Truth

‘Somewhere. Give it to me.’

Villani wrote it on a card, put it in his wallet. ‘Wait for the call, love,’ he said. He tapped Lizzie’s number. Not switched on.

Sitting for a few moments. You could not do this like a civilian, you needed the brothers. He calculated the price, punched the numbers, identified himself.

Vickery came on, the harsh cigarette voice, ‘Stevo. What can you do for me, son?’

Villani told the story.

‘Touches everyone this shit,’ said Vickery. ‘I’ll get the word out there. Someone will ring your girl shortly. Number?’

‘In your debt,’ said Villani when he had given Corin’s mobile number.

‘Mate, we’re all in debt to each other,’ said Vickery. ‘Brothers, good times and bad. Know that, don’t you?’

He was talking about their meeting, about Greg Quirk.

‘Indeed I do. Call me direct?’

‘Give me the number.’

Villani gave it.

‘Get together for a gargle, you and me and other old comrades,’ said Vickery.

‘We will,’ said Villani.

The phone, Tomasic, another hoarse voice.

‘Boss, the window reflection, the techs got the first two numbers off the Prado.’

‘I’m switching you,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’

He pressed buttons. ‘Ange, take Tomasic off me for Tracy.’

Pause.

‘Trace, Tommo’s got two rego digits from the Oakleigh Prado. A little chance here.’

‘On it, boss,’ she said, a lilt of joy in her voice.

Sitting back, the adrenalin surge, he felt for a moment that he belonged in Singo’s chair: Stephen Villani, the boss of Homicide. Someone who deserved to be the boss of Homicide.

A moment.

TRACY IN the door, alight.

‘Boss, the numbers, a Prado on the tollway, the time’s right. We match a James Heath Kidd, 197 Cloke Street, Essendon.’

Tracy was clever, overworked, not a sworn person. At any time, she could tell them she was going elsewhere. He feared that. She had been in love with Cashin, everyone knew it, Cashin knew it and it scared Cashin.

‘A likely person,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s look at his abode.’

‘Ordinary house with garage, shed, that kind of thing.’

‘Can I get a chance to initiate something?’ said Villani. ‘Feel like I’m the brains of the outfit?’

She smiled her downturned smile, left. Birkerts appeared.

‘Cloke Street from on high, detective,’ said Villani. ‘High and well away, going somewhere else. Spook the cunt, they will patrol the Hume until they retire.’

Birkerts inclined his head.

‘And have the Salvos take a walk around there,’ said Villani. ‘In minutes, no buggering around.’

He sat for a time, got to work reading the currents. It did no good to create more urgency than was useful. Save a level of excitement for the Second Coming. Singleton. The master’s voice.

Then he went to Tracy’s desk, stood behind her. She was looking at her monitor, wrists up, hands dangling over her keyboard. She had long fingers. He had never noticed her fingers. She looked at him, the light caught the down on her upper lip.

‘What?’ she said.

‘Running him through the lot?’

‘Of course. Inspector.’

Villani went back, eyed the big room-the hung-up jackets, desks lost beneath files, boxes, stacked in-trays, mugs standing on walls of folders, cropped domes facing monitors. As if from a grave, a hand came up and drew down a speckled mug.

Ten years, how many hours here, sixteen-hour days? Would your daughter be on the streets with scum if you’d lived some other life, ordinary civilian kind of life? Home around six, check the homework, watch the news, join in the cooking, eat together, talk about things, what’s happening at school. Next weekend, get your backsides out of bed, I’ll teach you to ride a board, taught by an expert, now an expert will pass it on to you.

He became aware of eyes on him, aware of the dead air, of the humming, of a running-water sound-perhaps a failed lavatory cistern seal, a ruptured air-conditioner, fire sprinklers soaking empty offices above them.

He went back and rang Kiely.

‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘prepare to bring down the full weight of the surveillance state on this Kidd-family, friends, dogs, the lot.’

‘Inspector.’

‘But with delicacy. The prick gets a sniff…’

‘I’ve run this sort of thing before.’

‘In New Zealand,’ said Villani. ‘We’re not talking mystery sheep killings here.’ Too far-much too far, regret. ‘A bad joke. No more sheep jokes. I promise.’

‘Not a problem,’ said Kiely. ‘Runs off you. You know it’s only shitheads keep making them.’

‘Wow,’ said Villani. ‘That’s a throat punch. Take out a big woolly ram with that punch.’

He called Barry.

‘WE THINK we’ve got a vehicle at Oakleigh, boss.’

Barry said, ‘Boyo, tell me it’s much more than you think.’

‘We got the last two digits of a white Prado’s number off a security camera. We have a white Prado match on the tollway forty minutes on. The timing is right.’

‘And you have the owner’s name?’

‘Yes, sir. Doesn’t mean he’s the driver.’

Barry spoke to someone in the room with him. Villani couldn’t hear what he said.

‘What’s his name?’ said Barry.

‘Kidd. James Heath Kidd.’

‘James Heath Kidd. Now that’s promising,’ said Barry. ‘Told Mr Colby?’

‘About to, boss.’

‘Why don’t you wait a few minutes, Stephen? Ten. That’s a good wait.’

‘We may need a Section 27 from him in minutes. Emergency authorisation.’

‘Right. Do that then.’ Barry made a gargling sound. ‘You’ll be taking proper care here, Stephen? To avoid stuffing this thing up.’

‘My word, boss.’

‘But you won’t be taking too long?’

The call-waiting light.

‘Not a second longer than it takes to avoid a stuff-up,’ said Villani. ‘Boss.’

‘Good man.’

The waiting call.

Corin.

‘Dad, this cop rang. I told her everything. I think I should call Mum. She’s never going to forgive us…’

‘Ring her,’ said Villani. ‘She doesn’t return my calls. Tried Lizzie’s mobile?’

‘Yes. Every ten minutes. Off. What about you?’

‘Same. You home tonight?’

‘I’m having dinner with Gareth and his father. At Epigram.’

Gareth. Someone he should know. Someone who had a father, not a dad, a parent taken seriously, who took you to dinner at expensive restaurants.

‘Gareth is?’

‘I’ve told you. His father’s Graham Campbell. Campbell Connaught Bryan?’

His daughter dining with a super-rich corporate lawyer and his son.

‘Ah, that Gareth,’ he said. ‘Listen, you telling me Lizzie’s on drugs?’

‘Jesus, Dad, you a cop or what?’

‘I’d be happier as a what. Just tell me.’ He had set his mind against it.

‘Well, on, what does on mean? She’s hanging out with this shitface, don’t be naïve.’

It came to that.

Villani said, ‘Listen, when they find her, I might call you, spoil your evening, okay?’

Just one second too long. ‘I don’t actually want anything to do with her, Dad.’

‘She’s your sister, Corin.’

‘First she’s your kid.’

‘Okay, forget it,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’

‘Dad,’ said Corin. ‘I’ll come. Call me and I’ll come.’

His girl. Someone who loved him. What the hell had Laurie been thinking? Lizzie was fifteen, no one at home most of the time, what did her mother think would become of her?

Then, as if looking into a mirror, he saw his stupidity and he looked away from himself, shamed.

Tracy.

‘Boss, Kidd’s ex-force. Special Operations Group for three years, five years’ service in total. Resigned three years ago.’

‘Oh Jesus, what’s his record?’

‘On the beat, second year, cleared of using excessive force on a mental who died. Since quitting, two speeding offences.’

‘Get me the SOG boss, whatever musclebrain that now is.’

It took six minutes. Villani thought about Deke Murray, Matt Cameron’s best mate, the Armed Robber who became SOG boss. He was called The Unforgiver, never forgot, never forgave.

The man’s name was Martin Loneregan.

‘Mate, a James Kidd,’ said Villani. ‘Left three years ago.’

‘What’s this?’

‘Serious stuff.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, he quit.’

‘Why?’

‘People quit, they quit.’

Villani said, ‘I’d appreciate your help here, Martin. Concerns dead people.’

‘Kidd’s involved?’

‘The name’s got our attention.’

‘Well, there’s procedure, privacy. All that.’

‘Martin, Commissioner Barry will ask you the questions, that’ll take a few minutes I’d like to save. This a mate thing?’

Spitting sound.

‘Personality issues,’ said Loneregan. ‘A selection failure, basically.’

‘Took three years to notice?’

‘People comment on how you run Homicide?’

‘Sorry, mate.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll just say the arsehole pressed the down button three weeks after I took over. Had to send out for Kleenex for the whole squad.’

‘Not lovable then. So some violent drug thing, you’d say that?’

‘Any kind of shit you care to name. The boy’s psycho.’

‘Trouble you for an address?’ said Villani.

‘Hang on.’

He hung, closed his eyes, moved his head.

‘You there?’ said Loneregan.

‘Here,’ said Villani.

‘It’s a unit, 21, Montville, 212 Roma Street, South Melbourne.’

Villani tapped it in, the image of the area appeared, 212 arrowed. ‘Much obliged.’

‘Bob Villani. Relation?’

‘My dad.’

‘Vietnam?’

‘Yeah, he was, yeah.’

‘Still ticking?’ said Loneregan.

‘Last time I looked.’

‘Mate, ask him about a Danny Loneregan. Daniel. My old man. Just got this one photo, it’s three blokes, one’s a Bob Villani.’

Another member of The Team. First in, last out. Ten years, four months, sixteen days, the longest serving unit in any war, just a thousand men in all and four Victoria Crosses, a hundred and ten other decorations.

My dad says your dad’s got war medals.

That was how Villani found out about Bob’s war. He would never have learned anything about Vietnam from Bob.

‘Yes, certainly do that,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for your help.’

‘Given under duress. We’ll be loaded with this cunt. Not the force, no. It only accepted him. It’ll be member of elite Special Operations Group gone bad, all that shit.’

‘Well, price you pay for fame.’ Villani was looking at the close-up. There was a house over the wall from the parking area, a long narrow swimming pool. ‘Kidd didn’t leave any mates with you did he?’

‘I can say not a single fucking soul.’

‘Buy you a coldie, then.’

‘Got my number,’ said Loneregan. ‘Listen, my old man. Ask, will you? When you see your dad. He might have a picture, y’know…’

In the kickarse voice Villani heard the boy who never had a father, only a photograph, a face, he would look for himself in that face.

‘Didn’t come back?’ said Villani.

‘No,’ said Loneregan.

‘Well. Honoured dead.’

‘Shot outside a bar. Bar, whorehouse.’

‘I’ll ask Bob,’ said Villani. ‘Get back to you.’

He rang Colby.

‘This is as of when?’ said Colby.

‘Just on the radar. We hope to need a Section 27. Mr Kiely will be on to you.’

‘I’ll pass the word. Run anything major by me. Think Cromarty, son. Think never again.’

Would they ever let him forget Cromarty? His crime was to trust senior officers to behave like trained policemen.

‘Yes, boss,’ Villani said.

‘A fucking arrest, that’s the ticket. Show we’re getting somewhere. With me?’

‘Boss.’

Villani looked at the tendon standing proud of his forearm. He relaxed his grip on the handset. Birkerts outside. Villani waved.

‘The Salvos have been there,’ he said. ‘Essendon is Kidd’s aunt’s house. Her name’s Hocking. She says he stayed there long ago, still gets mail, still drops by. Gave her an early Christmas present this year-thousand bucks, cash. Wouldn’t let her open the envelope while he was there.’

‘You could love such a boy,’ said Villani.

Kiely in the door.

‘The chopper says no vehicle visible at Cloke Street. We’ve got a J. H. Kidd off the tenants’ database. Roma Street, South Melbourne.’

‘That’s him,’ said Villani.

‘It’s a block of flats, third-floor flat. The chopper’s looking now.’

Villani waved, they left. He sat, hands in his lap, palms up, the scar ran from little finger to the right thumb pad, his first year in the job, sliced by a cook, the cut went to the bones.

Rose Quirk’s garden.

Jesus. He hadn’t been there since Cup Day, the day he put in the tomatoes.

He dialled. It rang, rang, he knew it was going to ring out, she answered.

‘Ma, Stephen.’

‘Where’ve you been?’

‘Busy. Yeah. Really busy, tied up. You okay?’

‘I’m fine. Just a bit weak.’

‘Taking the tablets?’

She did a bit of her coughing, he knew her coughing, it was a tactical move. ‘Make me feel sick,’ she said.

‘For God’s sake, Ma, take them.’

‘Weeds takin over here.’

‘I’ll fix the weeds. Take the tablets. Tomatoes coming on?’

‘They like the hot. I give them a little drip every night.’

‘Good. I’ll be around soon as I can.’

‘Screen door’s buggered. Something wrong with the pump thing.’

‘I can get someone to fix it.’

‘Don’t want a stranger here.’

‘Okay, I’ll do it. Listen, got to go. Be around soon.’

‘PRADO’S AT Roma Street,’ said Birkerts. ‘At the back.’

‘Nice work,’ said Villani.

‘There’s a chance of vision from across the road. Building going up. Rear access.’

‘Section 27 from Colby,’ said Villani. ‘A 26 and a 27, cover all bases. He’s expecting you.’

‘My view,’ said Kiely, ‘my view is if he’s there we should take him out.’

‘Talk to the dogs, Birk,’ said Villani. ‘Impress upon them the need to get the stuff in now, immediately, sooner, they have no higher priority. Or they will answer to the minister. Or God.’

‘Sir.’

Birkerts left. Villani looked at Kiely. ‘Arrest him, you think?’

‘That’s prudent, yes. I think so.’

‘And then we’ve got him and he dobs the other pricks? Wow.’

‘Wow?’ said Kiely.

‘Yes, wow. Wow, wow. He still gets twenty years, twenty-three hours a day looking at walls, your fellow crims wait, they want to kill you, fuck you, they do so love a doggy.’

Kiely scratched his collarbone. ‘Well, not to move, I would say that should be cleared. Approved.’

‘The New Zealand way,’ said Villani. ‘Interesting. Now here on the mainland we’re different. What we don’t do here is seek approval for what we do not want to do. And moving on, let me say that if we lose Kidd, even if the cunt takes off in a balloon, I will be holding…’

Kiely raised a hand. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Made yourself perfectly clear.’

He left. Villani’s mobile rang.

‘What’s going on?’ Laurie said.

‘Corin tell you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s what’s going on.’

‘Can’t you find her?’

‘Doing my best. People are looking for her.’ ‘People? What about you?’

‘The whole fucking force is looking for her. Is that good enough? Is that doing enough?’

A sigh.

‘I’ll be there around midnight,’ she said. ‘Ring me if you find her.’

‘I’ll certainly do that. Keep trying her mobile.’

‘I don’t need to be told that, thank you.’

Line dead.

Villani tried Lizzie’s number again. Off.

THE TARRED top of a building, a lift housing. The camera moved down, glass distortion, a room, a big television, squat furniture, coffee table holding bottles, cans, cups, junkfood containers.

Jerry the tech in headphones, fiddling, tapping, talking to his throat mike. ‘Yeah, piss-poor, yeah, okay, here we go. On air, mate.’

Birkerts at the scene, scratchy, said, ‘Across the road on the sixth floor, very trying conditions here, wet concrete, no windows, just holes.’

‘Picture’s very poor,’ said Kiely, fiddling with his earpiece.

‘Spot that?’ said Villani.

Birkerts said, ‘Prado’s at the back, two ways in. Here we go, you can see a kitchen. So to speak.’

Slow zoom in to a littered countertop-boxes, bottles, a shiny object.

‘Boy’s got an industrial coffee machine,’ said Birkerts. ‘The red, that’s from the back window, sunset in the west.’

‘My, the west,’ said Villani. ‘Know your compass.’

‘Pulling back, that’s a door at left.’

A dark shape.

‘Passage probably runs front door to balcony. The kitchen and lounge to left. Right, it’s bathroom and bedroom.’

Villani said, ‘We can get in the back?’

‘Fire escape and there’s a door to the lobby from the parking area.’

The camera roved left to a blank window, right to another, down to the floors below, to the forecourt, the street, parked cars, two men with briefcases, a car, another, a delivery van, a strung-out scuffle of teenagers, four, nothing.

They watched for a while. The camera went back to Kidd’s windows, lingered, dropped. The street seemed to have darkened. Streetlights came on, small white flares.

Back. Kidd’s windows dark now, the sun gone from the back of the building, fallen.

‘Nice little street,’ said Villani. ‘You comfy there? Got the toothbrush?’

Angela motioned from the door. He went out.

‘Mr Colby, boss.’

Villani took the call at his desk.

‘Got him?’ said Colby.

‘Got his unit. Vehicle’s out the back.’

‘And the plan is?’

‘A good look.’

‘Steve, if the prick’s there, take him. Get the SOGs.’

‘And give away upstream?’

‘Not listening, son. Still not fucking listening.’

‘Can you say again, boss?’

He heard finger taps.

‘The head of Homicide,’ said Colby. ‘You’re in the tower, it’s your call. We rely on your judgment.’

Villani went back to the operations room, put on the headset, looked at the dark building. The camera pulled back. Lights on in the units on both sides of Kidd’s and the one below.

‘Dunny,’ said the tech. ‘Someone’s there.’

‘How’d you hear?’

‘The hard line. Phone must be close. Bedroom or the passage.’

Kiely coughed. ‘Tell Mr Colby?’

‘Nothing to tell,’ said Villani. ‘Could be anyone. Girlfriend. Flatmate. House-trained dog.’

They waited. Five minutes, ten, it was soothing, doing nothing, watching the camera wander around, the operator bored, up, down, sideways, along the street. Villani closed his eyes.

Lizzie. In the early days, he sometimes came home to find them asleep, in the big bedroom or on Lizzie’s bed. Often they were in the armchair, mother and child as one, Laurie’s hair fallen like dark thatch over the infant’s face.

IN HIS ear, Birkerts said, ‘He’s gone back to sleep.’

Villani looked at his watch. Forty minutes since the lavatory was flushed. ‘I’m coming to join you,’ he said. ‘On-site inspection.’

‘We have nothing to hide. Please use the servants’ entrance.’

Finucane drove, Winter came. A few blocks away from the street, Villani’s phone rang.

‘Inspector, Senior Willans, St Kilda, your daughter Lizzie’s here, brought in by officers.’

‘Found where?’

‘The parade, boss. With a group.’

‘She’s okay?’

‘Um, speak freely, boss?’

‘Yes.’

‘Off her face, boss.’

Fifteen years old. The child in her arms in the armchair wandering the hard streets of St Kilda. How had Laurie allowed this to come to pass?

‘Okay. Hang on to her, be there soon as I can.’

‘Boss, she’s a handful, there’s nowhere, just the cells…’

The cells.

No liquid known, not carbolic acid, not citric acid, not all the tears of the risen Christ could cleanse the holding cells of their perfume of sweat, blood, vomit, shit, snot, spit, semen, piss and fart and phlegm.

His daughter taken to the holding cells, on her father’s instructions. He should phone Corin, get her to fetch Lizzie. No, he couldn’t do that to Corin: call her away from dinner at Epigram with her young Trinity College smartarse and his millionaire lawyer father to fetch her freaked-out fifteen-year-old sister from the St Kilda police station.

Winter glanced at him. They were almost there. Jesus, what a time for crap like this to happen.

The cells wouldn’t hurt Lizzie. What the hell, give her a taste of what came from hanging around with shitheads, doing drugs.

‘Put her in a cell,’ Villani said. ‘Alone, mark you.’

‘Boss.’

They went in the long way. A cop in overalls waved them through a construction-site gate, they parked beside a crane. A woman from surveillance led him and Winter up rough stairs, the damp, sour, heady smell of new concrete. Outside a shadowy doorless chamber Birkerts stood. Inside, two people sat at the blocked-out window holes, one behind a camera, one with night-glasses, looking through a slit.

Kidd’s building was on a shrouded monitor. The woman gave him headphones with a throat mike. He was adjusting them when Jerry the tech, kilometres away, said, ‘Incoming. Mobile.’

In the dark room, looking at the windows on a monitor, they listened to a phone ringing. It went on, on, ten, fifteen seconds, it rang out, became a buzz. It began again, ringing…

Yeah?

Wake-up call, mate.

Fuck off.

Listen, listen, some worries. Serious.

What?

Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?

Yeah, okay, right.

Clicks.

‘What’s that about?’ Kiely’s voice.

‘Got the caller?’ said Villani.

‘Mobile,’ said Jerry. ‘Won’t get anywhere.’

The voice in Villani’s head.

Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?

Old girl? Old girl?

Kiely said, ‘Laser’ll be…’

‘Kidd’s aunt,’ said Villani. ‘Mrs Hocking. Run her for mobiles, the hotline.’

‘Right.’

They waited.

The sitting room lit up.

A big naked man in the room, scratching his scalp with both hands, then his chest, his right hand went to his groin.

Birkerts said, ‘Himself. The target.’

The man was going to the kitchen counter, they saw his bodybuilder’s wedge back, the muscular canyon of his spine, he was turning, they saw him side on.

‘My Jesus,’ said Birkerts. ‘Like a low branch. He’s dialling…do we have this?’

‘No,’ said Jerry.

Villani said, ‘The fixed line, Jerry?’

‘Too far away.’

‘I understood we’d have the laser by now,’ said Birkerts. ‘The highest tech known to man.’

‘Mr Kiely?’ said Villani.

‘Check that,’ said Kiely. ‘Want me to brief Mr Colby?’

‘Just get the fucking laser here. The Prado’s tagged?’

