Truth (3 page)

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

The anchorman said:

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

The phone. Mute.

‘Media on the line, boss. Mr Searle.’

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

‘Good. What?’

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

‘No.’

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

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

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

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

‘Inspector.’

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

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

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

Time to go, put an end to the day.

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

Go home. No one there.

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

Inspector. Head of Homicide.

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

‘Hello.’

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

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

‘Well, whenever.’

‘Like tonight?’

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

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

‘You want to change your plans?’

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

‘Well, I can be there.’

‘Don’t eat. Be hungry.’

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

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

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

‘SATISFACTORY,’ said Anna Markham.

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

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

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

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

‘To see a play.’

‘With?

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

‘There are ways to tell.’

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

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

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

‘What play?’ he said.

‘The
Tempest.
Shakespeare.’

‘Never heard of it.’

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

Fingertips dug into his upper arm.

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

‘Who are you?’

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

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

‘I’ll give you hasty.’

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

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

‘What?’ she said, ‘what?’

‘I thought you were…fighting me.’

‘I like fighting you. What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing.’

‘Turned you off?’

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

‘Just tired,’ he said. ‘Up early.’

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

Villani was towelling his hair when his phone rang.

‘Dad.’

Corin.

‘Yes, love. What?’

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

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

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

‘What kind of car?’

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

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

‘Sir. Right, yeah. Thanks, Dad.’

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

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

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

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

Villani walked across the space, stood behind her.

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

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

She stirred the wok. ‘Slam bam.’

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

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

‘You should have gone to the play.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Wasted your time then,’ said Villani.

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

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

‘Sorry, Dad.’

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

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

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

‘You are. Just a car in the street.’

‘Yeah. Dumb. Eaten?’

‘Not recently, no.’

‘TCT suit?’

‘TCT and O. Shavings of O.’

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

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

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

‘You shower at work?’

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

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

‘He knows me?’

‘Saw you on TV.’

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

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

Corin went to the sink.

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

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

‘Dad. Don’t.’

‘Don’t what?’

‘Lie to me. I’m not a kid.’

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

‘What about you and Mum?’

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

‘Don’t you love her anymore?’

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

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

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

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

‘See her today?’

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

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

‘Cairns. A movie.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Got nothing against Catholics,’ said Villani.

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

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

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

‘Headaches?’

‘Headaches?’

‘Get headaches?’

‘Sometimes. I had headaches before. Sometimes.’

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

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

‘Flashbacks?’

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

‘Good. And stress? Feel stressed?’

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

‘Sure.’

‘Ever been shot?’

‘No. Shot at, yeah. Few times.’

‘Get flashbacks?’

‘No. Dreams. I’ve had dreams.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Yes, boss.’

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