Truth (20 page)

‘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.