‘Elephant on the move,’ said Birkerts.

Kidd leaving the room.

‘Small arse,’ said Birkerts, thoughtful.

Three seconds, bedroom light, the vertical blinds opened, they saw Kidd sliding a window.

‘But a jockstrap designed for Phar Lap,’ said Birkerts.

Vision sliced by blinds, they watched the man moving around, pulling on clothes, sitting on the bed, shoes going on.

‘No shower,’ said Birkerts. ‘This isn’t date behaviour. Prado wired?’

‘Inspector Kiely to confirm that,’ said Villani.

It was dawning that this was a bad mistake. Colby and Kiely were right. He should have sent in the SOGs. If they lost Kidd now, it would be his fault, his alone.

Kidd up, leaving the bedroom.

‘Brush teeth, take a piss,’ said Birkerts. ‘I would…Jesus Christ, who’s this?’

A figure in the sitting room, slim, long hair.

Going to the kitchen, ducking behind the counter, just the top of his head visible.

‘Flatmate?’ said Villani. ‘Boyfriend?’

Standing up, T-shirt, coming around the counter, hands behind his back, torso wriggling.

‘What’s he doing?’ said Birkerts.

‘Could be a piece,’ said Villani. ‘Inside-pants holster. Here’s Kidd.’

Kidd and the man talking, Kidd’s right hand in the air. The second man had a long nose.

Villani became aware of someone else in the dark room with them. Tomasic.

Kiely’s voice. ‘Problem with the tag. Some misunderstanding.’

‘Misunderstanding?’ Villani said. ‘What the fuck’s to misunderstand?’

‘Didn’t quite get the urgency.’ ‘Jesus Christ.’

It was too late but this was the moment.

‘I want the SOGs now,’ Villani said. ‘Highest priority.’

‘Well, that’s a…’

‘Just do it, inspector. Now.’

‘These blokes might be going out,’ said Birkerts. ‘Are we ready for that?’

‘Inspector Kiely?’ said Villani.

‘They say they’re stretched, thought they had more time.’

Villani said, ‘Three dead’s not a priority? I’ll personally kill every last cunt if we lose them.’

The second man left the room. Kidd silhouetted against the kitchen light. His head slightly turned, they could see his profile, the heavy ridge above his eyes. He was talking on a mobile, putting it away, crossing the room, sliding open the balcony door, going to the railing, looking at the street, putting his hands behind his head, moving his torso from side to side.

‘Go down,’ said Villani.

The street, nothing moving.

‘Up.’

Kidd rubbing his face with both hands, his scalp, looking at his watch, going inside, closing the door, leaving the sitting room. Out of sight.

‘Not going out, I’d say,’ said Birkerts.

They watched the empty rooms. Villani felt the tightness in his scalp, around his mouth. Something wasn’t right.

‘Don’t like this,’ he said.

They waited. A minute. Two.

Villani knew. ‘Fucking gone,’ he said.

Just walked out their own front door and no one there.

Get there before the Prado took off, that was all they could do.

‘Have to be our own SOGs,’ he said.

He went for the door, for the stairs, heard Winter and Tomasic behind him.

THEY CROSSED half a block down.

He sent Tomasic to go around the block, stopper the lane. Winter following, he walked down the street, ran up the narrow driveway of Kidd’s building, stopped before the corner, looked around it, one-eyed.

Two security lights lit the small parking area, perhaps a dozen cars, the Prado at the end, a high wall at the back.

Not gone. They were still in the building.

Villani drew the Glock. His mouth was dry. ‘I’ll take the door,’ he said. ‘You take the fire escape.’

Winter said, ‘Boss.’

Villani went to move and then the back door came open and a figure jumped the three steps, a big man, big upper body.

Kidd.

Villani shouted:

‘POLICE! DON’T MOVE!’

Kidd turned his head, kept going, Villani sighted on him, two hands.

Greg Quirk came into his mind. He didn’t fire.

A gun in Kidd’s hand, left-handed, that had not been noticed. Scarlet-violet muzzle blinks, two, three, whines off the wall above them, Villani was off balance.

Kidd running across the space, moving lightly for a big man, Villani tried to sight on him again, he was heading for the lane, changed direction, made a clean jump onto a car bonnet, seemed to trampoline, put both hands on the top of the wall. He heaved himself up, got his right leg over.

Gone.

To Winter, Villani said, ‘Tell them target over back wall, we’re following.’

He ran, holstering, climbed onto the bonnet of a VW, it was Laurie’s model, he registered that, clambered onto the cab.

Madness. Not the movies, this was SOG work.

He jumped for the wall, pulled himself up.

No Kidd.

A narrow back yard, a wall of glass, no light in the house, a long lap pool, it glowed the green of the inside of a high-summer wave.

Go over?

He was scared. But he had fucked this thing up and all that remained was not to show fear.

Never take a backward step, son. Bad for the soul.

Kidd wouldn’t be hanging around, Kidd would be running, trying to get as far away as possible, pick up a car, there was nothing to fear here.

Villani swung over. He hurt his balls, hung, dropped a good metre, hard landing, his knees gave, he lost balance, fell over backwards, rolled, the gun pressed into his lower ribs.

He got to his feet, took the gun out of the spring clip, went along the pool edge. How did Kidd get out of here? The building occupied the whole block, wall to wall, there was a roll-up door to the right, that would give access from the street, a garage with doors at each end.

A slightly open steel door to the right of the garage. There was a way out.

Villani ran for the exit, knelt against the garage wall and pulled the door open, tensed against the bullet.

A lane, another door at the end, open. Twenty strides and he was out onto the pavement.

A leafy street, jammed with parked cars, lamplight in ragged-edged puddles. Left, right? He went right, crossed the road, ran, heard the roar and squeal of a car around the corner, not far away.

He got there. Taillights, brake lights, a vehicle swung right, it was too dark to identify, he heard more tyre complaints, it had turned again.

Someone running. He came around the bend, gun drawn. Tomasic.

‘See it?’ said Villani.

‘Ford,’ said Tomasic. ‘Two men.’

Winter came up behind Villani, gun in one hand, radio in the other.

‘Tell Inspector Kiely we want a chopper,’ said Villani. ‘Highest priority. Two males, armed.’ He gestured to Tomasic.

‘Ford Mark 2,’ said Tomasic. ‘XR6, spoiler, dark colour. Travelling west.’

They walked back, Winter talking to control.

Career-destroying moment, Villani thought. At least he’d gone over the wall after Kidd. They couldn’t say he’d shirked it.

IN THE communications vehicle, they watched the monitors. Grey highway vision from the helicopter: four lanes, Western Ring Road, six or seven vehicles visible.

Target behind two semis, he’s not in a hurry. Skyeye Two falling back now.

The Ford and two early-start truckies travelling together. Receding vision.

The helicopter said:

Pursuit vehicles entering freeway.

Two cars on the entry ramp.

Static. Radio:

Control to CV, support vehicles on Deer Park ramp await instructions, please.

They looked at him.

Villani said, ‘Proceed, stay ahead, do nothing, we are accompanying target to Darwin if necessary.’

The operator repeated his words.

Copy that, Control.

Skyeye Two. Target in sight. He’s coming out…

The Ford pulling out, not fast, just overtaking.

Level with the back truck.

Deer Park exit approx one kilometre, CV, Control.

The Ford level with the front semi.

He’s picking up speed, left lane, could be looking to exit…Jesus, that’s grunt…Jesus…

The Ford seemed to jerk left, right, the driver losing control, it crossed two lanes, came back inside, fishtailing, seemed to be braking…

He’s lost control.

The Ford hit the left guardrail, a massive impact, the bonnet opened.

A puff, grey, like soiled cottonwool.

The semis passing the spot.

Fuck.

A fireball.

Target’s exploded. Like a bomb.

Control to all cars, this is Red, repeat Red, pursuit vehicles cordon freeway scene, we need medics…

The chopper went in low, hovered over the flames. There was no recognisable car. The engine block lay three metres from the drive shaft, the highway was littered with smoking pieces, the steering wheel a ring of flame, the back seat burning by the roadside. Beside it lay the upper half of a body.

In the van, hair wet with sweat, listening to the radio traffic, Villani watched the pursuit cars arrive, block the highway, apply the emergency drills.

Five dead now.

He said to the operator, ‘Tell them weapons in the car, that’s the priority.’

EYES IN sockets of gravel, Villani stood in Kidd’s kitchen. His mobile rang.

‘Stephen, Lizzie, what?’ Laurie.

‘Okay, yeah. Found her.’

‘Where is she?’

Hours ago, how many? His skin felt tight, as if he were expanding.

‘Ah, picked up on Beaconsfield Parade with these streeters, shitfaced. She’s at the station, I’ve been tied up, I was on my way…’

‘Police station?’

‘Where are you?’

‘On my way from the airport. She’s where?’

‘St Kilda. They’re hanging on to her.’

‘Quarter to two, how long’s she been there?’

‘A while, yeah. Hours. Can you collect her? Bad night for me, I’m not quite done.’

‘This is your daughter we’re talking about,’ said Laurie. ‘You miserable fucking bastard.’

End of call.

Colby came in, slit-eyed, slicked hair, hands in windcheater pockets, looked around like a man hired to fumigate the premises.

‘Up early, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Or late.’

‘Complete cock-up here,’ Colby said.

‘Can’t argue.’

‘No. When did this fucking death wish grip you?’

‘I’ll say, I’ll say there’s interesting stuff on the tape.’

Colby stared at him, blood in his eyes, deep lines from his nose. ‘Need a leak,’ he said. ‘Take a piss at your crime scene? Piss in a plastic bag?’

‘Down the passage, second left,’ said Villani.

He waited, dull mind, watching the fingerprint techs. He felt the weight of his body, the ache in his shoulders, his calves, felt the time since waking.

Finucane at his shoulder. ‘Boss, they say ID is going to take time. There’s near nothing left of the blokes. But they’ve got two guns.’

Colby came back. Finucane retreated.

‘Putting it mildly,’ Colby said, ‘you are in damage control big time. Forget about interesting stuff on any fucking tape, that’s in lock down, Fucking can of worms.’

‘Why?’

A Bob Villani look, the Jesus, how often do I have to show you?

‘Consider,’ said Colby, ‘how many people are inside this. The tollway people who told you. Your own holy mob. How many heard the name? Barry’s office. Me. What about me? Maybe I’m your dog.’

‘So?’

‘You tell your people they say a fucking word to anyone about interesting stuff on the tape it’s career over. Okay?’

Colby’s assistant arrived, spoke to him in a whisper.

‘Hyenas are here,’ Colby said. ‘Courtesy of Searle’s meerkats. I’m out the back. Need advice on what to say?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Don’t tell me you’ve learned something? Don’t fucking shock me.’

Villani waited a while. Finucane waited, hands in pockets. They went down, crossed the narrow yellow-tiled space to the glass doors, a uniform opened one. The line was a few metres away, three cops, lights, cameras, fat microphones, scruffy techs.

The talent dropped their cigarettes, stepped up, third-string talent, hair stiff with chemical preparations.

Villani went to the pack, blinded for a few seconds.

‘Good morning,’ he said, waited.

The Channel Nine youth raised a hand, said, ‘Inspector, the Oakleigh killings, this is, we’re told, can you confirm…’

‘No,’ said Villani.

‘It’s not the Oakleigh killings?’

‘All I have to say is this is a search of premises in the course of an investigation.’

Silence. This was not the script.

‘Inspector, the shots fired…’

‘It’s an attempt to interview someone of interest who left the scene before that could take place,’ said Villani. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to fit in before dawn.’

A woman said, ‘Inspector, don’t you think we deserve…’

Villani wanted to say Channel Seven deserved whatever it got, but he said, ‘I can’t say anything more because there’s nothing to say. Thank you.’

Finucane went ahead, the crowd parted, they walked in the street to the car, halfway down the block. Finucane did a careful U-turn.

‘Home, boss?’ he said.

‘What’s that again exactly?’ said Villani. ‘And where?’

Laurie’s VW was in the drive, the passage light on. In lead shoes, Villani walked down the path, stood before the door, looking for the key.

It opened.

Laurie.

‘Well, hi,’ said Villani. He went to kiss her, a reflex, but she moved back, said nothing.

‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very bad day for drama. You got her?’

‘No,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘I was parked down Chapel Street. We walked together, I had my arm around her. When we got to the car, I went to my side and she went around to the other side and then she ran away.’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘She looked at me and she said, Mum, I can’t come home, and she ran off, around the corner.’

‘You follow her?’

‘I got in the car and drove around the corner. She was gone, she could have been hiding.’

‘Tell them at the station?’

‘They said they’d put out an alert for her.’

‘What the hell have we done to deserve this?’ Villani got out his mobile, walked through the house into the back yard, stood in the gloom, made two calls.

Laurie was in the kitchen. ‘Anything?’ she said.

‘Everybody’s looking for her. If she’s walking around, they’ll find her.’

‘What?’ Corin in the door, in pyjamas.

‘I went to pick up Lizzie at St Kilda police station,’ said Laurie. ‘She ran away.’

‘When?’

‘Oh, half an hour ago.’

‘How long was she there?’

‘Hours,’ said Villani. ‘I had a lot on.’

‘Jesus, Dad, why didn’t you ring me? I’d have picked her up.’

‘Didn’t think a bit of reality would hurt her,’ said Villani.

‘You stupid bastard,’ said Laurie. ‘Call yourself a father?’

He felt no anger, just a variety of contempt. ‘Listen, if you didn’t spend half your life in Queensland fucking bloody cameramen, this wouldn’t have happened.’

Laurie turned to Corin, ‘Go to bed, darling.’

Corin looked at Villani, held up her hands, ‘Dad, I said I’d look after her.’

‘I know,’ said Villani. ‘I know.’

‘If they find her, wake me,’ Laurie said, disgust on her mouth. ‘If you can be bothered.’

Villani went to Tony’s room in the back yard, had to wrench the door. The room held the smell of a cigarette smoker’s kiss. He felt his way to the bed, clicked the lamp. The bulb fizzed, electrocuted itself. He took off his clothes, lay on the bed naked, chest tight.

Think about something else. The smoke, it dated from the night Vic Zable got it in the carpark at the Arts Centre, the day Cashin’s brother tried to kill himself. How long ago was that? Six, seven months? It was winter. Cashin slept in this room. But before that they drank two bottles of red, both given the smokes away, smoked most of a packet, talked about the job, life, the choices, the fuck-ups…

He woke, sat upright, no sense of place, put his feet on the floor.

Where?

He remembered, and he lowered his forehead into his hands, rubbed his eyes with his thumbpads.

It was 7.15. He went into the day, hot already. Laurie’s car was gone. Corin was gone, bed made. He showered, shaved, dressed, packed his bags, took everything he still wore, threw the rest in the big bin. Then he drove away, stopped at the milk bar to buy cigarettes.

‘Smoking again?’ said the owner. ‘Work getting ya?’

‘Not at all,’ said Villani. ‘Having so much fucking fun it makes me want to smoke.’

In the car, smoking, no joy in it, he rang Kiely’s mobile.

‘They get anywhere on IDing the second bloke?’

‘Not yet,’ said Kiely. ‘Got his prints from Kidd’s place.’

‘Shit,’ said Villani. ‘Anyway, someone gave Kidd up. So first we need to scope ourselves. Every last person who could have done that. All calls out from the time Tracy ID’d him. That’s home, wife, children, the girlfriend, the boyfriend, the lot. Put Burgess to work.’

Kiely coughed. ‘Ah, this’ll take a while.’

‘Of course it’ll take a while. Everything takes a fucking while.’ He felt Kiely’s hatred enter his ear like warm olive oil.

…two still unidentified men died when their car crashed and exploded on the Western Ring Road just after midnight this morning…

He headed for Essendon.

IN THE big dim corrugated-iron room, light from the dirty clerestory windows, people skipping, on the bags, in the ring, Villani warmed up shadowboxing at the mirror, no skipping, he could not do that, he could not bear the jolting of the flab. He went on to the speedball, the double-end bag. Stopping, he felt weak in his legs and arms, his hands and elbows and shoulder joints hurt.

He caught the eye of Les in the ring, big sparring gloves on the rope, a tall, white, tattooed kid was getting out, blotches on his arms.

‘C’mere,’ Les said, beckoned with a glove.

Villani went across the cracked concrete, it held the sweat of sixty years.

‘Where you bin?’ said Les. ‘You look like shit.’

‘Work,’ said Villani. ‘Work and sleep.’

‘Fucken tub of lard,’ said Les. ‘Lookit your legs, fucken cellulite.’

‘Just two, three kilos,’ said Villani. ‘Drop it any time I like.’

‘Get in here, drop it with me,’ said Les. ‘Let’s have a little touch-up, sixty-six next birthday, how’s that suit you? A bit young for you, cop bastard?’

If he invited you, you had to. Otherwise the place became less welcoming, you had to think about another gym, but there were no other gyms like Bombers except a place in Richmond that was even more clubby, it didn’t welcome refugees from Bombers.

Les’s amateur record was fifty-one fights, thirty-eight wins, a lightweight, eleven TKOs, he never knocked out a single man, he didn’t have the punch, but no one ever knocked him out either. He was a no-nonsense fighter, he wasn’t a dancing fool or a slapper. In the pros, his career was short: eleven and four, lost his last three, knocked out twice in a row. The second time, he woke up in the ambulance. And he then showed that he wasn’t stupid. He gave it away and began another life: a stablehand, track rider, assistant gym manager, trainer, up at four, bed by nine.

Villani put on a headguard, approached the ring, bugger mouthguard, he wasn’t going to be hit in the mouth.

Les pointed at his mouth. ‘Got the falsies now? Don’t need teeth?’

Villani went to his bag, found the guard, God knew what germs it harboured.

Once, in the early days, he watched Les sparring with a man thirty kilos heavier, a full head and shoulders taller, a North Melbourne football star, a man who fancied himself as a fighter, now a legend, you heard him on the radio talking about the good old days, how tough it was, the blokes he’d flattened. Les was hitting him at will, not hard, stinging him. The man lost control, the red mist, forgot about boxing and went for Les, tried to grab him. Les moved back, stood flatfooted. He hit the man in the face two or three times, then in the ribs, both hands, four or five punches so fast you couldn’t distinguish them.

The man dropped his arms, sagged, staggered away trying to breathe, hung onto the rope to keep upright, dry-retched.

‘Don’t open up like that, mate,’ said Les, ‘somebody’ll hurt you.’ He beckoned to his next partner.

In the ring now, Villani went straight for the small lean man, Les had contempt for any messing about, had no time for circling and waving. ‘Save that for when you’re in the shit,’ he said.

Les stood, perfect stance, thin white legs, little white socks, hands not moving, mouth running, watch me, watch me hands, jeez you’re lookin slow, sonny, so fucken slow, watch me…

They exchanged feints, Villani got caught in the face, not hard, get yer hands up, not fucken Ali, picked up his hands and took a left and a right in the bottom ribs, it hurt, Les started taking him right, not his good side, he never had a good side, he got a left hand in, Les blinked-hey, hey, hit an old man, typical fucken cop.

He met Xavier Dance at Bombers, he would have been nineteen then. Dance was a year or two older, a good boxer, stylish, but he had rushes of blood to the head, lost his concentration. Also he didn’t like being hurt. There was still cop boxing then, they fought for the cop title twice, one-all, Villani thought he’d done enough to win the second one. Matt Cameron, the boss of the Robbers, was there that night, he came around and said, ‘Ever think about the Robbers? You might be a handy bloke.’

‘C’mon,’ Les said. ‘The right, fatarse, all you ever had.’

‘Fuck you.’ Villani pushed a few, Les blocked, backed off, stepped in, jab, jab, jab, then his right hit Villani in the face.

Being welcome at Bombers meant being serious about training and boxing and not minding being told by Les what you were doing wrong, why it was he was able to hit you so easily, you fuckhead. He walked you around, smacked you a bit, it didn’t hurt much but it was tiring and, even when you were smart to it, after a while it upset your feet, you lost balance, and then he gave you his left hook to the head, to the body, a good punch, not weakening much as the years passed.

‘So fucken slow, fatty,’ he said now.

They feinted and feinted, Villani went forward, kept his elbows tucked in, tried to push Les back, Les darted left, Villani followed, gave him a flurry of punches, all blocked, Les fooled him, came in, poked him in the solar plexus with a short right hand, hit him in the ribs with a left, pain.

‘Jesus,’ said Villani. ‘Take it easy. I’m tired.’

‘You girl,’ said Les. ‘You cop girl.’

It wasn’t amusing. He stalked Les, legs heavy, breathing hard after less than a minute. He never caught him, made a few swipes, lost concentration, tried to take his head off.

‘Jeez, we’re a fighter now?’ said Les. ‘Wasted my time. Technique, sonny, technique or you’re just an arsehole in a pub.’

Villani started boxing because he wasn’t brave, because his father always acted as if his oldest boy was brave and his oldest boy knew he wasn’t. That haunted him. He thought boxing might give him courage. It didn’t but he loved it from the start-the exercises, the drills. And most of all the sparring, the fighting. In the ring, in the thrall of adrenalin, looking over the fence of your fists into the stone eyes of the other man, a great calm took you.

There was nothing else, a world stopped. Just the two of you, the smell of glove leather, of resin, of the salve, you were in a dance, hypnotised by each other. In the ring, time became elastic, it extended, contracted, extended. You felt alive in a way you never felt otherwise. There was a sense of order, there were rules, there was clear intent, ways and means, there was discipline and power. You felt little pain, your concentration on your opponent was total. He was your universe. He was you and you were him.

