.

‘In the window,’ said Villani. ‘Numberplate light reflected.’

‘Missed that,’ said Birkerts. ‘Fuck.’

‘See what the techs can do,’ said Villani. He looked at Birkerts appraisingly.

‘Tommo, tell Fin we want all light-coloured Prados on the tollway from, oh, 2am to 3am, both directions,’ said Birkerts.

‘Yes, boss.’

‘And the prints in the place,’ said Villani. ‘What the fuck’s going on there?’

Birkerts put his head down. ‘I’ll check. Boss.’

Villani got back to the work. Life went on. Life and death.

Colby’s words:

…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 quickly and you’re a turd.

The post-mortem on the naked woman in her pool in Keilor said fluid in lungs greatly in excess of what drowning required. What did that mean?

A level-six resident of the Kensington Housing Commission flats found on the concrete five metres from the base of the building. Dead of injuries consistent with a fall from that height. Wearing panties, a bra and a plastic Pope John Paul mask. Male.

In Frankston, in a house, a girl, unidentified, around fifteen, strangled. Two unidentified males said to live there missing.

Somali youth stabbed in Reservoir. In the back with a screwdriver, into the heart. Phillips head. Dead on arrival. Sixty-odd people at a social gathering.

The radio:

…hoping for a wind shift as firefighters battle to keep the blaze from breaking containment lines above the towns of Morpeth and Paxton…

He found his mobile, went to the window, saw the liquid city, the uncertain horizon. It took three tries.

‘It’s me.’

‘What?’

‘You going now?’ He knew the answer.

Throat clearing. ‘Nah. Took the horses over to old Gill. Put them in with his. He’s got a set-up sprays the stable. All day you have to.’

‘You better get in there with them. You and Gordie.’

Bob’s hard laugh. ‘No, mate, no. Gordie’s got an old firetruck. Full. Be our own CFA.’

‘That’s going to save my trees?’

‘It comes, son, only the good Lord can save the trees.’

‘First mention of him I’ve heard from you.’

‘Figure of speech. Make it Father Christmas.’

‘I’ll ring,’ said Villani. ‘Answer the bloody phone, will you?’

‘Yes, boss.’

His mobile rang.

‘I came home,’ said Corin, no breath. ‘Lizzie comes out with this creature, he’s old, filthy, dreadlocks, tatts on his face, between his eyes and she’s got a bag, and…Dad, all my money’s gone, four hundred and fifty bucks and my iPod and my pearl pendant and my silver bracelets, she’s been through Mum’s things, I don’t know what she’s taken and…’

‘Stop,’ said Villani. ‘Stop.’

He heard her quick, ragged breathing.

‘Now we will take a few deep breaths,’ he said.

‘Right…yes.’

‘So. Slowly in, slowly out. Let’s do that. In…’

They did four, he heard the calm come to her.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Over that now. I’ll kill the little bitch.’

She was part her mother and she was part Villani. Bob would be proud, he would like the kill part, he knew when it was time to put something down, he took the old dog away and shot it, buried it, they never found out where.

‘Darling, I want you to wait there,’ he said. ‘Someone’ll ring soon. Give them descriptions of Lizzie, her clothes, the bloke, anything that’ll help pick them in the street, in a crowd. The bag she’s carrying, don’t forget the bag.’

‘Okay,’ said Corin, brisk, composure regained. ‘Fine. Should I ring Mum?’

‘We’ll reel Lizzie in first, no point making your mum sweat in Darwin. Wherever she is.’

‘Cairns, Dad, Cairns.’

‘I’ll write that down. You shouldn’t keep that much money in cash, that’s not smart.’

‘Gee, thanks, Dad. I’ll write that down.’

‘Tried ringing Lizzie?’ He realised he didn’t have her mobile number.

‘It’s never on,’ said Corin. ‘Anyway I don’t want to talk to her. You ring her.’

‘Give me the number.’

‘Don’t you have it?’