Les stopped walking away, came at him, at his face and body, up, down, four, five, six, seven punches, a sequence done ten thousand times, Villani covered, going back, flat-footed, hands too high for a second, just off balance.

The left hand dug into his right armpit, a sharp pain went through his body, Les’s right banged into his head, water in his eyes.

Villani shook his head, dropped his hands, panting, nauseous, spat his guard. ‘Happy, gramps?’ he said. ‘Let you hit me a few. Nanna-nap time now?’

Les patted him on the arm. ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘For a fucked old cop. Still got a good right, feet work a bit.’

Out of the ring, Les said, ‘You want to train here, it’s two days a week minimum or fuck off. And don’t shit me about work. On the television, all bloody actors, that’s what you cop pricks do.’

In the car, his mind went to the Prosilio girl. Her body already so marked by life. Did she start out like Lizzie, a loved child? Who would tell her father his little girl was dead? Fucked to death in a palace.

Lizzie.

Prim little girl with pigtails, she sat on the couch in the old sitting room, before the renovation, didn’t watch television, she drew pictures in her big book. He remembered putting her to bed when she was little. First the dolls had to be put to sleep, one at a time, she had about twenty. It took so long he couldn’t bear it, he called for Laurie to take over.

Fussy child, she wouldn’t eat meat, wouldn’t eat fish, didn’t like foods mixed on her plate, lifted her upper lip in distaste, showed gum, tiny white stubs, provisional teeth.

It always pissed him off. Corin and Tony had eaten everything.

Jesus, Stephen, don’t make an issue of it. It’s a phase, some kids are like this.

Not in my day.

Well, maybe trained killers aren’t the best role models for parenting. Not a barracks we’re living in here.

Knockout punch. He couldn’t defend his father, his own upbringing. He wouldn’t know how to begin. He’d never thought of Bob as a father, more a dominating older brother, a much, much older brother who could stop you dead with a look, move a hand in a way that suggested he could backhand you into oblivion. He never did that, he never hit any of them. He didn’t have to.

Paul Keogh’s grating voice on the radio:

…Keystone Cops events in South Melbourne late last night ended in two dead on the Western Ring Road. I’m reliably told that the prime suspects in the Oakleigh massacre escaped from a block of units in Roma Street while police watched. Yes, people, the place was under high-tech surveillance. Brilliant or what? On the line, we’ve got the head of police communication, hello Geoff Searle.

Morning, Paul.

This South Melbourne thing, that’s a major cause for concern, isn’t it?

With respect, Paul, things happen in police operations no one can control, this was a Suspects escaped while you watched, that’s it, isn’t it?

I can’t comment on what happened except to say that our officers behaved with the utmost professionalism and…

C’mon, Geoff, how sick are you of serving up that old line? Utmost professionalism my bum, not to put too fine a point on it. Two murder suspects escape while you’re watching and then they die as a result of a high-speed pursuit…

Paul, there was no high-speed pursuit, that’s just wrong…

I can’t expect you to come right out and say what you and I both know, can I? That this South Melbourne cock-up is par for the course, isn’t it? What do you say to the rumour that the suspects were tipped off from inside the force?

I say simply ridiculous, Paul. Simply ridiculous. There is absolutely…

Let’s see what the listeners think, Geoff, let’s open the lines and…

With respect, Paul, I haven’t come here to take part in talkback, I have no authority to do that.

Oh sorry. My mistake. I thought you spoke on behalf of the force? Haven’t you just been speaking on behalf of the force? Who exactly do you speak for, Geoff?

COLBY WAS at the window, he went back around the desk. He moved like a young man, he behaved like one too, lived in a highrise in Docklands with his new wife, a real-estate agent, young, blond, pregnant, it was said.

‘Terrible shitstorm this,’ he said. ‘Hear that fucking Keogh?

‘Yes.’

‘That kind of thing is not what the leadership wants to hear around election time.’

‘What leadership is that?’

‘All the leadership. I thought I was giving off the signals last night. To a bloke knows me a bit. Sit.’

Villani said, ‘I listen to advice and I use my judgment.’

‘With shit like this,’ said Colby, ‘you would say the sensible go is call the Soggies, they remove the back wall, simultaneously doing their rope trick, what’s it called?’

‘Rappelling.’

‘Yes, that crap. They grab them, excellent, Oakleigh massacre, men held. If they kill the targets, right pricks, wrong pricks, it’s their fault, you walk away blaming gun-crazy gymrats.’

‘Over the years,’ said Villani, ‘I’ve gained the impression Homicide’s business is catching people who’ve killed other people. Putting them on trial.’

Colby put his hands behind his neck, rolled his head on the thick trunk, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Right, well, there’s Homicide’s saintly business and then there’s your career,’ he said. ‘Mr Barry this morning, 6.45am, I’m just back from my twenty-k run, you understand. Feeling perky. He says Gillam rang him and expressed his happiness about Homicide. And guess who rang fucking Gillam?’

‘Yes?’

‘To be clear here,’ said Colby, ‘your thinking was, we’ll just sit and watch, the whole thing will open like a flower?’

Villani said, ‘You know what my thinking is, boss. They should worry about who gave up Kidd and his mate. That’s what they have to worry about.’

‘It’s you I’m worrying about,’ said Colby. ‘Sucked in by this high-tech crap, Crucible bullshit. Ten million hours of fucking phone taps, you can sit there watching exciting vision of arseholes in cars, scratching their balls, doesn’t matter that it adds up to a pint of warm piss.’

Villani had nothing to say because to some extent it was true. The new world of surveillance was intoxicating, seeing the city from on high, zooming in on alleys and back yards, following pursuits as they happened.

‘And at the end of it,’ said Colby, ‘we say fuck to the high-tech, we go jumping over walls and running after a certified ex-SOG psycho who’s quite happy to shoot cops. Fucking pig-stupid or what?’

Eyes locked.

Villani said, ‘I’m sorry. Had some really bad examples to follow. Dumb turkeys jumped on moving cars.’

Colby’s phone murmured. He agreed with the caller five or six times, deferential, hard gaze always on Villani, marbles expressed more meaning. He said goodbye, put the receiver down.

‘There’s a feeling you should be less visible on Oakleigh, Metallic, for a while,’ he said.

‘Whose feeling is that?’

‘Just accept it.’

‘I’m guilty of something, am I? Fuck that.’

Colby pulled an ear, a dried apricot. ‘Think, son. Strategise. We are in a delicate phase. The present lot are now dying fish, Orong’s eyes are glassing over. But they’re still hoping, still paranoid about bad news. On the other side, Mrs Rottweiler Mellish’s got her whole kennel out sniffing for damaging shit.’

He gazed at Villani. ‘You, for example, are damaging shit.’

‘Damaged,’ said Villani.

‘Yes. Both. Second, Gillam’s going to the feds, heaven help the fuckwits, average IQ drops even lower. Mr Barry steps up, acting chief commissioner. I hear that. But not until after the election. So the mick’s got to suck both sides of the street.’

‘I’m slower than usual,’ said Villani.

‘Why’s Barry holding your dick, taking you to meet the glitterati?’

‘Tell me, boss,’ he said.

Colby held up his hands, meshed fingers short and blunt, set like a cactus. In the squad offices, Villani once saw him pick up an armed robber and throw him across a desk into the wall. An old calendar fell down, draped itself over the man’s head.

‘The farmer’s wife wants O’Barry for Pope,’ Colby said. ‘Cleanskin, untainted by the culture. But the boyo himself, he knows it’s a moon landing. The twat’s walking around in the big boots, fucking fishbowl on his head. Knows zero plus buggerall about the place he’s in. At. On. Whatever.’

‘Yes?’ said Villani.

‘So he wants a mate,’ said Colby. ‘He badly needs a mate. Smart person done the shit from the street up, done all the work, fired upon by the scum, a brave and loyal member, no one has a bad word.’

‘Heard about Quirk?’ said Villani.

‘Hear everything,’ said Colby. ‘Anyway, Barry’s the fat kid sucks up to the tough boy. Buys him the Mars Bars.’

‘Me?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘He’s got a tough boy. He’s got you.’

‘No, no, mate, he can’t trust me.’

Villani shook his head, he had no idea how this worked, he didn’t care much either, partly lack of sleep, partly the stupidity of going to the gym. He could feel every punch Les had landed.

‘I’m slow here,’ he said.

‘Well, you, it worked, you’d go straight to crime commissioner,’ said Colby.

‘Me?’ This could not be right.

‘You.’

‘No. Anybody ever done a jump like that before?’

‘Look around, son. Just traffic deadshits, long-lasting legacy of our lady Fatima. You now stick out like a hardie in the convent showers. Proper cop.’

‘And you?’

‘Well, roll the dice,’ said Colby. ‘I’m happy to take a package. Anyway, the mick wants you below the parapet for a while. Racing with cover.’

‘And Kidd?’

‘I’ve heard the tape. There’s nothing there.’

‘He was going nowhere before he got that call,’ said Villani. ‘Then he takes another one on his auntie’s mobile and they’re off. And not in the Prado.’

‘Pure fucking supposition. Anyway, assuming he was dropped, there’s no way we can find the dog. Yes?’

‘We can try.’

Colby blew like a horse. ‘Mate, mate, don’t dial-a-turd here, the job leaks from the minister to the fucking typists. Who’d you give the name to first? Mr Barry?’

‘My recollection, yes,’ said Villani.

‘In that case, my advice is forget it. What we want is ballistics matching Oakleigh to the dead blokes. Then we can close the door on this shit. Be grateful people are looking out for you.’

Villani did not feel grateful. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.

‘Yeah. Searle’s the worry here, he’d like to see me buried. Whole Searle family’d have a wakey. My distinction is, I punched out two Searles in one fight, this cunt’s old man and his uncle, two weaker dogs you never saw. Know that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Everyone in the job knew it, it was legend. From never speaking of it, Colby had now told the story five or six times in the last year. Not a good sign.

‘Collingwood, of course,’ said Colby. ‘Fucking over the slopes, that was the Searle speciality. Kings of Richmond, lords of Saturn Bay, there even the mozzies obey them and the tradies build their houses out of stuff stolen off building sites.’ He coughed. ‘I gather you’ve carried on Singleton’s policy of treating Searle like dogshit.’

‘He is dogshit.’

‘No argument on facts, your honour. The point is I hear the squatter’s wife’s told the vermin he’s her pick for media boss. Subject to performance. You with me?’

‘Boss.’

Pointing. ‘What’s that red?’

‘Old bloke hit me,’ said Villani.

Colby blinked at him. ‘Not still doing that shit?’

Villani shrugged.

‘Why don’t you go for a fucking walk in King Street? People will hit you for nothing.’

HE TOOK his seat, clear desk, looked at the big room outside. It was more than two years since he’d taken charge, the day of Singo’s stroke. Even if you thought you didn’t deserve to be the boss, it grew on you. After a while you didn’t think anyone else could do it better.

Kiely came out, touched his oiled hair, walked around the room, people ignored him, came to Villani’s door.

‘Instructions?’ he said.

Villani said, ‘Found out who sold Kidd yet?’

‘I’d like to say,’ said Kiely, a little liplick. ‘I want it on record that I think this squad should be managed in a professional manner. Not like a bad restaurant where the manager also wants to do the cooking.’

He would have to die. Villani felt the pressure in his head, considered letting go, saying, Take over, I’ve got flu coming on, going home, the old couch in the back room, sleep, sleep.

The old couch was long gone. And it wasn’t his home anymore.

‘Is that walking away from your fuck-ups?’ he said.

Kiely’s eyes wide. ‘Excuse me, nothing last night was my responsibility.’

‘I mentioned the full weight of the surveillance state, didn’t I? No laser, no tags, we let the prick run out of his back door, fire at me and Winter and then bloody vanish. Want more?’

‘All irrelevant to the outcome. Which wouldn’t have been the outcome if my advice hadn’t been sneered at. That’s on record, my word.’

‘What record?’

‘Memos to command.’

‘Ah, the Kiwi way,’ said Villani. ‘Here, that’s called being a dog.’

Kiely tried the Singo look. Villani said, ‘Staring at me?’

‘Moving on, it’s also my opinion that Weber should take over the Prosilio matter.’

‘What’s wrong with Dove?’

‘Not ready for responsibility. Shown that, hasn’t he?’

‘Told him that?’

‘Not yet.’

Villani looked, saw Dove waiting, bony figure sitting on a desk edge, shoulders slack, head down, light reflected on his scalp.

‘Jesus, mate,’ he said. ‘He took a bullet. These days they take a love-tap, they go on sick leave, stress leave, next it’s full disability for life. But this bloke actually comes out of hospital, he reports for duty. Give him a fucking break, will you?’

Kiely shrugged, blinked. ‘Well, made myself plain. That’s my responsibility.’

‘Metallic. Tell the ballistics pricks we want a yes or no on the Ford guns and Oakleigh in hours.’ Impassive, Kiely left.

Villani found Dove’s gaze, nodded. Dove crossed the room, file in hands, stood.

‘Nobody told me this bloke Kidd’s name,’ he said. ‘Am I on some blacklist?’

‘Remarkably bad time to fuck with me, son,’ Villani said, he held his iron face.

‘Sorry, boss,’ said Dove. ‘Alibani? Prosilio…’

‘I remember,’ said Villani. ‘I’m paid to remember.’

‘Right. Well, in looking over the family unto the thirteenth cousins, I find that he owns a house in Melbourne. Preston.’

‘It’s him?’

‘Well, the address for rates is an accountant in Sydney. He says Alibani has been gone for years, hasn’t heard from him, but he left money to pay the rates on three properties. Rates and other bills, they come to the bean counter.’

Villani thought about his pledge to stop interfering, stop taking charge. ‘Get a car,’ he said.

THE SKY was old bottle glass, smoke in the air. Villani slumped in the passenger seat, another air-conditioner that didn’t work, the car smelled of cigarette smoke and chemical aftershaves, deodorants.

They drove up the spine of the clogged city, Dove cautious, bullied by reckless Asian taxi-drivers, black BMWs, Audis, drivers quick to hoot, force an entry.

When he looked up, they were in Russell Street.

That long-ago day, he came out of the old stone magistrates’ court, he was there to give evidence, it wasn’t going to happen until after lunch, half a day wasted, the woman was genetically programmed to steal stuff, you might as well imprison dolphins for leaping out of the sea. The next day was Good Friday, he was off, thinking about going surfing, hungry, he was waiting to cross to the Russell Street station, standing on the La Trobe corner. You could get a decent ham and cheese sandwich from the canteen, there was a woman cop crossing the road.

The world went orange, a massive impact knocked him over, his head hit the tarmac, something landed on his chest, he grasped it in both hands, mind blank, registered more explosions, people screaming. He got up, vision blurred, no idea of what had happened, his nasal passages were full of burnt rubber and hot dust. He focused on what he was holding. A hubcap, folded, like a pastie.

He sat down, feet in the gutter, head on his knees, feeling tired, unsure of mind, have a little rest. Then the thought rose in him:

You’re a policeman. Get up. Do something.

He got up, not at all steady, he brushed himself, there were dark marks on his shirt, he nodded at them and stepped into the street.

The policewoman he saw crossing the road died of burns. She was about his age, he knew her by sight. Much later, he worked with cops who knew the men sentenced to life for killing her, for injuring all the others, they were armed robbers, they hated cops, turning a lifted Holden into a gelignite bomb was a very funny thing to do, an outlaw thing.

Livin on the wild side, mate, stick it up their fucken arses, park it outside the fucken front door, how’s that? Cop fucken HQ. Middle of the fucken day, all those fat cunts in there talking on the radio to other cop cunts, Read you, car fucken fifty-one, over and out, then it’s fucken KABANG!!!

They could have murdered any number of people, just luck a group of cops wasn’t passing, the SOGs from around the corner, cops coming out of the station. Him. That day he grew up, he realised just what it meant to put on the uniform.

Lizzie.

A teenage druggy who didn’t give a shit about her family.

Laurie’s family were nothing to write home about. Her old man, Graham, big-nosed Graham, he worked for Telecom all his life, not so much a job as an explanation for being away from home in daylight. Her mother was pretty, a self-taught bookkeeper for a Fitzroy leathergoods factory that went under in the nineties. She did a lot of overtime, Graham often said that, fake smile. Villani took it to mean she’d been fucking the boss.

Whose fault was Lizzie?

After Rachel Bourke, Tony’s friend’s mother, things went badly sour. He met her when he went to watch Tony play hockey, she was a mistake but she’d stalked him, he hadn’t looked for it, didn’t cross the street for it. Anyway, it was weeks, six tops, four or five fucks, that was it. Laurie knew, she had no evidence but she knew, women knew, she read it in his body, his voice.

‘Not exactly sure where we are, boss,’ said Dove. ‘The GPS isn’t working.’

Villani looked around. They were in Plenty Road. ‘Jesus, how’d you get here?’

‘A bit new to me, this part.’

‘Cops don’t get lost,’ said Villani. ‘They study Melways at night, they study it before they get in the car. Don’t need a degree to learn the Melways. No wonder the feds use a GPS to find their dicks.’

He gave directions. In time, they crossed the railway line, found the street, the number, parked opposite. The house was behind a two-metre-high corrugated-iron fence, just its tiled roof visible. They walked over. A padlock and chain on the double driveway gates. Villani looked through a gap. He could see little.

They shouted, banged on the gate.

‘We need a warrant here,’ said Villani. ‘Going by the book.’

‘What book is that?’ said Dove.

Villani made the call. They sat in the car. He offered Dove a cigarette. A time passed, his view was north-east, the sky was dull yellow-brown, a huge diatomic bloom caused by dust and smoke. From the hills, the city would be wobbling in its own heat.

He rang Bob. It rang out. Again.

‘Villani,’ said Bob.

‘Me. What’s happening?’

‘Nothing. Come up to Flannery’s last night before the wind shifted. Still in the north-west. We should be all right.’

‘And Flannery?’

‘Some burnt mutton. Now shot and that’s fucking expensive. He had the CFA on him to move them yesterday, won’t listen. Man’s gaga.’

‘What do they say about you?’

‘Mate, the dickheads know me. Keep their mouths shut.’

Coughing, throat clearing. ‘Listen, the doctor’s wife rang. Last night.’

Karin. Mark’s wife number two. Number one was Janice, a nurse from Cobram, pregnant when they married just after he started specialising, she lost the child early. They broke up inside a year.

Mark went up the medical scale, Karin, a researcher, something to do with blood, her father also knew blood, he was one of Mark’s teachers, Mr David Delisle, all-purpose surgeon, cut anything needed the scalpel. Villani met him at the civil ceremony in Kew, a brick mansion, wrought-iron gates. Mrs Delisle gave him the eye, handsome in a Botoxed stringy gymrat way. The knife man was poreless, silky hair, like a greyhound somehow but without the nerviness.

Right from the handshake, Bob Villani and David seemed to have some joke going. Perhaps they recognised each other as born killers. Karin got on with Bob too, a pony-club girl, besotted with horses, couldn’t keep her hands off them. Before the pregnancy, she drove up to the farm on her days off, stayed over. It occurred to Villani that she was in love with her father and she put that on Bob. The men had the same stillness, the appraising stare. They gave the impression that, if circumstances required, they could do an appendectomy in the dark with a reasonably sharp Joseph Rodgers Bunny Clip and Castrator. Working purely by feel.

‘What’s she say?’ said Villani.

‘Well, makes out it’s about the fires. Then it’s tears, Mark’s gone off her, out late all the time, no-show for the kid’s birthday party. And so on.’

‘Tragic,’ said Villani. He wasn’t going to tell Bob about Lizzie.

‘Talk to him,’ said Bob. ‘Have a word with the doctor.’

‘Be reasonable,’ said Villani. ‘You can’t talk to blokes about that stuff.’

‘Not a bloke, he’s your brother. He’ll listen to you.’

‘What, the boss manner?’

‘Something like that. Kick his arse.’

‘The boy may be in need of emotional support,’ said Villani.

‘Yeah. Kick his arse.’

‘Know a Danny Loneregan? From Vietnam?’

He thought he could hear birds.

‘Who wants to know?’

‘His son. He’s a cop. Asked me to ask.’

‘What’s he want to know?’

‘Just about him. Didn’t know him.’

‘Tell him his dad was a good bloke. Had guts. Used to show anyone who’d look his boy’s picture.’

‘Do that then.’

Cough. ‘Talk to Mark, okay?’

It was forty minutes before the van came down the street. Two men in overalls got out. Villani crossed the street.

‘The gate, Gus,’ he said. ‘Then possibly the front door.’

‘This a legal entry?’

‘I’m an officer of the law, yes,’ said Villani.

The offsider cut the chain with boltcutters, a hard snick. Dove pushed a wing open and they entered.

The house was small, an ugly yellow brick-veneer in the centre of its block. It was partly obscured by gum trees, weedy splitting things, the result of some misguided arboreal instinct. To the left, the high unbroken wall of a sheet-metal fabricator shadowed the driveway. On the other side, beyond the high fence, a brick building of no obvious purpose showed dirty windows.

They went down the concrete drive, walked by a window covered by a metal roll-down security blind. Villani climbed a step to a brick verandah. Two new padlocks secured the steel front door. Attempts had been made to jemmy it.

‘Got replacements?’ said Villani.

‘Pope Catholic?’ said the offsider. They were civilians, had no respect.

The pair wheeled in a buggy with a gas bottle and cut the locks in minutes. ‘Bunnings shit,’ said Gus. He went to the van and came back with three new locks and a length of chain. ‘Bloody waste of quality,’ he said.

They left.

‘Little sniff before we go in,’ said Villani.

He pointed Dove to the left, stepped off the verandah and went to the right, past the other shuttered window. There had once been a flowerbed along the house, a strip of dirt marked out by bricks on the diagonal. Now it grew only plastic bags, cigarette packets, beer bottles, mixed-drink cans, chicken bones, unidentifiable bits of cloth, a pair of nylon underpants, a denim skirt, one cup of a bra, the fabric peeled back to reveal a grey cone of foam rubber.

The alley between the house and the fence held more of the same, plus pale condoms and turds coated with baize-green moss. Two windows had been sealed with unmatching bricks.

The small back yard had all these things and much more. The bodies of three pillaged cars, crowpicked, bled rust into the concrete. Their unwanted innards lay in oil stains.

‘Recycling,’ Dove said. ‘That’s nice. Power’s on, the water meter’s ticking.’

The back door was steel, blank, internal bolts. Serious attempts to open it had failed. The windows were high and small, broken but negotiable only by cats.

They went back. Villani opened the steel front door. There was another door behind it, of delaminating plywood. He opened that, went in first, that was his prerogative and his duty.

He stood in a passage: dead air and the gas given off by cheap carpets and the foam beneath them. Something sweet and sour, too, like the sweat in old intimate garments.

The light didn’t work.

Dim sitting room. Dove wound up the metal blind. It groaned, it had been a while. Sixties furniture, glass coffee table, a kidney shape.

‘Coke,’ said Dove, pointing.

Villani looked, saw the smears, walked around sniffing, went down the passage and into the bathroom. Nothing on the rails, nothing in the cabinet above the basin.

‘Do that room,’ he said to Dove. ‘Don’t touch.’

The first bedroom had a bare single bed. He opened a wardrobe by tugging on the bottom of the door. Empty.

In the kitchen, the small fridge was running, freezer iced up. Empty.

Who paid the power bills?

‘Boss.’ Dove.

Villani went to the back bedroom, stood in the door.

‘Nothing here,’ said Dove, eyes on the carpet next to the stripped bed. ‘But there’s this.’

Villani crossed. On the cheap dark carpet, a darker stain, large.

‘Another one here,’ said Dove.

‘Well,’ said Villani. ‘We should ask the question. Get them. Prints, DNA, the lot. House search. Under the floor, roof, everything.’

He left Dove to wait, drove out of the street.

HIS PHONE rang as he was parking in a small shopping centre carpark, directly across from the arcade that ended in his brother’s consulting rooms. It was Kiely.

‘There’s no Metallic match with the weapons in Kidd’s car, the Ring Road one. That’s one hundred per cent sure.’

‘Bugger,’ said Villani.

‘And the vehicle. Genuine plates. It’s registered to a man not seen for nearly ten years and was sixty-eight then.’

‘Bugger again.’

A big man with long greased hair in a ponytail came out of the arcade and stood at the kerb. He took sunnies out of his denim jacket, big wraparound glasses, put them on, looked around, lit a cigarette.

Villani knew him. His name was Kenny Hanlon, they brought him in for questioning over a man called Gaudio, a minor drug figure. Gaudio’s biggest impact on society was to block a storm-water pipe in Melton. Someone, possibly Kenny Hanlon, had bound his hands and feet with no. 8 fence wire and stuck an apple in his mouth. Then a heavy vehicle had driven over his head, several times.

He watched Hanlon cross to a black Holden muscle car parked tight against struggling hedges in the far corner, get into the passenger seat, vanish behind the dark window.

Villani waited for the Holden to leave. Waited.

Mark came out of the arcade, white shirt, open-necked, he stood where Hanlon had stood, looked around, turned left. Villani lost sight of him, then he came through the ragged hedge in front of the Holden, went to Hanlon’s window, blocked Villani’s view.

The urge was to look away, start the car, drive off. Get on with the business of the day. But he looked and his throat was tight and his mouth was dry. The dark window came down. Mark Villani leaned his forearms on the sill, head almost in the car.

In less than a minute, Mark straightened, tapped the roof of the Holden, went back the way he had come. The machine woke, the driver made it growl, it backed, went forward, backed again until a wheel mounted the kerb. Then it escaped its lodging, came past Villani, slowly, eight-speaker sound system threatening to break windows, dent cars, blow the infirm and their shopping carts back into the supermarket. It had three short backsloping coil aerials on the roof.

Villani went to his brother’s surgery. An old man, two women and a toddler, a girl, were waiting, sitting on white plastic chairs. ‘His brother would like to speak to Dr Villani,’ he said to the receptionist, a thin woman with dyed black hair and pencilled eyebrows.

She picked up the phone. ‘Your brother’s here, doctor. Okay. Right.’ She smiled at Villani. ‘Doctor will see you next.’

Villani sat as far away from the others as possible, hands in his lap. He closed his eyes, tried to think of nothing, failed. He opened his eyes. The child was looking at him. She took off towards him, plodding and uncertain steps.

‘Dadda,’ she said. ‘Dadda.’

‘Shayna, leave the man alone,’ said a young woman in a man’s leather jacket. She had a tattoo around her neck below the Adam’s apple, a strand of blue barbed wire. The child ignored her, eyes fixed on Villani, took another step, held out her dimpled arms.

Villani looked away. How had the budding neurosurgeon ended up in this sad dump?

‘Dadda,’ the child said.

The old man made a popping sound like a failing two-stroke ignition. It might have been a laugh. He pointed at Villani. ‘Nailed yer, mate,’ he said. ‘Nailed yer.’

‘Shut yer fucken mouth,’ said the woman. ‘Stupid old cunt.’

‘Fuck you too,’ said the man. ‘Seed you got two more in the car. Three fucken dads no doubt.’

‘Mr Stewart, kindly be quiet or wait outside,’ said the receptionist. ‘And you’ll wait all day.’

The child took another step towards Villani. ‘Dadda,’ she said.

The woman came out of her chair, wrenched the child away by the arm, sat down holding her tight. The child began to whimper and tears rolled down her fat cheeks. Her eyes never left Villani.

The door opened and a pimpled teenage boy came out, perhaps sixteen, olive-skinned, Elvis hair. He looked straight ahead, walked. Mark Villani stuck his head out. ‘Steve,’ he said.

The consulting room had a temporary look, a chipboard desk, a cheap computer, an examination table covered with a sheet, not sparkling white. The calendar was for 2009.

They sat.

‘Been meaning to call you,’ said Mark. He had grown his hair, grown a little goatee, a ring in an earlobe.

‘Saw you outside,’ said Villani. ‘At the black Holden.’

Mark lifted his chin, blinked twice, looked down at the desk pad, wrote something. ‘Patient left his prescription behind.’

‘I could see you knew him.’

‘Of course, I know him. He’s a patient.’

‘Could have sent the receptionist.’

Mark looked up. ‘You here to tell me how to run my practice?’

‘He’s not a model citizen, your patient. Know that?’

Mark shook his head. ‘Steve,’ he said, ‘I actually don’t ask sick people to present character references. Feeling crook is enough.’

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I also don’t discuss my patients with other people. That’s a principle among doctors. Not heard of it? I suppose you’re in the pub telling the drunks about who murdered who?’

Villani waited, looking at his brother. Mark looked back, tapped a finger.

‘Nice of you to drop by,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll call you, find a time.’

‘Hellhounds,’ said Villani. ‘You’re associating with Hellhounds.’

Mark raised his upper lip. ‘Steve, don’t come the cop with me. The bloke’s a patient, he rides a Harley, I’ve got a Harley, we talk Harleys.’

‘Go round the clubhouse, do you?’

Mark picked up his ballpoint, clicked it, kept clicking it. ‘As I understand it, it’s just pool tables and beer fridges and a workshop.’

‘Are you fucking naïve or what?’

‘Listen, don’t tell me who I can talk to. Got fuckall to do with you, okay?’

‘No, it’s not okay,’ said Villani. ‘You’ve got something to do with me. I think that.’

‘Can we have this conversation some other time? I’m busy, I don’t have…’

Villani said, ‘So the golden boy’s now giving the wife and kids the arse, got a little beard, little earring and he’s associating with murdering bikie scum?’

Mark placed the ballpoint on the blotter, looked at his hands, opened and closed his fists. He had big hands, wiry hair on the backs. ‘Anybody punched you recently?’ he said.

‘Don’t give me tough, sonny,’ said Villani. ‘I’ll put you on your arse. I’m your brother. I’m telling you what you don’t want to hear.’

‘How’s your happy family?’ said Mark. ‘You still fucking everything in a skirt? You think Laurie doesn’t know? I’ve had enough sanctimonious crap from you.’

‘Fuck you.’ Villani got up. He had handled this badly, he was handling everything badly.

‘Sit down,’ said Mark. ‘Sit down, Steve.’

Villani sat.

‘Jesus, you’re a bully,’ said Mark.

‘People are telling me that,’ said Villani. ‘A boss manner, they say.’

‘Bullied the life out of me and Luke.’

Villani wanted to say, You’re only a doctor because I was a bully, but he said, ‘You’d both still be fast asleep if I hadn’t kicked you out of bed.’

Mark’s eyes were on the desk. ‘You were like a god, y’know? Always in charge, always knew what to do, so fucking cool and calm. I wanted to be like you. I wanted you to like me. You didn’t like me, did you? You don’t now.’

Villani felt unease, looked around. ‘Yeah, well, you’re my brother, like doesn’t come into it. I don’t want to see you fuck up your life. What’s wrong with you? There’s shit, right?’

Mark held his eyes, defiant.

Villani waited, folded his hands and waited, didn’t blink, didn’t shift his gaze.

Mark tossed his head and then he misted, blinked, and he put his arms on the desk and lowered his head, said something Villani couldn’t make out.

‘What? What?’

Mark looked up, more blinking. ‘I’m under investigation.’

‘By?’

‘Practitioners Board.’

‘For what?’

‘Prescribing and other stuff. They want me to suspend myself.’

‘Prescribing?’ He noticed for the first time that Mark’s eyes were a soft brown, not the glossy black olives of Bob Villani.

‘The pressure’s huge, you have to be in the game to understand, you…’

‘The game? This’s a game, is it? You’re saying you’ve got a habit, don’t fuck with me.’

‘It’s under control, Steve. Under control. I am coming out of a bad time, but, yes, it’s now under…’

‘What’s the stuff in this prescribing and stuff?’

‘Well, they have some, they have someone saying I treated someone for a wound. Gunshot wound.’

‘And that’s right, is it?’

‘Don’t look at me like that, just don’t look at me like that, okay, it’s not a fucking major offence, it was an accident, blokes buggering around, a gun went off, it’s not like the person was shot by…by someone like you. No.’

A coldness in him, Villani got up. ‘So you’re the Hellhounds’ tame fucking GP,’ he said. ‘You’re the smacked-out medico patches up these cunts, prescribes what they can’t make.’

Mark stood up. ‘Stevie, it’s over. I swear that, I swear it is over, it is under control, I am taking back my life, that is…’

‘You’re a disgrace,’ said Villani. ‘Bob, me, all the fucking effort, we thought we had a thoroughbred in the stable, a surgeon. You blew it, you weak dog, you fucking waste of space.’

He left, passed swiftly through the death-ray eyes in the waiting room, went down the shabby arcade, crossed the parking lot. In the car, he sat for a moment, composed himself.

VILLANI AND Dove sat in the car eating salad rolls bought by Villani on the way back to Preston, he could not trust Dove not to get lost.

A car parked behind them. Birkerts. He got in the back.

‘Coming past,’ he said. ‘Heard you were here. Mr Kiely’s given me Burgess.’

Troy Burgess had been Villani’s first section boss in Homicide. Why Singleton took him from the CIB was an enduring mystery. He was work-shy, a heavy drinker, spent most of his day on his gambling, his domestic problems, two ex-wives, four children, one with time for drugs, one married to a violent crim shot in the back by an associate, a succession of demanding young women met in strip joints and pubs, at the races.

‘Off the piss, Burgo,’ Birkerts said. ‘The punt too, they say. Become a bit of an advisor to Mr Kiely. As an elder of the force. Explaining the history and quaint customs.’

‘God help us,’ said Villani. He had no high ground on the punt, it had come so close to bringing him down.

‘Waiting,’ said Dove. ‘I never realised how much waiting there was.’

‘It’s television,’ said Villani, chewing. ‘These techies now see themselves as the band. We’re just muscle, the roadies.’

‘Can we be told why the boss roadie himself isn’t running Metallic anymore?’ said Birkerts. ‘Or is that impertinent?’

‘Mr Kiely deserves a turn.’

‘Great timing. What’s the charge?’

Villani didn’t want to talk in front of Dove. ‘Men now dead escaped while under surveillance,’ he said. ‘They think there might have been a better way.’

‘What way?’

‘When they tell me, I’ll tell you.’

A hot wind had arrived, moving the ragged, forgotten trees. Two youths in overalls, a tall and a short, came out of the factory next door, stood smoking, looking at them, one said something, they laughed.

‘Only the truly ignorant are truly happy,’ said Birkerts. ‘My dad.’

‘Penetrating,’ said Villani. ‘An old Swedish saying?

‘Don’t know Swedish sayings from fucking Ukrainian,’ said Birkerts, rubbing his face with both hands. His mobile rang. He had a short conversation, put the device away.

‘So what’s on here?’ he said.

‘We have no idea,’ said Villani, chewing, looking at the youths, at the house, waiting for some sign.

Birkerts sighed. ‘Three highly trained operatives in one car. With no idea why.’

A man in overalls in the front door of the house. He raised a gloved hand.

‘Like the fucking Pope,’ said Villani.

‘I’ll be on my way then,’ said Birkerts. ‘See you later, roadies.’

‘Tell you the Ford guns don’t match Oakleigh?’

‘Mr Kiely did.’

‘I want the Oakleigh gun,’ said Villani. ‘I want the satisfaction of the Oakleigh gun.’

‘Do anything to satisfy you, boss.’

Villani and Dove crossed the street, went down the path, filed through the front door, stood in the dim house. A woman was mixing fluids in a pump spray, the sickening smell of peroxide.

‘The big stain,’ she said. ‘And there’s others. Have a look at a bit of the big one. Not to bugger the DNA.’

A man edged around them. ‘Tape it?’ he said.

‘No,’ said the man in charge. ‘Shutters down, Wayne.’

Wayne wound away the light. A torch came on, lit the room.

The leader said, ‘Yeah, dark enough. Gerry.’

Gerry sprayed the carpet.

‘Off.’

Click. They stood in blackness, blind.

A small piece of carpet began to glow, luminous blue.

‘Oh yes,’ said the woman, cheerful. ‘Blood. That’s lots and lots.’

VILLANI WENT back to the car, made calls about Lizzie. She was on all the keep-a-lookout-for lists. He put the phone away and leant back, slept for ten minutes until his head lolled. He sat up, dry-mouthed, thirsty.

It came into his mind: the faraway Thursday in winter, the long drive on the snow road, Singleton and Burgess in front, Burgess’s terrible jokes. He didn’t understand why Singo could be bothered, remembered wishing he had never transferred to Homicide, aching to be back in the Robbers, they did not drive for hours. The day was dying behind the mountains, steady drizzle, when they saw the divvy van at the side of the highway. The cop, stoic face, waved them onto the track, they went about two hundred metres.

She was naked, she was small, pitifully thin, prominent ribs, a long neck. The corners of her mouth had been cut by something. It took weeks or months to identify her, he had moved on, she wasn’t local, that was all he remembered. Darwin, somewhere far away…

His phone.

‘FYI, the second man is a Raymond Judd Larter, age thirty-eight,’ said Kiely. ‘Unfortunately, he turns out to be ex-Special Operations Group too. He quit six years ago to join Special Air Services, time in Afghanistan. Discharged two years ago.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ve asked the question. We’re trying to find him on other bases.’

‘We are obliged to warn Searle about impending shit,’ said Villani. ‘Need to find the gun. Get the Prado X-rayed.’

The girl on the track, Burgess would know what the outcome was. No conviction, that was certain.

Phone again.

‘Lizzie,’ said Laurie. ‘She says she’s okay.’ Instant anger.

‘Where the fuck is she?’

‘It was noisy, street phone, she said, Hi Mum, I’m okay, talk to you later. That was it.’

‘You want them to keep looking for her?’

‘Of course. Yes.’

‘Right, okay. This really pisses…’

‘I see you’ve taken your clothes.’

‘Any reason I shouldn’t do that?’

‘No, not a single one. Goodbye.’

You could not slam down a mobile. He was looking at it, clenching it, when it rang.

‘Need a chat, mate.’ It was Dance. ‘How’s the old spot suit? Five-thirty?’

‘See you there.’

Villani got out, stretched, tried to touch his toes, felt eyes, saw a worker looking at him. He crossed to the house, walked around it and sat on the back step. He watched Dove walking around the yard. His suit wasn’t a Homicide number, the jacket didn’t have the poncho fit. He had never had a good look at Dove. Until you watched people from a distance, you hadn’t really seen them. You had to register the way they walked, held themselves, moved their arms, their hands, their heads. You could learn things by doing that, observing, some mothers could read their kids from half a block away, know what was going on in their heads.

He remembered sitting outside Brunetti’s in Faraday Street that day, seeing Laurie from a long way, waiting at the lights. He watched her come, jeans, black leather jacket, jinking through the walkers, he realised she’d lost some weight, slightly different haircut, shorter, she was walking in a more confident way. Their eyes docked when she was ten metres away. He was the one to drop his gaze.

She touched his shoulder, the long hand, she kissed his forehead, perched on the chair, straight back. ‘Haven’t been here for yonks, got a meeting in half an hour.’

Villani said, ‘You’re having an affair.’

It was not what he had planned, he had wanted to hint, to force her to say the words.

She moved her head, looked at him over her nose. Now he held her eyes. She blinked, moved her mouth, revealed a tip of pink tongue.

‘I don’t think this is the place to talk,’ she said.

Blood in his face, in his eyes, he said, ‘Well, we don’t have to talk at all, piss off. Fuck meeting with the boyfriend, is that it?’

She rose and walked, a few quick paces, turned and came back, stood over him, loomed, made him look up, his spine cracked.

‘I’m not having an affair,’ she said. ‘I’m in love with someone. I’ll move out today.’

‘No,’ he said, anger dead, ashes. ‘You stay, I’ll go.’

‘Don’t come the victim with me, Stephen,’ she said. ‘After what I’ve put up with, your whoring, the gambling.’

But he didn’t move out, she didn’t. For a long time they passed in the house like boxers before a fight.

The forensics boss came around the corner, clipboard in hand. ‘We’re done,’ he said. ‘Lots of everything. I’ll be in touch.’

‘The blood.’

‘There’s a trail down the passage to the kitchen. I’d guess the body dragged.’

‘The Prosilio woman,’ said Villani. ‘She might have been here. Need to know that as a priority. Then we want to run all prints as fast as possible.’

He wrote on the clipboard. ‘Action that.’

Villani’s mobile rang when they were in Flinders Street.

‘Anna,’ she said, the throaty voice. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘Are we speaking? As in, do you wish to speak to me?’

‘I think so, yes.’

‘Good. Saw you at Persius with the rich and the famous. Looked right through me.’

‘Dazzled by the light.’

‘Well, I thought I was a bit teenagey the other night. Perhaps less mature than a person like myself should be.’

‘Maturity’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

Not her big laugh, not the one that made him look across the room that night at the Court House and find her eyes and the switch tripped, the current ran, the crystal moment. He had dropped his gaze and, when he looked again, she was still looking at him.

‘Eyeballing my sexy friend,’ said Tony Ruskin. He was the Age’s crime man, on the cop drip, Villani had known him since he was a junior reporter, the clever son of a clever cop named Eric Ruskin, who chucked it in and stood for parliament, ended up as police minister. They met at Matt Cameron’s Christmas barbie for Robbers and friends, around the pool in Hawthorn on a Sunday, noon to loaded-in-taxi-after-puking-in-rose-garden.

‘I don’t eyeball,’ said Villani. ‘Sometimes I stare.’

Anna Markham left the room, came back, detoured to put a hand on Ruskin’s shoulder. ‘Bit public this, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I thought you had these meetings in underground carparks.’

‘Hide in plain view,’ said Ruskin. ‘Anna Markham, Stephen Villani.’

‘I know the inspector by sight,’ she said.

‘Ditto,’ said Villani.

She joined them later when they had eaten, drunk a glass of red.

‘My bedtime,’ said Ruskin. ‘Unlike some, I need to think clearly in the morning.’

They all made to go, then Anna said, ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind another glass. What about you, inspector?’

Ruskin left, he knew. They had another glass, another, laughed a lot. Outside, in their coats, waiting for cabs, breathing out steam, Anna said, ‘You don’t associate the Homicide Squad with laughing.’

‘We laugh a lot. We chuckle all day long.’

He wanted to make the move, but he didn’t, he was in a guilt phase. She wrote her number on a blank card. He never called. Every time he saw her on television he considered it but he was not an initiator. That was what he told himself. That was his defence.

Now, Anna said, ‘Can we pursue this conversation somewhere?’

‘Name a venue.’

‘Cité. In Avoca Street. Know it?’

‘Oh yes, major cop hangout. Pot and a parma, ten bucks, half-price happy hour four to nine. That’s in the a.m.’

‘The place that forgot time. I’ll be there by eight. From eight.’

First there was the Dancer.

ARCHITECTS HAD worked over the old bloodhouse, knocked out walls, exposed bricks, it was now all black wood and smoked glass, a wall of wine bottles. In the big open room, a dozen people were drinking and eating. A flat screen behind the bar was showing news.

Dance was in a corner, needing a hair trim, dark pinstriped suit, no tie, dipping bread into olive oil. A waiter finished pouring red wine into two glasses.

Villani sat.

‘Like this, you and this place,’ he said, showed the crossed fingers. ‘Mine?’

‘I’m not drinking two at a time. Nice little Heathcote shiraz. Nice suit too.’

Villani sipped, he rolled the wine. ‘Definitely wine. When did you move on from Crownies?’

‘Stella, mate, that’s what you drink when you drink beer,’ said Dance. ‘Only you morgue blokes still drink Crown.’

Dance looked around the room, long face of a Crusader, God’s soldier, handsome, growing old, tired, loved the Lord, loved himself, and loved a lot more besides.

‘You know, I wake up,’ he said. ‘Three, four in the morning, it’s like it’s wired in me. Utterly knackered, lie there, think about the old days.’

‘Everybody’s talking about the old days,’ said Villani. ‘What did I miss?’

‘What I miss, it was simple. Us against filth with guns. Outlaws. Taking stuff that wasn’t theirs. Terrorising innocent citizens. You shake the cunts, it’s a public service. Ends justify means, nobody cared. Pest exterminators. You got some respect.’

Two young women came in, sleek, laptop bags. They sat nearby and feigned exhaustion, closed their eyes, rolled their heads, moved their shoulders.

‘Now,’ said Dance, ‘I’m supposed to do something about crime networks. The fucking Rotary Club is a crime network, blokes doing deals, they make stuff, they sell it to middlemen, it gets retailed. It’s called commerce. Exchange of goods between willing sellers and willing buyers.’

‘You learn this at the gym?’ said Villani. ‘Not going to uni parttime, are we?’

‘I’m growing up,’ said Dance. He offered the bread fingers. ‘You dip it in the oil.’

‘Really? That’s so weird.’

‘Fucked up big time last night, you lot.’

‘We’re pretty happy about it.’

‘Pity you didn’t call in the sons to take them out. Been like World War Three.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Well SOG on SOG, that’s cage-fighting with guns.’

‘Where’d you hear SOG?’ said Villani.

‘The ether, mate.’

‘Ah, the ether. Know them?’

‘Not on our books. Tied them to Metallic?’

‘Just the vehicle,’ said Villani. ‘Got two guns out of the wreck, no match.’

‘Now that’s truly unfortunate. You want the ballistics.’

A waiter slid by, plumpish, thirties, oiled hair, he knew the women, he said, ‘Chill time, guys. Let me guess? Morettis for openers, duck clubs, no capers. And we drink the Oyster Bay.’

‘Fold,’ said the short-haired one, sallow, deslanted eyes. ‘Why are we so predictable, Lucy?’

Lucy was finger-combing her hair. ‘I’m over duck, PJ. Make it the crab cakes.’ She turned her head and looked at them, appraising.

‘Anyway, this little talk,’ said Dance. ‘Lovett.’

‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Villani. ‘I’ve got no clout.’

‘Well, we need to consider,’ said Dance. He looked around the room, drank wine, turned the cold blue eyes on Villani. ‘Saw the tape today. The cunt said this stuff the first time, we’d still be giving blow jobs in Barwon.’

‘What’s he say?’

‘I shot Quirk in cold blood. Executed him. Says Vick brought Quirk’s gun.’

Villani felt the air-conditioned chill on his face. ‘What’s he say about me?’

‘Lied in your teeth.’

Dance closed his eyes, showed his long dark lashes. The day in the shopping-centre carpark, waiting for Matko Ribaric to come back to his car, he told Villani he had put a much older cousin in hospital for calling him a pretty boy.

‘Vickery says the drugs,’ said Villani. ‘Delusions.’

‘Drugs,’ said Dance. ‘Blamed for everything. Personally, I wouldn’t put my balls on that horse.’

‘How’s he on the tape?’

‘Looks like shit, but all the marbles. Made up lots of details.’

‘And Mrs Lovett, what’s she going to say?’

‘The divine Grace,’ said Dance, drinking wine, eye contact with the Asian woman. ‘I was just a boy.’

‘Aged thirty. Sensitive boy cop sexually abused by fifty-year-old colleague’s wife,’ said Villani. ‘You should lay charges, that might help. What’s Grace going to say?’

‘No statement. As I understand it. Not in the pink herself.’

‘What, just sent the DPP the tape?’

‘To Lovett’s brief. The prick tried on a compo for years. Non-smoker forced to endure smoke in confined spaces, et cetera. He never stopped crapping on about smoke, his asthma.’

‘Eating with us, guys?’ said the waiter, come from nowhere.

‘PJ,’ said Villani. ‘That’s your name?’

He didn’t look at the man, looked at the long-haired woman, she parted her lips, red as the rose beside Ma Quirk’s gate.

‘Certainly is,’ said the waiter.

Villani turned on him the full stare. ‘Two more, PJ. But not the nine glasses to the bottle.’

Lips licked, glasses collected. ‘Two Cold Hills coming up. Sir.’

The waiter left, he caught the women’s eyes and he made a small gesture with his hips.

‘I love it when you turn up the charm,’ said Dance.

‘The tape’s where?’

‘DPP.’

‘She’s the only witness to the taping?’

‘As I understand it,’ said Dance.

‘Video allegations of a man now dead about events fifteen years ago. Man saying he committed perjury then, now wants justice for Quirk.’

Dance looked at a palm, long fingers, deep lines. ‘They reopen, it’s not about justice. It’s politics.’

‘Yeah?’

‘I talked to a man who talked to a man knows the AG by sight. The word is DiPalma won’t reopen. But the Libs come in, they can skin a whole cage of furry animals at once. Cops in general, the old culture, corruption, Crucible. And Vick. They hate Vick. You, on the other hand, you’ll be collateral. No one hates you much. Just a select few. Like Searle.’

‘Add this waiter,’ said Villani.

‘Loves you, pants on fire. So fucking butch. We need serious thought.’

The waiter arrived. He landed glasses. ‘Brimming, sirs,’ he said. He put down a plate of six butterflied sardines, crumbed, grilled. ‘Enjoy.’

They watched him go.

‘Free food,’ said Villani. ‘That’s like the old days, that’s what I miss.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Dance. ‘I hear you were grazing on the little Wagyu burgers, Mr Barry’s showpony at Persius. Chatting to Max Hendry, our beloved Mr Cameron, world’s richest ex-cop.’

‘He’s lonely, Barry,’ said Villani.

‘Not the way I hear it.’

‘No?’

‘Ms Cathy Wynn gives comfort.’

‘What? Barry and Searle?’ said Villani.

‘No, not Searle. Searle’s an enabler. The boy tells me Ms Mellish wants Barry for El Supremo. Had him over at the house in Brighton for the little chat, meet the bluebloods.’

‘Swapping playlunch with Searle now?’

‘He tells me stuff. I don’t know why.’

‘To keep being your little friend.’

Dance fed himself a sardine, added olives, chewed for a while. ‘Let’s be clear what the position is,’ he said. ‘Shake one of us loose, we all get blown away. Lovett was a deranged person on the way out talking complete shit.’

‘That’s what it seems,’ said Villani, not easy.

‘It is so exactly. Something else. You remember Lovett tried to stiff me and Vick, that’s a year ago. Hundred grand or he leaves a shitbomb.’

Villani couldn’t look at Dance, he finished the wine, eyed the last stiff fishlet. ‘Want this?’

‘No.’

Villani ate the sardine, crunchy, hint of chilli.

‘Did I tell you then?’ said Dance. ‘I thought I did.’

‘Don’t quite remember that.’

‘Well, think about it,’ said Dance. ‘Dwell on it.’

The moment of their eyes.

‘Life’s short enough, Stevo,’ Dance said, ‘without two dead pricks fucking up what we’ve got left. We do what we have to, right?’

‘I see the force of that,’ said Villani.

Dance’s eyes flicked the room, he emptied his glass. ‘Up for it, this japanoid sheila,’ he said. ‘The place in Docklands, the sumo bed, the spa. Pity I’m so fucking pressed. Need a piss. You?’

‘No. Cameras in there.’

Villani watched Dance go, the women watched him, a long frame, held himself like Bob Villani, stick up his arse. He found the waiter’s eyes and made the sign. The man swept across.

‘Please be our guests, sir. You and Mr Dance.’

A worm moved under Villani’s scalp. ‘Thank you but no,’ he said. He found two twenties. ‘Change to the guide dogs.’

Dance returned. They went out. At his car, Dance offered a smoke. They stood, the traffic zipping metres away. It was dusk at ground level now, the light was yellow stained-glass panes between the buildings.

‘So the Mellish bitch,’ Dance said. ‘She needs to grasp something. You don’t make three senior officers walk the plank, then it’s back to the captain’s cabin for a fucking G and T.’

‘No?’

‘No. The officers will take HMS fucking Liberal Party down with them.’

‘I’m the man to tell her?’

‘Mr Barry. He needs to tell them he wants a clean slate. Ground Zero. Not putting on a backpack loaded with ancient shit. Heritage issues. That kind of thing.’

Villani’s mobile.

‘Boss,’ said Dove. ‘A bloke wants to talk to you. Just you, he won’t come in. He says he can do it now.’

‘About what?’

‘Prosilio. The girl.’

He saw Dance arc his half-smoked cigarette into the traffic, it hit a taxi wheel, sparked like a metal grinder.

‘Tell him the Somerset in Smith Street, half an hour,’ said Villani. ‘Pick me up across from the Grenville Hotel, that’s South Yarra. Both addresses in Melbourne. Reckon you can find them?’

‘Up all night studying Melways. Boss.’

Dance said, ‘Your old man okay?’

‘Good, yeah. Up there waiting for death by fire.’

‘Top bloke, Bob,’ said Dance. ‘Wish I’d had a dad like that.’

THE PUB wasn’t crowded, a dozen or so drinkers at the long bar, a few sad cases, a game of pool in progress. A man in a grey suit came in from the toilets and looked around the room, uneasy, black-framed glasses, not a pub drinker. He was in his thirties, ordinary height, balding neatly.

Villani lifted his beer, stood back. Their eyes met, the man’s mouth twitched, he walked around the pool table, found his beer bottle on the counter, came up.

‘Are you…’

‘The man who wants to talk to me,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s stand at the window.’

They went to the alcove, Villani made sure the man was facing outward so Dove could get a clear view of him.

‘I didn’t think this would happen,’ said the man. He had a snub nose, cupid lips, some older women would find him attractive, some men too.

‘What?’

‘You coming out to meet me.’

Villani drank beer. ‘We take things seriously,’ he said. ‘Also we take serious revenge on people who fuck with us.’

The man smiled, a smile that wanted to be confident. ‘I didn’t want to talk to underlings,’ he said. ‘I’m no stranger to the bureaucracy.’

‘Talk about what?’ ‘Confidentiality guaranteed?’

‘You’re a bloke in a pub, never seen you before,’ said Villani. ‘What’s your name?’

The man touched his upper lip, he hadn’t thought about this. ‘Need my name?’

Villani closed his eyes for a few seconds.

‘Okay. Don Phipps, that’s my name. But I don’t want my name attached to this.’

‘If you’re not involved in anything, that’s not a problem.’

‘I’m not. I worked for the state government, an advisor to Stuart Koenig, the infrastructure minister. Until last week.’

‘Yes?’

Phipps had a sip from his bottle. ‘Something happened about two weeks ago.’

‘Yes?’

‘I stayed at work late to finish a briefing paper for Stuart, it was a rush job, we were facing questions in parliament the next day. I thought I’d drop the brief at his place in Kew, he’s got a townhouse he stays at during the week. Put it in the mailbox, it’s a secure box, and ring him in the morning so he could have a look at it over breakfast.’

‘Love suspense,’ said Villani.

‘Sorry. Well, I had to park across the street down from the house and walk up and I was near the front gate when it opened and a woman came out.’

‘Yes?’

‘I got a good look at her. The woman on Crime Stoppers. Described as a Caucasian woman.’

‘How good’s the light there?’

‘Well, Stuart’s got an elaborate security set-up,’ said Phipps. ‘I’ll go so far as to say he’s paranoid. Not without some reason, I might add, he had a…’

‘Mr Phipps, I have things to do.’

‘Right. Well, he’s got cameras on both gates, the driveway, you drive into this bay, you press a button, and then you’re told to wind down all your windows so the cameras on both sides can see everyone in the car.’

‘You saw her clearly.’

‘The security lights were on. It’s like daylight. She got into a black BMW. Tinted windows.’

Villani felt the pulse, but you didn’t want to excite them. They thought they’d seen things, if you took them seriously, they became more convinced.

‘Mr Phipps, people phone in with stuff like this all the time. They identify their ex-best friends, their in-laws, people who give them shit at the supermarket.’

‘No, no, I’ve got the Crime Stoppers on tape, I was recording, a bit serendipitous really, I wanted the program after it. I’ve looked at it over and over.’

Villani looked at the room. Dove’s sallow face was partly visible behind a pillar.

He found a card, gave it to Phipps. ‘Name, address, contact numbers.’

Phipps blinked rapidly, got out a pen, a fountain pen, took off the cap and mounted it on the back.

Villani took the paper. ‘Why’d you wait so long?’

Phipps drank, a bigger drink. ‘Well, you have doubts. I considered going to Stuart…just mulled it over really.’

‘You didn’t go to Koenig?’

‘No.’

‘How long did you work for him?’

‘A year. I was on a contract.’

‘Not renewed?’

‘People want change, new ideas. My replacement’s a woman.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Nothing really. Well, I think Stuart’ll be happier with a woman.’

‘Why’s that?’

Uneasy look. ‘I shouldn’t talk about him. He doesn’t like being stood up to. A bully actually. And women. It’s my experience, they’ll put up with a bit more.’

‘You’re trying to shaft him?’ Villani said.

‘God no, I’m trying to do what a citizen should do. A person missing.’

‘Dead.’

Phipps showed surprise, square teeth. ‘It didn’t say that.’

‘When you saw her at Koenig’s, what did you think she was doing there?’

‘No idea. Visitor.’

‘See the driver of the BMW?’

‘No.’

‘How far from her were you?’ said Villani.

Phipps pointed at the bar. ‘Here to there. What, three metres? She looked at me, that’s why I’m sure.’

‘The cameras. Koenig would have vision of this?’ ‘That’s the point, isn’t it?’

‘Date and time?’

‘Just after ten, two weeks ago, Thursday.’

‘Koenig was there?’

‘His car was there, lights on in the house.’

‘Someone can confirm your movements?’

‘When I left the office, yes. And when I got home.’

‘The document, the briefing? Leave it in the box?’

‘Oh yes. Three copies stamped, time and date.’

‘I’ll be in touch, Mr Phipps,’ Villani said. ‘We’ll need a proper statement. Meanwhile, don’t tell anyone you’ve talked to me, that’s important. Okay?’

Phipps nodded, leaned. ‘Can I ask? Is that your photographer or some student doing a documentary on pubs?’

Villani didn’t look for Dove. ‘Student. They’re everywhere. Menace. Thanks for your public-spiritedness.’

In the car, he said to Dove, ‘The trick is they don’t see you. Look at the screen not the target.’

‘Saw me?’

‘Blind Freddy could see you.’

He told Dove about Phipps. ‘Makes a ringing sound to me.’

‘So I should…’

‘See the minister tomorrow,’ said Villani. ‘Ask for an appointment as a matter of urgency.’

‘Is that me or…?’

‘Want to do it? You and Winter?’

Dove didn’t look at him. ‘Not especially, boss.’

‘Okay. Me and you. And on Preston, you want everything run against Prosilio.’

‘Done that. Given that instruction.’

They drove in silence.

‘I’m beginning to see the outline of the job now,’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’

‘This job or the whole job?’

‘Whole job. The full horror.’

‘Beginning of wisdom,’ said Villani. ‘Still time to make a run for it. Why’d you become a cop?’

‘To spite my father,’ said Dove. ‘He hated cops.’

‘That’s a good spite,’ said Villani. ‘That’d hurt him. I’m going to Avoca Street. Know where that is?’

‘Is that Highett, Yarraville or Brunswick?’

‘Let’s try South Yarra, please. Go down Punt.’

Crossing the Yarra, Villani said, ‘Why’d your dad hate cops?’

‘Bashed by cops,’ said Dove. ‘In Sydney. A number of times.’

‘Why’s that?’

Dove looked at him, dark eyes. ‘Same colour as me. The wrong colour.’

‘He forgiven you?’ said Villani. ‘I wouldn’t forgive you.’

‘He thinks being shot’s my punishment,’ said Dove. ‘He thinks we all get punished for our sins. In time.’

‘He may well be right,’ said Villani. ‘And my time is now.’

AT THE end of the night, a sound from the street woke him, rubber shriek, a hoon, they were naked, sheet thrown aside, a light from the unclad window lay upon them. She was on her spine, face to him, denied by a page of hair, her hands folded at her throat, her hipbones jutting, the dark in her delta.

Sleep gone, a new day but the old day in his mouth-old day, old week, month, year, life. A middle-aged man with no address, his possessions in the boot of his car.

Villani slid from the bed, stood, moved to collect his clothes.

Anna stirred, turned onto her right side.

In the weak soiled light, he waited until she had settled, looking at the sweet line of her body, a sadness in him, he went silently to the bathroom, showered in the big slate stall, thought about his feelings for her, the stupidity of it, the pleasure of being with her, talking to her, the looks she gave him. He had not been looked at that way since the first months with Laurie.

I’m in love with her.

In words. Stupid childish thought. He shook his head and shuddered as if that could dispel it.

At some point in the night, body cooling, eyes on the ceiling, the curtains were open and lights from outside played on it, he said, ‘The men in your life.’

A long silence.

She said, ‘The men, the men, oh Lord, where should I start? With my dad?’

‘Only the good memories, please. No abuse. That’s reportable.’

Her right arm across him, her mouth close, he felt her breath. ‘Bastard. Why do you want to know?’

He knew what she was asking. He had no true answer.

‘As a cop,’ he said, ‘I have a need to know.’

‘Well, I confess to not a lot of luck with men,’ she said.

‘What’s luck look like?’

‘Your older brother and father combined. But not related to you.’ She brushed his throat with open lips.

‘This is hard,’ he said. ‘We can try the photofits, the DNA, might turn someone up.’

Anna bit his shoulder, soft cat-bite.

‘So in the absence of cloning your family,’ said Villani.

She shifted, turned, arranged herself, head on his chest.

‘A mixed bag,’ she said. ‘The longest, a uni professor, estranged from beautiful wife, I was led to believe. I wanted to believe, I was twenty-one, I had a strong moral sense then. Six years, on and off, I was such an unbelievable dickhead. Then he left for the States, his new PhD candidate in the luggage.’

Pause. ‘You don’t really want to know this stuff, do you?’

‘I asked.’

‘What happens when I ask you?’ ‘Wife, three kids.’

‘No, mate,’ she said, ‘that’s not the answer, that’s the alibi.’

They lay in silence.

‘No saint,’ said Villani. He wanted to tell her he had left home, had his suitcases in the car, but he couldn’t. It would mean telling her about Lizzie and she would see Laurie’s point of view, see him for what he was. Also it would sound pathetic, as if he were asking to be taken in, given a home.

‘You knew that night with Tony Ruskin, didn’t you?’ said Anna.

‘Knew what?’

‘That I was available. Only had to blink.’

‘Well, no. I thought you liked me as a friend.’

‘Lying bastard,’ she said.

‘Moving on,’ said Villani. ‘The men.’

‘A lawyer, a journo, a few journos. Two lawyers actually. And rougher and rougher trade.’

Tony Ruskin. He would be one of the journos.

‘And now, rock bottom,’ said Villani. ‘The bedrock. Cop.’

She kissed his collarbone. ‘Cop is not rock bottom,’ she said. ‘Ex-Collingwood footballer is rock bottom. I still shudder. I’m happy to say you’re not too bad in the bottom department, though. Rockish bottom.’

‘Careful,’ he said, ‘I’m easily aroused.’

‘Is that dangerous?’ Her right hand was moving down his stomach.

‘Not so much dangerous,’ he said, ‘as potentially disappointing.’

‘Every minute of every day, I risk disappointment,’ said Anna. She slid onto him.

It went on for a long time. Villani had forgotten that sex could last this long and feel like this.

Done, sweaty, they lay in silence until Anna sighed, said, ‘Well, you take a punt, some come off. Is this half-time?’

‘Full, I think,’ he said.

‘The bruises. Is that work or pleasure?’

Villani looked. The first faint signs of Les’s pounding. ‘Boxing,’ he said. ‘I don’t know why. Don’t ask.’

She laughed, got up. By the passage light, he saw her body, its sway, the sheen on her flank. He turned his head on the pillow and he could smell her perfume.

She came back with two big glasses of water, lime slices floating. He sat up. They drank. She lay down.

‘Your old man,’ said Villani. ‘What does he do?’

‘He was in finance.’

‘Like a mortgage broker?’

‘No. Investment banking. He got the sack a few years ago. The sub-prime crash. Went from being a genius to being a dill in two months. He aged about twenty years.’

‘And your brother?’

‘Advertising. He’s still a genius. For the moment.’

‘So it’s safe to say I’m not like him.’

‘Not remotely,’ said Anna. ‘Which is sad. I’ve been listening to Paul Keogh giving the force a hard time.’

‘We’re waiting for him to call triple O, home invasion by lesbian bikies. Put him on hold for two days.’

‘You know Matt Cameron.’

‘You too, I saw.’

‘Through work. Attractive man.’

‘Not so much to me. But.’

‘He says you’ve got a future. He’s not flattering about the upper levels of the force.’

‘Discuss me, did you? Why’s that?’

‘I have a small interest in you. Perverse interest. You probably haven’t noticed that.’

‘What’s your name again?’

‘My little friend Gary Moorcroft asked me if we were an item.’

Moorcroft was the channel’s crime reporter, a man with a pointy nose.

‘What’s Pinocchio’s interest?’

‘Just unnaturally curious.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I said I was over married men.’

‘Right. Is that over as opposed to under?’

She bumped him with her thin shoulder. ‘Too smart by half. At least you haven’t told me lies about your marriage. That is unusual in a man.’

That was the moment to choose another life. Start another life with her.

In the street now, the night wind had brought the smoke from the high country, mingled it with the city’s smells of petrochemicals, carbon, sulphur, cooking oils and burnt rubber, drains, sewers, hot tar, dogshit, balsamic nightsweats, the little gasps of a million beer openings, a hundred trillion sour human breaths.

He thought about the dawn walks with Bob when he was a boy, after the trees were in, the silence of the world, the chill air you could drink. Last thing on Saturday nights, Bob in his chair with his book, his glass of whisky, Villani always said, ‘Trees tomorrow, Dad?’

And Bob always said, ‘I’ll be in that. Wake me.’

In memory, Bob never kissed him goodnight, goodnight or goodbye or good riddance or anything else. He always kissed Mark and Luke, pulled them to him, rubbed their heads. On Sunday mornings, Bob would come into his room before the alarm went, touch his shoulder, and Villani would sit up, already moving his legs off the bed, smelling the alcohol on his father’s breath, rubbing his eyes, his head, for a moment he didn’t know what day it was.

Across the sloping paddocks in the grey silent day, man and boy, through the ancient lift-and-drag gate, Villani left the rifle there. They walked the forest, pulling out the dead and dying, to be replaced. They didn’t lose too many. In the first years there were sodden winters and, in summer, every weeknight, Villani gravity-fed part of the forest with water from the dam, running it through hundreds of metres of old playing-field hoses Bob found on the tip. It wasn’t easy moving them, the hoses had to snake, they tangled because the trees weren’t planted in rows.

When they began planting, he asked about this. ‘Not a plantation,’ said Bob. ‘They clearfell plantations. We’re planting a forest. No one’s going to cut this down.’ He looked at Villani, the long weighing gaze. ‘Not in my lifetime and not in yours. You promise?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Say I promise.’

He said the words.

At the end of every walk, Villani collected the Brno at the gate, it was a bolt-action.22, cheekworn stock, little five-bullet magazine never inserted until needed, his father’s orders. He went down the gully that wandered to the road, sat still for a minute and picked off a few rabbits for Bob’s stew, the high point of the week, made on Sunday afternoons, carrots and onions, tomato sauce, curry powder, vinegar and brown sugar. It cooked for hours, they ate it for tea with rice. Bob had a taste for rice, he could eat rice by itself with tomato sauce, and they all went that way.

The rabbits were healthy, there had never been myxo on the property.

‘No logical explanation,’ said Bob. ‘Nature’s way of telling us something.’

The rabbits stayed manageable without massacres. Other animals did the work, the feral cats and foxes. They shot them but Bob wouldn’t allow fox-shooters on the property. One Saturday, they were eating the stew, a vehicle hooted outside, long blaring hoot, two short ones, another.

‘That’s rude,’ said Bob. ‘See who it is, Stevie.’

Villani went down the passage, out the front door. A truck in the drive, on the front path two big red-headed men, fat, dirty clothes.

‘Get yer dad,’ said the older one, balding freckled head, a combover.

Villani didn’t have to call Bob, he came out, he was rolling a cigarette one-handed, the screendoor banged behind him, a flat smack.

‘I can do what for you?’ Bob Villani said.

‘Had it with your fucken vermin,’ said the older man. ‘Told you at the servo then, you don’t fucken listen. Last night it’s six lambs.’

‘Don’t swear in front of my boy,’ said Bob, quiet voice.

The man scratched his head, displaced the strands. ‘Yeah, well, fuck him’n you, you kill em or we’ll fucken do it, six of us and the dogs, lots of dogs.’

Bob took the Zippo out of his top pocket, flicked the lid, made the fire. He drew on the cigarette, picked a strand of tobacco off his bottom lip.

‘What’s your name again?’ he said.

The man twisted a boot. ‘Collings, fucken told you my name.’

‘Collings,’ said Bob. ‘Collings. Well, Mr Collings, you go for your life. Shoot an animal on my land, I shoot ten on yours. Beginning or ending with you two, I don’t mind which.’

Villani remembered the silence, Mark and Luke behind him, pressing on him, their hands, his father looking at the men, his father taking a drag on the smoke, blowing a single ring, perfect, it grew in the still autumn air, it hung, it rolled.

And then his father flicked his cigarette past Collings’ face, missed by a hand span, and he said the words, ‘Maybe you’d like to settle it now, Mr Collings? Why don’t you step back a bit, then you can both have a go.’

A few moments, then Collings said, ‘Give you your fucken chance,’ and the men walked off. In the truck, the father shouted, ‘Fuck you!’

A wheel spin, it sent up dust.

Heart beating in his throat, Villani said to Bob, ‘Would you’ve done that?’

‘What?’

‘Fight them both.’

Bob looked at him, the little smile. ‘My word,’ he said.

For weeks, alone with the boys, Villani froze every time he heard a vehicle. But they never came, the men and the dogs, they never came.

DRIVING BENEATH the cliffs, the dark still high on the city walls, blocking the lanes, the doorways, held in the street trees, Villani kept an eye out for Lizzie, glancing down the alleys. He was being a cop, cops didn’t see the world like other people. They saw everything and everyone as suspicious until proved to be otherwise.

Two boys crossing the street, baggy clothes, the smaller one was limping, the other one had his hood up. How old? Ten, twelve, not much more? In the CBD at dawn. Where had they slept? They were like foxes, both hunters and prey.

He thought about himself at twelve. He knew many things by then, but he knew little of the intimate physical world of adults, he had only glimpsed the violence. Now, some children that age had seen every last sexual thing, every thrusting sucking beating strangling act, they had seen violence of every kind. Nothing was strange or shocking, they were innocent of trust, honesty, virtue.

What they had was existence in all its careless, joyless horror.

Lizzie. Chucked away her home, the comfort, her mother’s love. For what? Did she not grasp how precious was a mother’s love?

Bob gave Villani the letter on a Sunday not long after fetching him and Mark from Stella Villani’s house and taking them to the farm. It was written in ballpoint on thin paper with pale-blue lines torn from an exercise book.

My dearest boys,

I am writing to tell you how much I love you and how much I miss you. I have been ill for a long time but I am feeling a lot better now. Soon I hope to be home with you. Please be good and work hard at school. My darling Stephen, you must take great care of my darling Mark. Tell your Dad if there is anything he should know about from school. Remember that I love you always and forever.

Your Mum.

For the first time, Villani asked his father the question.

‘Dad, what kind of illness has Mum got?’

Bob looked away. ‘Something wrong in the brain,’ he said. ‘They don’t know exactly what.’

Villani never asked about her again. He folded the letter and put it in his tin toffee box under the two photographs of his mother. He never read it again and he never forgot a word of it.

Going east on Victoria Parade. Too much thinking about what you couldn’t change. He should be with Bob, waiting for the fire, the two of them, they would not say much, think about what was undone, what was always beyond doing.

You could truck the horses out, you could try to save the house, the farm buildings. But their forest. If the flames came over the northern hill, if the wind blew the superheated air down the valley, you could not save the forest. Every leaf would shrivel, the eucalypts would explode. Once it was thought they were born to burn and live again. Jesus trees, Bob used to call them. But that was before Black Saturday. They would die too and take everything with them. The oaks, the understorey, every last living creature. Marysville, Kinglake, nothing was the same after that, you could never think of fire in the old way again.

He turned into Hoddle Street, light traffic, people beating the jam, start early, leave early, the tollway gave the car slaves a few minutes of pleasure, they cruised along at a hundred, then they hit the wall, crawled into the CBD. The city badly needed Max Hendry’s AirLine.

He remembered the square envelope, delivered to the desk downstairs on Tuesday. One thick creamy page.

Victoria Hendry,

Capernaum,

Coppin Grove, Hawthorn

Dear Stephen,

It was such a pleasure to meet you the other night. If you can make the time, Max and I would love to have you over for the Hendry Friday barbie. (It’s a bit of a summer tradition, just a few people around the pool, kicking off around six.)

We’ll expect you when we see you. Do come.

Best,

Vicky H.

Villani saw the public swimming pool, glanced at the spot on the other side of the road where, from behind a billboard on a cold evening in 1987, a young misfit, sacked army cadet, a little knot of incoherent rage, began to fire on the passing traffic. He hit a windscreen, the woman driver stopped, puzzled, got out. He shot her. Cars stopped and two men ran to her. Villani remembered the interrogation.

The first one fell onto the road, and then the second one, I don’t know where, where he came from, but I dropped him as well.

Now, did they appear to be dead, when you…?

The one that fell back on the road wasn’t.

What happened then?

Oh, I let off another two rounds.

For what purpose?

Finish her off.

They were leaving a house in Footscray, he and Dance, when the call came.

…all units, all units, we have shots fired and bodies down, possible fatal. Repeat, several shots fired and the offender still on the loose, any unit in a position to attend the Clifton Hill railway station…

By the time they got there, the shooter was gone, Hoddle Street looked as if it had been strafed, cars everywhere, a motorbike on its side, seven people dead or dying, nineteen wounded.

For a while, no one could believe it was the work of one shooter, the radio spread alarm, householders panicked, the helicopter chopped over the law-abiding streets of North Fitzroy, its spotlight turned night to yellow day, the SOGs ran through houses in full combat gear, a woman later made a claim for a broken vase.

And then it was over, the worthless creature had given himself up, shouting, Don’t shoot, don’t shoot, terrified.

Villani took the turn for Rose’s suburb, stopped at a newsagent and bought the papers, read them in the car.

The Herald Sun front page had pictures of Kidd and Larter, mug shots, the lagophthalmic psycho child-molester serial-killer look all men had when their driver’s licence photographs were enlarged six hundred per cent.

EX-COPS DID TORTURE KILLINGS

The writer, Bianca Pearse, convicted the men of Oakleigh. A run-through, her police sources said. Renegade ex-SOGs ripping off vicious armed robbers, torturing and killing them for fun. Probably drug-fuelled. Searle had worked her over on the high-speed pursuit. No police vehicle near, driver lost control, so they killed themselves. A good outcome all round, really, world a better place.

Tony Ruskin’s Age story ran across the bottom of the front page, same pictures.

Elite cops link to torture killings

Ruskin knew much more about the careers of Kidd and Larter than he should. He said Larter had been involved in a covered-up incident in Afghanistan where four civilians were killed. He was also up to speed on the Ribarics and Vern Hudson, suggested that they’d been betrayed by other filth. It couldn’t have been done without Ordonez. But Ruskin had always had a better class of leaker, he was on a quality drip. In parliament someone once said his father Eric had not only been the minister for police, he was also the minister for the police, to the police, up and under and behind and on top of the police.

Without saying so, Ruskin suggested the Homicide Squad had done a remarkable job in identifying the Oakleigh killers. Unspecified acts of personal bravery by Homicide officers followed. The death crash meant the squad, through no fault of its own, was cheated of seeing the killers in court.

Barry, Gillam and Orong would be pleased. Now all that was needed was a weapon.

Rose Quirk’s street was jammed with cars, he had to park a block away, walked down the street, having a little squiz. Rose was on her verandah, pink tracksuit.

‘Stickyin,’ she said. She drank tea out of a glass beer mug. ‘Where the hell you bin?’

‘Few things on,’ said Villani. He opened the gate, closed it, the latch needed fixing. ‘Going all right?’

‘All right’s history, mate. Back’s gone. Had this massage, the cow touched somethin, musta learnt the trade on horses. Pain like you never seen. Into me head, down me legs.’

In the beginning, Rose’s street was mostly pensioners, everything spent on rent, cigarettes, the pokies, living on mince and battery-chicken pieces, the single mothers ringing for pizzas, drugging their children with sugar and salt, Coke, barbecue chips and chemical ice cream. Then one day Villani took notice and the street was Location, Location, Renovator’s Opportunity.

The cars changed. The rusting Commodores, Falcons, faded Renaults and Jap cars, all with skun tyres and chipped windscreens, coat-hanger aerials, wrecking-yard doors the wrong colour, all standing in oil stains that flashed iridescent on rainy days, they gave way to Subarus, VWs, Saabs, Volvos.

On a day, Villani counted twelve tradesmen’s utes and seven skips in the narrow street, the bins overloaded with ripped-out carpets and lino, baths, sinks, shower stalls, formica-topped kitchen cabinets, plastic light fittings, cattledog-brown gas heaters, embossed purple wallpaper, torn sheets of fibreboard, chipboard cupboards, tin pelmets, water heaters, dismembered Hills hoists, rotten fencing. On top of one skip sat an old dog kennel, neatly made, tin roof, the dog, the maker, the tools, the love, all gone, dead and gone.

Now he saw the beans he had planted broken, collapsed, as if an animal had been through them. ‘Jesus, what’s this?’

‘Number 17’s boy,’ said Rose. ‘Bit of a brat.’

The tomatoes. ‘Eating a lot of cherries, are you?’ he said.

‘Across the road. Sophie and someone. They come and introduce themselves. My fault, I said help yourself.’

Hands had also plucked miniature carrots, extracted potatoes, his Kennebecs and King Edwards, from the drum. They would still be pale balls no bigger than king marbles. He heard a car boot clunk across the street, a man with a polished bald head waved, his glasses caught the light like flashbulbs.

‘That’s David,’ said Rose.

‘Why don’t you get the prick over to do some gardening?’ Villani said.

‘You got the look,’ said Rose. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Not thrilled about providing Audi drivers with free vegies.’

Rose squinted at him. ‘Well, who said you bloody had to? Never worked out what was in it for you anyway.’

‘Nothing,’ Villani said. ‘Not a single thing.’

He had never spoken to anyone of his visits to Rose’s house. Laurie wouldn’t understand. His colleagues would think he was mad. He didn’t understand either, except that in the beginning he felt he owed her something and later, when he knew her, it was like being at his grandmother’s house, his only real childhood, the time before he carried the weight of Mark, Luke, the animals, no hour without a duty or a care until Bob came home. And always, every hour, every day, always the fear that one Friday Bob would not come home, he would stand outside in the closing day and wait for the sound of the big rig on the hill and for the airhorn and the world would fall dark and Bob would not come home, he would not be coming back that night or ever.

‘Lookin a bit pinched, son,’ said Rose now. ‘Want some brekkie? Got eggs from down the road.’

‘Down the road?’

‘The lezzies got chooks. I give em some vegies, I give em somethin, I forget.’

She wouldn’t meet Villani’s gaze.

‘Brekkie’d be good,’ he said. ‘What about bacon? The lezzies keeping pigs too?’

‘You’re such a smartarse.’

She touched him as she went by, ran a hand up his arm to the shoulder, stroked him as she would a cat.

THE MINISTER was a big man, early fifties, jowled, a chin-down pugnacious air. He sat behind a standard public-service desk, top of glass, bare except for his mobile.

‘What’s this in aid of?’ he said. He didn’t much resemble the jovial man talking to Paul Keogh at the AirLine launch,

Villani said, ‘We’re from the Homicide Squad, Mr Koenig.’

‘That’s clever? I know where you’re from.’

They were in an interview room, well away from the parliament, a room with a view of a grey rendered wall.

‘It’s about Thursday the eleventh, fortnight ago. The night of. Were you at home then?’

‘Why?’

‘We’d appreciate your cooperation.’

‘I don’t give a fuck what you’d appreciate. What’s the point of the question?’

‘A murder investigation. Your name has come up.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘Distant connection,’ said Villani. ‘But we need your help.’

Koenig looked at Villani for a good while. Villani looked back. Koenig picked up his mobile and used his thumb, put it to his head.

‘Diary for eleventh of February. Evening. Where was I?’

He waited, he looked from Villani to Dove and back, looked hard, he was a man used to intimidating people.

‘Okay,’ he said to the phone, put it down. ‘I was at home in Kew.’

‘Any visitors?’ said Villani.

Koenig knew this was coming, he had always known, he didn’t need to have his diary checked.

‘I don’t understand the question,’ he said.

Villani said, ‘Tell us about the woman, Mr Koenig.’

‘What woman?’

‘The one who visited you.’

Koenig’s eyes said he knew he was stuffed.

‘A whore,’ he said. ‘Just a whore.’

‘Expensive?’

Some people you enjoyed asking for humiliating details. Koenig said, ‘What do you call expensive? On your wages? Fifty dollars?’

‘How much did you pay, Mr Koenig?’

‘Five hundred, from memory.’

‘Is that with the extras?’ said Dove, head down, round glasses glinting, writing in his notebook, he was the note-taker.

Koenig pinkened. ‘Who the fuck are you, sonny?

‘Who delivered her?’ said Villani. ‘She was delivered.’

‘I have no fucking idea,’ said Koenig. ‘She came, she went. Where’d you get this from? Who told you this?’

‘How did you arrange the visit?’ said Dove.

Koenig said, ‘I had a number, I forget where I got it.’

‘We’ll have to ask you for that,’ said Villani. ‘You’re not curious about who’s dead?’

‘Well, I’m assuming it’s her. What else could you assume? Am I wrong?’

‘Where were you last Thursday night, Mr Koenig?’

‘What is this shit? I was at the beach house in Portsea.’

Silence, the muted sounds of people passing in the corridor.

‘Are we done?’ said Koenig. ‘I’m a busy man.’

‘Not done, no, not at all,’ said Villani. ‘But we can conduct this interview in other circumstances.’

‘Is that, we can do this here or we can do it at the station? Jesus, what a cliché.’

‘That’s what we deal in,’ said Villani.

‘I’m a minister of the crown, you grasped that, detective?’

‘I’m an inspector. From Homicide. Didn’t I say that?’

Koenig looked at the ceiling. ‘What?’

‘Did you see the news last Saturday night?’

‘No. I had meetings in Canberra. Went up on Saturday morning. Want to check that?’

Villani thought that it would be a pleasure to arrest Koenig, tip off the media, have them waiting. ‘Let’s start with how you arranged for the woman,’ he said. ‘Who you had dealings with.’

‘I think I need my lawyer,’ said Koenig.

‘Of course,’ said Villani. ‘We’ll interview you in the presence of your lawyer. Would you like to give me a time today? St Kilda Road headquarters. Give your name at the desk, someone will come down.’

‘I rang a number someone gave me. I said I wanted a certain kind of woman. The person told me the price, cash, in advance. I said okay, gave the address. She arrived. I paid her, she went out to a car, she came back. Later she left.’

‘You had the cash?’

‘Well, I didn’t pop out to a cash machine, I can tell you.’

‘A certain kind of woman. What kind?’

‘None of your business.’

Villani looked at Dove, blinked at him, Take him on. ‘Tell us about her, minister,’ said Dove.

Koenig’s mobile rang, sharp buzzes. He listened, said Yes a few times, then No twice. ‘Tell him I’ll get back to him ASAP.’

He ended the exchange. ‘I don’t have all day,’ Koenig said to Villani. ‘Can we get this over with?’

‘The woman.’

‘Young, long hair, ten words of English. Very pale. White.’ ‘Caucasian pale?’ said Villani.

‘Oh yes.’

Dove said, ‘So you specified a non-Asian?’

Koenig stared at him. ‘Not in a fucking SBS crime show, sonny. You could quite soon find yourself liaising with your drunken brothers in Fitzroy. Sharing a cask.’

Villani looked around the room, nothing to look at. ‘I take that to be a racially offensive remark, Mr Koenig,’ he said.

‘Really? My, my, how could you conclude that?’

‘The number you rang,’ said Villani. ‘That would save us some time.’

‘Meaning?’

‘You can give it to us, Mr Koenig, or we can seek to get it by using the powers given to us under…’

Koenig raised his right hand, rose and went to the window, put his bum on the sill, hands in his pockets. His belly rode over his belt. In a smart bar in Prahran, he had once pushed and shoved and grabbed by the ears a much younger man who gave him cheek. The next day there had been a stiff-jawed public apology.

‘Let me get this clear,’ he said. ‘I can’t be a suspect in a murder investigation. I can account for all my time. That’s an alibi in the correct sense of the word, which you probably don’t know.’

Dove put up his right hand. ‘Sir, sir, I know, sir!’

Koenig didn’t take his eyes off Villani. ‘Shut up, sunshine,’ he said. ‘You’re dead in the water. So, although I have no involvement in anything, Homicide is threatening me with a warrant to look at my telephone records. Is that right?’

Villani thought about how sensible it would be to say that Homicide had not intended to give any such impression, Sorry, Mr Koenig.

‘Not right,’ he said. ‘We make no threats. You may wish to take advice about the rights and obligations of someone who possesses or is reasonably believed to possess information material to an investigation.’

‘I don’t have the number anymore. I threw away the card.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Possibly to avoid temptation.’

‘The person you spoke to last time…’

‘A woman.’

‘Accent?’

‘Australian.’

‘Who gave you the number?’

‘I forget. I said that. I’ve said that.’

‘How many times have you called it?’ said Dove.

‘You can call me Mr Koenig. Show some respect.’

‘How many times, Mr Koenig?’

‘None of your fucking business.’

Villani said, ‘I’ll repeat myself. Reasonably believed to possess…’

‘Twice,’ said Koenig. ‘The first time they didn’t have anyone available.’

‘Talk to the same woman?’ said Dove. ‘Mr Koenig.’

‘I really don’t know.’

‘Tell us about marks on the woman’s body, Mr Koenig,’ said Dove.

In that instant, Villani knew that Dove was not a mistake. He was a smart aleck but he was not a mistake.

‘Marks?’ said Koenig.

‘Marks.’

‘An appendix scar, that’s all I saw.’ ‘Sure about that?’

‘I know an appendix scar when I see one. I’ve got an appendix scar.’

Oh, Jesus.

Villani stared at Koenig for a while. ‘Sure we’re talking about the same woman here, minister? Not some other visitor to your house?’

‘Fuck you. I couldn’t be more sure.’

Phipps had made a mistake. This was a major error. He didn’t look at Dove-they couldn’t back off.

‘We need to know who gave you the number,’ he said.

‘A bloke at a party gave me the number, wrote it on a card.’

‘His card?’ said Dove.

A hesitation. ‘No, mine,’ said Koenig. ‘I gave him my card. He wrote it on the back.’

‘A bloke you know?’

‘No. Big party, we’d all had a few.’

‘Whose party was it?’ said Dove. ‘We can go down that route.’

Koenig licked his lower lip, an unhealthy tongue, spotted. ‘Now that I think about it,’ he said, ‘It was at Orion. Or Persius, maybe Persius. Could have been the snow, though. Yes, might have been at the snow last winter.’

Dove said, ‘I suggest you know who gave you the phone number, minister.’

‘Really?’ Koenig said. ‘I suggest you pull your fucking head in, sunshine. And you, Villani, you’ve made a very bad career move today, you and this clown of yours.’

Villani said to Dove, ‘Record that at this point Mr Koenig made what appeared to be a threat to Inspector Villani, with the words, quote, You’ve made a very bad career move today, you and this clown of yours. Unquote.’

Dove wrote, slowly. Villani watched him. He didn’t look at Koenig until Dove was finished. Then he said, ‘Mr Koenig, we’ll probably want to take a formal statement from you. You might want to bring your lawyer with you. In the meantime, we’d be grateful for the security system vision.’

‘I’ve wiped the tapes. I wipe them once a week. That’s part of my Sunday-night routine.’

Villani rose, Dove followed.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Koenig,’ said Villani. ‘We’ll be in touch about the statement.’

‘You think this up on your own?’ said Koenig.

‘No idea what you mean, minister,’ said Villani. ‘Good day.’

Outside, going down the steps, Dove said, ‘I think there’s been a mistake. Putting it delicately.’

Villani was putting on his sunglasses. ‘You’re the designated thinker here,’ he said. ‘I take it then you and Weber didn’t just forget to mention the appendix scar I didn’t notice on the Prosilio girl?’

‘No, sir. There’s no scar.’

‘Well, then the way I’d put it, delicately, is our careers are fucked. For the moment.’

‘So what now, boss?’

‘Every call the prick’s made in the last two months. But that’s only me.’

‘Can I ask why?’

The question hung, they came to the vehicle, Dove was driving. In the traffic, Villani said, ‘You’ll never hear me use the term fishing trip. We do things by the book.’

‘I respect the book,’ said Dove. ‘The book is the way and the life.’

‘Pity Weber’s married,’ said Villani. ‘You have much in common.’

‘What grounds do I offer?’

The radio:

…day of total fire ban for the state, another scorcher and no sign of a change. Firefighters are pinning their hopes on a wind shift in the early afternoon. Householders in the fire path have been advised to leave but some…

There was no doubt about the identity of one person in the some category. No, two. Gordie would drive straight into the fire with a waterpistol and wearing only a flameproof jockstrap if Bob thought it was a tactic with potential.

At the Swanston Street intersection, a wasted kid, chewed-string hair, weaved between the vehicles, tripped over the kerb, fell forward and lay still. His shirt was pulled up and his birdlike ribcage showed beneath his milky skin. People walked around him, a man kicked him by accident, jumped sideways.

The boy moved his head, got to his knees, levered on stick arms, looked around, big eyes. He stood, unsteady, took three paces to the wall, put his back against it, slid down, legs giving way.

On the station steps and on the pavement, other kids stood, sat, restless, hanging, some out of it. Two young cops were talking to three males. One was talking back, animated, changing feet, pulling at his singlet, tossing his head, sniffing. The one next to him ran fingers through his long hair, ran them over and over again.

Dove coughed. ‘Koenig’s calls, boss.’

‘You want them as a matter of urgency,’ said Villani. ‘On the grounds that he is a person of interest in a murder inquiry.’

‘Try that, then,’ said Dove. ‘That porky.’

‘Only a porky if you believe every word he said. If you act in bad faith. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

‘Not knowingly, boss.’

‘Good. You’d also want a result today.’

‘Today, certainly, boss.’

‘And then we could have a talk.’

‘Boss.’

This was terrible police work. It was work to be ashamed of.

The lights changed, they turned left, crossed the bridge and drove down the grand avenue. Dove dropped Villani in the street beside the police building. He rose alone in the lift, tried not to breathe the air of synthetic pine and lemon.

Lizzie. Where the hell was she? Not on the streets, cops were looking out for her, someone would see her, see the dreadlocked man. He should have had her taken home, rung Corin, told her to be there. Neglect. He did not see to her. It was his responsibility to see to her. Careless father. Bad husband. Short-term head of Homicide.

In the office, he went to his box, put on the radio, Paul Keogh’s station, a woman’s voice:

…Paul, talk to people in the rural areas, they’ve had enough, I can tell you. They feel betrayed, disenfranchised. This city’s now a city-state, it’s like Venice once was and, dare I say it, just as…no, I won’t say it.

Is that the c-word? Corrupt?

You said it, not me. But the betrayal’s also felt in the outer suburbs. Public transport’s a joke, two-hour wait to see a doctor who doesn’t speak English in one of these medical superpractices, one police officer for every 30,000 people, childcare’s a disgrace, it’s safer to leave your kid with the junkies in a park. This downturn has shown these people up for what they are-political opportunists and hacks.

Please don’t hold back, Ms Mellish. My guest is Karen Mellish, leader of the Opposition. Any other things you admire about this government?

Birkerts was in the door, sad, eyebrows in a pale chevron.

Paul, even before this government took the federal recession-panic money and blew it, they were making spectacularly bad moves. Billion-dollar pipelines that are empty, the world’s most expensive desalination plant, it’s cheaper to bring bottled water from France. They’ve handed bushfire-reconstruction projects to mates, they tolerate public-transport operators who couldn’t run a model railway, the tollways have seen five major tunnel shutdowns in ten months.

The police minister was on earlier talking up policing successes…

I heard him talking rubbish. Didn’t he read the papers this morning? Two ex-policemen involved in the Oakleigh murders. We have his seat squarely in our sights, he’s done his last tawdry little branchstack. What Mr Orong needs to explain to voters is why the so-called police taskforces against organised crime and drugs have achieved nothing, why the CBD is becoming more frightening than Johannesburg, kids everywhere wasting their lives on drugs. Remember the Saturday night shock-and-awe tactics?

The Humvees.

Indeed. And we now apparently need bombproof battle trucks. Overall, this city is now up there with the most violent in the world and it’s not the fault of ordinary stressed police officers. The force is under such duress, it’s no wonder so many are on sick leave…

Villani tapped the Off button.

‘Ordinary stressed police officers,’ said Birkerts. ‘Love that. OSPO.’

‘You’ll love serving out your years under Kiely.’

‘I can serve anyone.’

‘Service, maybe. Mr Kiely thinks your manner is highly disrespectful. I think so too but I don’t care as much.’

‘The X-ray’s at Kidd’s in an hour. Want to take another look?’

‘I thought the techies’d taken a girl look? What else can you offer?’

‘Pitstop at Vic’s. Raisin muffin.’

‘Suddenly a window in my day. Dirty little window.’

THEY SAT in the car, engine running, air-con on, looking at the sluggish sea. Two silver cats on leads drawing a woman came into view on the damp edge of the continent. She wore shorts and a muscle shirt that revealed no trace of what it was meant to display. The cats minced, offended by the moisture beneath their paws.

‘Just a massive sandbox,’ said Birkerts.

Villani finished his coffee. ‘Good, this bloke,’ he said. ‘Reliable.’

‘His ex lives in Tassie,’ said Birkerts. He was eating a banana muffin. ‘She had the kids for a holiday, won’t send them back. He says he might have to move.’

‘Ask the pointyheads to give her a fright,’ said Villani. ‘Can’t lose a decent barista. You the one filled in Tony Ruskin on Kidd and Larter? He knows more than I do.’

‘Don’t look at me. We get the arse from Defence but somebody tells Ruskin about this killing of four Afghan civilians stuff. Since the discharge, Larter’s a ghost. Possibly on a mountain in Tassie eating possums. Live. Popular among your returned killers.’

‘And the guns?’

‘Nothing shows. Bikie imports.’

A group of joggers crossed their vision: old men, creased, humped, silent. Heads down, they shuffled by.

‘In step,’ said Birkerts. ‘How is that?’

‘Got the same tune on their iPods,’ said Villani. ‘Colonel Bogey. Finished at Oakleigh?’

‘Going out after this. Want to come?’

‘Why not? Got all day, all night too since I don’t have anywhere to live.’

‘Live? Why?’

‘Marital dispute.’

Without smiling, Birkerts took on an amused look. ‘This is sudden?’

‘When it happens,’ said Villani, ‘everything is sudden.’

‘Stay at my sister’s place if you like. You met Kirsten.’

‘I did. At your barbie that day. The charcoal went out. Died. Where’s she gone?’

‘Italy. Successful divorce, skinned the bloke. Now she wants to be an artist.’

‘Her place where?’

‘What? Picky?’

‘There are places I won’t live, yes,’ said Villani.

‘Fitzroy. In your zone of acceptability?’

‘I can handle Fitzroy. Parts of Fitzroy. What else about Kidd?’

‘After the SOGs, he went overseas for eighteen months. The suggestion is private security in Iraq. Then a couple of months with GuardSecure, sacked for putting a bloke in hospital, case pending. Since then he’s a ghost too. One bank account, about eight grand in it, there’s cash deposits, like five, six hundred bucks. He’s got two credit cards, not a big spender, ordinary stuff. He pays it in full.’

‘And the Prado?’

‘Bought in a yard a year ago. Car City. He traded in a Celica, balance cash.’

‘Well, let’s have a look then.’

Birkerts made a call. ‘They’re on the way.’

They had just parked behind the building in Roma Street when the van drew up. Two men in overalls got out, took two black rubber cases from the back. Birkerts led the way upstairs.

Kidd’s unit was stifling, the heat amplifying trapped cooking smells: fried onions, meat. Passing the bathroom, Villani smelled talcum powder. He hadn’t smelled it on the night.

‘Talcum powder?’ he said. ‘Men?’

‘Jock itch,’ said Birkerts.

They went into the big room. One tech took the device out of its case, it was like a big fox-hunting spotlight but blind. He ran a hand over it.

‘Fond of it?’ said Birkerts. ‘Like a pet?’

The man said nothing, unclipped a tight coil of yellow cable. On the kitchen bench, the other man opened his case, a computer monitor in the lid.

Villani left, looked into Kidd’s disordered room, moved on, opened the sliding door to the back bedroom. No more than a big cupboard with its own built-in cupboard.

Ray Larter slept here. In the built-in, a pair of denims on a wire hanger. He found the label: waist 34, leg 44. A tall man and slim, Ray Larter. His sports bag had been on the floor beside the bed, it told little-T-shirts, underpants, clear toilet bag with toothpaste, disposable razors, tube of shampoo. Ray was neat, unlike Kidd.

Villani thought about his father’s bare bedroom on a Monday morning, bed stripped, blankets on the line, sheets and dirty clothes in the machine.

He went down the passage and onto the balcony, looked down at the street, the trees, a woman in a tight red skirt standing beside a parked car, talking to the driver. She sucked a cigarette, waved it. A hand came out of the window, she passed the cigarette, the taker flicked it into the street. She slapped at the hand, missed.

Anna.

She came to mind in all the interstices of the day, other women had not done that, not since the early days with Laurie. What did she see in him? Some women had the cop thing, early on in the job you heard the stories, the jokes. There was truth in them. Even the ugly cops got the chances, the eyes, the offers. He was clean there, he never went back to a single-mother’s place to see if everything was all right, part of the service to give you a fuck. Comforting fuck.

On the job, something always said No. It was when he was not on business that something said Yes.

The Herald Sun’s crime journo got off on cops. Bianca Pearse. Bianca wasn’t a starfucker though. Just as soon root a constable as a commissioner. Just a copfucker. Birkerts had been there, he was pretty sure of that.

It didn’t feel like a cop thing. Anna didn’t ask questions about the job, they always did. She seemed interested in what he thought, happy to be with him.

This was pathetic. He was too old to let this take him over. This was for your twenties, when an ignorant country dork could be flattered if Miss-Private-School-My-Father’s-an-Investment-Banker took a fancy to him.

He looked at Kidd’s barbecue in the corner of the balcony. Narrow, rusty, the grill crusted with charred grease and tiny welded-on lumps of meat. Not the Ozzie Grillmaster Turbo. Did they have a barbie on the night? Few beers, burn a couple of steaks, press them, see the pricks of blood, then the watery red ooze. Did they talk about what they were going to do to the Ribaric boys? Talk about lighting the Ribs’ hair, first the pubic. Full of oil, it would frizzle.

Then the hair on their heads. But first slit their nostrils. Then light the hair on their heads.

Hair full of chemical shit. Product. Click the lighter in Ivan’s face. Look in his eyes. Take a moment. Enjoy it. Lift the flame over his forehead. Slowly.

Whoosh.

Under the gas burner sat a foil tray, half-full of fat set solid, grey, mottled like marble, the drippings from the burning altar above.

Birkerts came out, hands in pockets.

‘Well, bedrooms clean,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t leave much.’

The techs came into the kitchen, had a discussion. The shorter one shrugged, knelt and pointed his device at the side of the kitchen bench. The other one looked at the laptop screen.

‘You can see why they joined,’ said Birkerts. ‘Adrenalin junkies.’

‘Kirsten’s place,’ Villani said.

‘Got the keys in my car.’

‘Take me around when you knock off?’

‘I think I’ll just give you the keys,’ said Birkerts.

They smoked Birkerts’ cigarettes, watched the techs go around the kitchen bench. When they’d finished, the taller one came out.

‘Nothing, boss,’ he said. ‘Anywhere else?’

‘Check around the bath?’ said Villani.

‘Yup.’

‘Bugger,’ said Villani.

‘That’s it,’ said Birkerts. ‘Thank you.’

The men packed up, snapped their cases, waved, left.

THEY WERE on their way to Oakleigh, passing the Albert cricket ground.

‘What’s the rent?’ said Villani.

He didn’t care. He had not lived alone since he was twenty-two. This was a bad time to change that. He and Laurie had always slept in the same bed. When all was gone and lost, when they no longer touched, they still shared a bed. The last person in it made it, that was the rule, from the start.

He often dreamed about sex with Laurie. She was always the same age, the quick-handed girl in the sandwich shop who layered the basics on the white slice, the slivered iceberg strands, the pale discs of tomato, the bleeding beetroot, the square of factory cheese, the cheeky girl who looked at him and said, ‘What else can I give you?’

The first sex with Laurie was on her friend Jan’s futon. Laurie picked him up after his shift, they ate at the Waiters’ Club, the small rooms packed with the late-night hungry, and went to the student house in Clifton Hill. It smelled of dope, that made him uneasy.

‘Pay the bills, that’ll do,’ said Birkerts. ‘Left two weeks ago. I said I’d clean out the fridge. Be full of rotten stuff. You can do that.’

‘How long’s she gone?’

‘Six months, she says. There’s a new man, some mystical lawyer arse she met in Byron Bay. At a wellbeing spa.’

‘Wellbeing spa,’ said Villani. ‘Just trips off your tongue, doesn’t it? What the fuck is wellbeing?’

‘Respect your body. Think positive thoughts. Live in the moment.’

‘What if the moment is absolutely shit?’ Villani said. ‘What if you have no respect for your flabby fucked-out body? What’s the other one?’

‘Positive thoughts,’ said Birkerts, eyes on the road. ‘You think positive thoughts. I don’t think you’re thinking positive thoughts now. At this moment. I feel that.’

‘How wrong can your pathetic instincts be?’ said Villani. ‘I’m thinking positive thoughts about finding the gun. I’m thinking if we don’t then my whole…’

It came to him.

‘Turn around,’ he said. ‘Back to Kidd’s.’

Birkerts said nothing. He turned right on Roy Street, right again on Queens Road. They were turning into Kidd’s street before he spoke.

‘Forget something?’ he said.

‘Remembered something,’ said Villani. ‘Park in front.’

Birkerts parked. ‘Need me?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Villani. ‘Gloves?’

‘Like that, is it?’

Villani went in first, down the passage, into the sitting room, waited for Birkerts.

‘Put on the gloves,’ he said.

‘Me?’

‘I don’t do this kind of thing. I’m the boss.’

The rubber gloves made the whispering, hissing sound, Birkerts held up pale blue hands. ‘What?’ he said.

Villani went onto the balcony. Birkerts followed. Villani pointed.

Birkerts held the foil tray over the grill, turned it over, twisted.

Nothing happened. He shook it.

The cake of solid fat fell to the grill, stayed intact.

‘Well bugger me,’ Birkerts said.

‘HOW LONG?’ said Villani.

He saw Kiely come out of his door, cross to Dove’s desk, lean over it, lecture Dove about something.

‘Being redone now,’ said the ballistics man.

‘What’s the first time say?’

‘Can’t say.’

‘Fired recently?’

‘Can’t say that either. Say it hasn’t been cleaned.’

‘Dirty?’

‘Well, just not cleaned. Not dirty, no.’

‘The husband’s defence,’ said Villani. ‘Call Tracy when you’ve got a strong opinion, will you?’

He watched Kiely coming his way, the buttoned suit jacket, where did he think he was?

‘BUL M-5,’ said Kiely. ‘Unusual weapon.’

‘Israeli. Every second Afghan’s got one. Handgun of choice.’

‘They sell arms to Afghans?’

‘Don’t discriminate, your Israeli arms dealers. Sell arms to anyone. Make guns in New Zealand?’

‘No,’ said Kiely.

‘Probably just as well.’

‘The crash people say explosions in Kidd’s Ford.’

‘Brilliant,’ said Villani. ‘Went up like Krakatoa.’

‘Not fuel,’ said Kiely. ‘They say two explosions before that, the second one, the big one, that blew the driver’s legs off. Then the fuel caught.’

Villani felt his scalp itch, he did a circuit on the chair. ‘So not high-speed pursuit crash, driver lost control?’

‘You should talk to them.’

‘My word.’

‘Tanner’s the man’s name. Glen Tanner.’

He had a call made.

‘That’s right, inspector,’ said Tanner. ‘We would say two charges, possibly some mechanism triggers the first, which damages the steering, the driver loses control. Then there’s the impact. And then the main charge goes off and it’s big and the fuel ignites.’

‘No chance it’s just fuel?’

He heard the sniff of contempt.

‘Not unless it was a stunt for a movie, that exploding-car rubbish. Low-pressure fireball is possible when fuel escapes and ignites, yes. But not here.’

‘Obliged to you,’ said Villani. ‘Also if you keep this in-house until we’ve got somewhere.’

He thought about watching Kidd, hearing the call.

Listen, listen, some worries. Serious.

What?

Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?

How was that conversation to be explained? How was Kidd not using the Prado to be explained? Where did the Ford come from, a street rod with genuine plates and a missing owner aged seventy-eight?

Tracy.

‘Boss, ballistics rang,’ she said. ‘That’s positive. A match with Metallic.’

The weapon in the slab of dripping had executed the Ribarics. The BUL M-5 had been in the hand of Kidd or Larter.

OAKLEIGH buttoned up. Something to be happy about. Colby would be happy, Barry would be happy, Gillam would be happy. Orong would pat Gillam. Orong would tell the premier.

Villani rang Colby.

‘Got the Oakleigh gun, boss,’ he said. ‘Ballistics match.’

‘Sure?’

‘As science can be.’

‘Where?’

‘Kidd’s place. Under our noses.’

‘Techs find it?’

‘No. Me.’

‘You?’

‘In the barbie fat tray. Kidd’s barbie.’

A moment.

‘It takes a certain kind of sick arsehole to check the barbie fat tray,’ said Colby. ‘You’re an example to your men. Women.’

‘Don’t have any women.’

‘Keep quiet about that,’ said Colby. ‘A fat dyke’ll have your job in a minute. Promoted from ethnic transgender liaison squad.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now Mr Brendan O’Barry, emphasise he’s first cab, be breathless. Pant a lot. Then he can tell the ranga, Gillam can tell Orong. At some point, someone will tell me, I’ll be so stunned. Searle and his new slapper can then feed shit to all and sundry about how wonderful Homicide is.’

‘Sir.’

‘We now want to close the book on Metallic. Gone, finished. With me?’

‘With you. Yes.’

‘You might still have a career,’ said Colby. ‘In spite of your fucking self.’

Villani rang Barry, told him the story.

‘Excellent,’ said Barry. ‘I’ll inform the chief immediately. We have closure on Metallic. Much to be explained but killers identified and, by their own hands, deceased.’

‘That’s it, boss. More or less.’

‘We need to have a little talk soon.’

‘When it suits you, boss,’ said Villani.

DOVE OPENED the folder, gave Villani pages.

‘Calls from Koenig’s Kew house, fixed line, the mobile in his name,’ he said. ‘Taken out his staff, pollies, family. Also now have the Orion guest list by unofficial means. I’d like to put that on record.’

‘You can’t,’ said Villani. ‘Unofficial doesn’t go on record.’

‘I can see the logic. Boss.’

‘You could be approaching take-off speed in this job. Flying a Piper Cub, mind you.’

‘It’s calls in the past two months, ranked by number, from the bottom.’

Twenty-odd names. Villani knew some of them from the newspapers, television.

Mervyn Brody, Brody Prestige, expensive German cars, secondhand, also a racehorse owner. Brian Curlew, criminal barrister, defender of the high-end scum, they said the first consultation was free, the second one cost fifty thousand bucks, some cash, some declared for tax. Chris Jourdan of the Jourdan brothers, owner of restaurants and bars. Daniel Bricknell, art dealer. Dennis Combanis, property developer, Marscay Corporation. Mark Simons, insolvency expert. Hugh Hendry.

‘Mr Hendry junior,’ Villani said.

‘At school together,’ said Dove. ‘St Thomas College. Also Curlew and that Robert Hunter. All in the same year.’

‘That’s important?’

‘I don’t know what’s important, boss.’

‘I like an open mind. Empty mind is what worries me. Who’s Hunter?’

‘Headmaster of St Thomas.’

‘Yes?’

‘Brody and Bricknell and Curlew and Simons and Jourdan are all on the casino party list.’

‘No doubt many people on the chief commissioner’s speed-dial were there too,’ said Villani. ‘A-list people. Saw some of them at Persius the other night. What do you want to make of that?’

Dove touched his chest, under the right pec, a finger, a small, gentle rub, he would do that for the rest of his life.

‘Can we get their phones?’ he said.

‘On what grounds?’

‘Well.’

‘That’s the fed approach,’ said Villani. ‘Any phone, anybody, any time, any reason, no matter how pissweak. No, son. Here the magistracy takes the view that murderers should walk free rather than a single innocent person’s phone records be examined.’

‘What’s your view, boss?’ said Dove.

‘I don’t have a view. Anyone in Homicide misguided enough to use unofficial channels, it’s their marching ticket. Birkerts has been suspected of doing this shit.’

Dove smiled. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is so. I think what we’ve established is that Koenig likes whores,’ Villani said. ‘Mr Phipps saw one who happened to look like our girl. So what we are engaged in is a wide-ranging investigation that goes down some dead-ends. Inevitably. It’s in the nature of wide-ranging investigations.’

‘Yes?’ said Dove.

‘In the course of investigations, information emerges that’s not helpful but can be embarrassing for some people.’

‘Yes?’

‘That information goes in the vault. Is that clear?’

Dove looked at the ceiling, interested, like a man observing the heavens, a student of stars. ‘Could not be clearer, boss,’ he said.

A knock, Weber came in, bunny-eyed, awkward, shifted his feet.

‘Welcome,’ said Villani. ‘Haven’t seen you for a while, detective. Speak freely to us.’

‘Been out there, boss. Talked to everyone in Prosilio over the time. Nothing. Also the staff records. Clean, just speeding, some juvenile, that kind of thing.’

‘That’s promising,’ said Villani. ‘That’s marvellous.’

Guilty, contrite, Weber looked at the grey public-service carpet.

‘What about the owner of the apartment?’

Weber looked at Dove.

‘Just getting there,’ said Dove. ‘Shollonell, this Lebanese company, bought it six months ago. Directors are Mr and Mrs Ho from Hong Kong. In their late seventies, Mr Ho is in a wheelchair. Prosilio housekeeping now remembers they got everything ready then, beds, the champagne, in case they arrived without notice. But they’ve never arrived.’

Villani became aware of the dullness of his mind, the ache in his ankles, his knees, his shoulders, his neck. ‘I’m inclined to rule the Hos out. Just instinct.’

The phone.

‘Chief Commissioner Gillam for you, inspector.’

‘Yes.’

‘Stephen?’

‘Commissioner.’

‘Good result on Metallic, yes. Turned out well. Possibly better than a SOG move on Kidd’s premises would have produced.’

‘The possible gun battle,’ said Villani. ‘The possible loss of officers’ lives. The possible collateral damage to the innocent.’

Gillam coughed. ‘That sort of thing, yes. So, well done. The minister will be pleased.’

Villani put the phone down, looked at his watch. ‘I’m leaving the building now,’ he said. ‘My day is over. I leave you with the thought that we, that’s the three of us and by extension the whole fucking squad and the whole fucking force, we have failed the little Prosilio girl.’

The men both looked down, Weber nodding.

Singleton would be so proud.

‘And see if the Hos have kids. Junior Hos. And grandchildren. Concentrating on the male line.’

THE APARTMENT was in a redbrick building a few streets down from Brunswick Street, Villani knew it from when he was eighteen and it was standing empty, boarded up. They went there early one morning to evict squatters, he remembered sleepy, spunky women and dirty-haired men holding at least two guitars.

The removal people carried out a remarkable number of amps. Fender, Vox, Marshall, they looked as if they had been dropped and kicked many times.

The parking garage was off a pissed-in, puked-on lane, through a graffitied roll-up door Birkerts opened with a remote. Concrete stairs led to a steel door, opened with a key.

Villani followed Birkerts up more concrete stairs to a long landing, they turned left. The apartment’s front door was steel too, studded. Beyond it was a long room, high ceiling, done over in jarrah, granite and stainless steel, a sitting-down area, a television-watching area, a cooking and eating area. The table was made from ten-centimetre thick gum slabs, it could seat twelve, provide shelter from a missile attack.

‘More than I expected,’ said Villani. He went to the window, looked through treetops to the city’s towers, vague in the smoke.

‘She wanted a cash payout from the boy,’ said Birkerts. ‘He offers one mill. Take it, says her brief. I said, the family home plus new car, plus five hundred grand. As of last valuation, recession and all, the settlement’s now worth one point eight mill.’

‘Amazing,’ said Villani. ‘The foresight.’

‘Long ago, my old man said, inner city, never mind price. Always on the button, my dad.’

‘I recall he also said only the truly ignorant are truly happy,’ said Villani. ‘Does that include the truly ignorant about real-estate opportunities?’

‘I wish I’d never told you that,’ said Birkerts. ‘You forget nothing, you wait. There’s bedrooms at each end. With en suites.’

‘I’ll find one.’

‘Okay. I don’t want to look in the fridge. Chuck out the dead stuff, will you? There’s booze in that cupboard.’

They went to the door. Birkerts gave him a key ring. ‘Buzzer, keys. Garbage instructions on fridge.’

‘Appreciate this,’ said Villani. ‘But don’t expect any favours.’

‘Bugger,’ said Birkerts, ‘I had hopes.’ He looked around. ‘Got a bit of domestic drama on myself.’

Villani didn’t look at him, that encouraged confession.

‘Job’s a breaker, no question,’ said Birkerts. ‘Ever ask yourself why you do it?’

A moment between them.

‘No day passes,’ said Villani. ‘Just don’t curl up.’

Just don’t curl up.

Bob Villani’s instruction. Bob and Cameron and Colby and Singo and Les, the men in his life, they’d all given him plenty of instructions.

Had Bob ever curled up? On his own in Vietnam, a lone operator in a strange place, strange people, so far from home, had he crunched up in his sleeping bag, whimpered? Even once? One tiny whimper?

Not likely.

‘Curl up?’ said Birkerts.

‘You feel so sorry for yourself, you lie down and curl up,’ Villani said.

‘You done that?’

‘No day passes. See you in the morning,’

Alone, he chose a bedroom. It was the size of a double garage, white walls, no decoration. The bed was made. He put his clothes in a walk-in closet, a room, went back and inspected the fridge: solid milk, limp coriander, two flaccid cucumbers, no meat.

Dozens of bottles of wine, spirits, mixers in the drinks cupboard. Whisky and soda. There was ice. He sat in a leather armchair, tinkled the ice, drank, listened to the building, the street, beyond. Faint music, piano.

Tired, nodding off, he should eat something. When had he eaten? Breakfast with Rose. Terrible bread but good everything else-the scrambled eggs, his cherry tomatoes done in the pan, popped, the juices.

Lizzie. Why had he cut her out so early? Felt so little for her? Even now, his strongest feeling was resentment, betrayal. Why didn’t Tony cross his mind more often? Tony got the best he had to give. He found time for Tony, he had been a decent father. In a way.

He began taking Tony to Carlton home games when he was tiny, carrying him in a backpack. He was Fitzroy, but it had never been serious and he’d drifted into supporting the Blues when he was stationed at Carlton. You had to have a team. You couldn’t say you didn’t care. Cashin came to the football with them. He was Geelong but he came. Sometimes Laurie came, it was just to please him.

Bob Villani didn’t care about footy, they didn’t talk football when he was a kid, they didn’t have a family team. One day, Villani asked him.

‘Who do we go for, Dad?’

Bob was reading his book, The Faber Book of 20th Century Verse, brown-paper cover with big grease blots, he took it with him in the rig.

‘Go for?’

‘Footy. They ask me who we go for.’

‘Fitzroy,’ his father said, he did not move his head.

‘Why, Dad?’

‘Need all the help they can get.’

He didn’t know Bob had played football until he found the photograph of the 1960 Levetts Creek Football Club Premiership Team, fifteen men and three boys. Twenty-odd years later, they went up there for a girl, throat cut, it was a hard little town, all mullets, feral utes and punched women, beer cartons blown flat against the fences. He saw the faces in the picture, the sons and grandsons. They would have been woodcutters or sawmill workers then, the man holding the ball was two fingers short on his right hand.

On the back, in violet pencil, someone wrote: Robert Villani (centre half-back).

Perhaps sixteen, short hair, chisel chin, long upper arms, bruise on his right cheekbone, as tall as the men in his row and half their thickness. And the eyes, they caught the light.

One bitter Saturday when Tony was seven, he put the navy-blue scarf around the boy’s neck, they went to Princes Park to see Carlton play the Bombers, met Cashin there.

In the queue, Tony said, ‘The Bombers, they’re my team.’

They looked at him.

‘The Blues are your team,’ said Villani.

‘No,’ said Tony. ‘The Bombers.’

He took off his scarf. ‘You wear this, Dad.’

Villani could never have done that to Bob. He could not do that to Bob now. It was a kind of bravery. Why didn’t he ever tell Tony that?

Pointless. He wouldn’t remember it. It would have no meaning for him.

Why didn’t Tony ever ring him? Scotland, he was in Scotland, a Scottish island. What would Scotland be like? The heather on the hills. What was heather? What was it like to be an nineteen-year-old Australian boy in Scotland?

He was eighteen when he took his first walk in uniform after the course, a country boy, open-mouthed, thrilled. Not dangerous the city then. Dope was the street drug, some smack, cocaine seriously sophisticated. Around midnight, the nightlife ended. You could drive home drunk, needed to ram a cruiser to be bloodtested.

The cop talk was all marijuana busts, armed robberies, illegal gambling, wogs fighting to control Victoria Market, wharfies fighting over who was allowed to steal what on the docks.

You didn’t notice the job change. More people on the nod, shooting up on the street, shopping centres, stations, parks, churches. More dumb burgs, brain-dead robberies, kids selling themselves to anyone for anything, dead in alleys, railway stations, tunnels, sewers, on the grubby beaches.

Villani remembered when the CBD was still safe enough to walk across on a Friday night. But once the chemicals took over, spread into the suburbs, cops regularly began to see things once rare-teenagers bashing old people, women and children beaten, the punching and kicking and stabbing of neighbours, friends, cab drivers, people on trains, trams, buses, strangers at parties, in pubs and nightclubs, the hacking at people with swords, road-rage attacks, bricks hurled at trams, train drivers.

Then they got rid of the old liquor laws. Civilising move, they said. Australia’s most European city needed more relaxed liquor laws.

In a short time, hundreds of all-night clubs and drinking barns opened in a few dozen blocks in the CBD, most of them owned by the same people who ran the poleholes and titmarts.

At weekends, thousands upon thousands of people flowed into the city, very European to come in from Donnie and Brookie and Hoppers with your mates, half wasted to begin with, swallow anything, get totally munted, walk around, no fucking fear, mate, the ice fever made you fight your mate, any cunt looks at you, take a spew, take a piss, take a shit, anywhere.

Mobile.

‘This a good time, boss?’ Dove.

‘Depends on what you say.’

‘There’s nothing at Preston. That’s prints, DNA. Nothing. They report signs it’s been wiped.’

‘This is not a good time,’ said Villani.

DEEP IN the freezer, he found a pizza encased in shrinkwrap. He microwaved it and sat at the monks’ table to eat. It tasted like food found in a glacier, locked in the ice for a hundred years, a memory of a pizza in which all the good parts were forgotten.

He stood in a large porcelain saucer to shower. On a hook beside the door hung a man’s thick white towelling gown. The property of the mystical lawyer arse from Byron Bay?

Naked, he crossed the dressing-room and lay on the low bed, a rock-hard mattress, probably a futon. Futons. Did they still sell futons? He studied his body. It did not please him. He touched the dirty marks, the purpling where Les caught him in the bottom ribs, a good place to catch someone, bend the rib into the cavity.

Anna hadn’t called.

Should he have left a message? There was a pad beside her telephone in the passage, he could have written a few words.

I love you. Stephen

He could have passed it off as a joke. Or not. If the response was favourable. Probably not. Definitely not.

What a stupid teenage prick he was.

Lizzie. They would call him if they found her, they had the instruction, any time, twenty-four hours. Somewhere with the streeters? In some crevice in the city, a tunnel, a half-built highrise, sleeping on the raw concrete? They found dead people in these places every day.

The Prosilio child.

The truck stop on the Hume. Swooshing highway, a hot night, airless. As you opened the car door, it would hit you: petrol, diesel, heated rubber, exhaust gases, chip-fryer oil, the smell of burnt meat. Overweight truckies coming out of the ablution block, wet hair, men shat, shaved, showered, shampooed.

The sounds of engines ticking, air-conditioners and extractor fans humming.

A girl coming out of the toilet block, Caucasian girl, speaking to a man in her own language. Not English. On her way to Melbourne, to the ugly fortress in Preston, perhaps a cheap nylon suitcase in the boot, hookers’ clothes, sexy bras, pants, suspender belt.

To have her life taken in the rich people’s building. They had not made one centimetre of progress towards finding her killer. They had been toyed with by the building’s owners. They had pointlessly made an enemy of a powerful man. They looked like idiots.

Mobile again.

‘Boss, I also wanted to say,’ said Dove, ‘I got the water usage there. No water used for the month leading up to that sighting on the Hume. Then it’s average for four people, a bit higher.’

‘Four people?’

‘Perhaps people who need to shower often.’

There was much more to Dove than extraordinary clotting power.

‘That’s a bit of a pattern,’ said Dove. ‘Over the last three years.’

‘Well, it’s interesting but it’s not taking us anywhere.’

‘And boss, that number, I’ve got…’

‘When I see you,’ said Villani. ‘Face to face. I like to observe your body language.’

‘In the morning then.’

‘Yes. Go home. Got a home?’

Why did he ask that? Stupid.

‘Got the bed, yes,’ said Dove. ‘The shower.’

He didn’t know anything about Dove’s life outside the job. Singo knew everything about people’s lives, he knew your kids’ birthdays, he could drop a reference to your wedding anniversary, show you that he knew. But Singo didn’t care.

Son, life’s got layers, the work layer’s on top. That’s my layer, that’s my business, that’s my duty. Under that, it’s personal, it’s your business. I don’t want to know. It’s not that I wouldn’t care. I would care. That’s the problem. So I just don’t want to know. See the sense?

Villani had seen the sense.

‘Breakfast meeting,’ he said. ‘Know Enzio’s? Brunswick Street?’

‘I can find Enzio’s.’

‘Seven-fifteen. Back left corner.’

Villani fell asleep and he dreamed of Greg Quirk, of crossing the filthy unit and seeing Greg squirting blood, of looking up and seeing Dance with the gun in both hands, smiling his canine smile.

VILLANI WOKE just after 6am, dull-headed, knowing where he was, full of dread in the way of the early Robber days. He lay, unwilling to get up, cross the threshold of the day.

The smallholding in the valley near Colac where Dave Cameron lived with his girlfriend came into his mind. Dave had put up a fight, the kitchen was chaos, blood everywhere, table overturned, crockery on the floor. He had been hacked with something, a big knife, a sword, deep cuts to his arms, shoulders, neck, head, before he was shot. Twice with an unknown weapon, twice with his own service weapon.

His girlfriend had been shot in the head, three times, with Dave’s weapon. She was found to be pregnant, Dave’s child.

They threw everything at it, the whole force, other investigations went on hold. They didn’t see Matt Cameron for weeks. Deke Murray, the SOG boss, was made head of the taskforce, he had started with Matt, they were like brothers, their careers marched together, they both became Robber legends. They even looked like brothers.

Deke had gone to the SOG before Villani arrived, but he came to Robber piss-ups, to Cameron’s parties, sometimes showed up on a Friday night at the pub. Matt quit the force when his wife Tania committed suicide, he had no family left. Deke quit soon after. The prime suspect, a hard case called Brent Noske, twice arrested by Dave Cameron in the months before the murders, killed himself, shotgun in the mouth. Noske was a cop-hater, they narrowly failed to get him for firing on a Geelong cop’s house with an M16.

What happened to Deke? He’d resigned. Where had he gone?

Villani shook the thoughts away, rose, showered, dressed, went into the big room and switched on the radio.

Bruce Frank, the morning man on the ABC, was talking his usual drivel, he had a voice that shifted in tone, from gruff to shrill in the same sentence. Villani sat in an armchair with the battery razor, head back, eyes closed, the machine wasn’t up to the task but it was soothing.

He registered the word police and thumbed the shaver off.

…leader of the Opposition Karen Mellish on the line, she’s called in. Up bright and early, Ms Mellish.

I’m a farmer’s daughter, Bruce. And a farmer’s wife. We don’t loll around in bed. There’s work to be done.

A case can be made for a bit of lolling in bed, surely? I mean the birthrate isn’t what it should…

No frivolity please, I’m ringing about your caller’s comment that my party takes pleasure in knocking the Victoria Police. That is absolutely and completely wrong and…

You’ve said a few hard things about the police recently, haven’t you? Bit more than a few.

Bruce, our job is to speak out against incompetence where we see it. And we see it everywhere under this shoddy government. But take pleasure in denigrating the police? Never. No. We want to see our police force given the numbers and the leadership to do what they are quite capable of doing, which is to make this city and this state the most inhospitable place on earth for violent hoons, drug dealers, career criminals…

A big ask that. I have no doubt the government…

To wake without the hangover feeling took a holiday of at least a week. The first two or three days were detox, twitchy, irritable, aware of feeling tight in the shoulders, in the neck, in the back. The second week, he lost interest in organising.

Two weeks? Not since Corin was fifteen.

Surfers Paradise was going to be a week alone, the two of them, kids in safe hands. He thought they could patch things up, start again. That Laurie suggested going was hopeful, the matter of Tony’s friend’s mother was still close.

Catering customers, television people, offered their holiday unit. Laurie’s company was by then catering for lots of shoots.

She went ahead. Villani remembered almost missing the plane, falling asleep before take-off, finding a taxi, standing on the narrow balcony of the beachfront tower looking at the sea, the beach far below in deep shadow, lace-frilled waves unrolling, people walking on the wet sand.

He fell asleep on a sofa in the sitting room while Laurie was on the balcony, talking on her mobile. In the small hours, a cramp in his left calf woke him. He could not believe the pain. He thought: the deep-vein thing. He put his feet on the floor, frantically massaged the muscle, pummelled it, tears came to his eyes, he stood up, shook his leg, stamped his foot.

The pain gave way to numbness. He slept for a few hours, woke in the dawn, hungry. Nothing to eat in the place, he smoked a cigarette on the balcony. There were a few dozen surfers out, scattered, it was playschool, the wind in the south-east, nothing happening, two-footers.

Villani took the lift down, left his shirt and towel on the sand. Walking out through the warm shallows with two young women surfers, girls, he eyed himself unhappily, pale chicken-breast skin, flab on his hips. It was a long swim to where he could catch a wave, the girls were ahead of him, paddling, in no hurry.

He wasn’t the world’s greatest swimmer and he hadn’t been to the gym for a while. He had to push himself, the girls looking back at him-pityingly, he thought. When he reached the deep water, he was winded. Hundreds of thousands of people swam off this beach every year and he found himself alone.