Truth (34 page)

Matt Cameron.

For what it’s worth, my advice’s make the change, son. Talk to you later. Expand.

Dove.

Boss, can you come in, we’ve got something.

BLACK-AND-WHITE image, a near-empty city street, car approaching. The digital line said:
0.2.22.

‘La Trobe,’ said Weber. ‘Looking south-west. Flagstaff Gardens to right.’

‘Possibly up Dudley, right into King, left into La Trobe,’ said Dove. ‘Here it is.’

Second car in view, black, closing on first.

‘Honda’s going to run lights, changes his mind,’ said Weber.

Front vehicle brakes hard, twists.

‘Bang,’ said Weber. ‘Beemer’s hit him.’

The driver and passenger of the Honda get out.

‘Beemer front-seat passenger,’ said Dove.

Big man in black, hair pulled back into ponytail.

‘Kenny Hanlon,’ said Villani.

‘Jesus,’ said Dove, looked at Villani.

Hanlon is gesticulating, he is shouting, threatening the driver of the Honda.

‘Behind him, boss,’ said Weber.

A slight figure is out of the BMW, the back door, chalk face, black hair, black dress, bare shoulders, she does not hesitate, she is running, behind her a bus shelter, she is on the pavement.

‘Loses a shoe, kicks the other one off, she’s into the gardens,’ said Dove.

The camera caught the spike-heeled shoe in the air.

Hanlon cuffs the Honda driver, an open-hand swing of his right hand, the Honda passenger is trying to grab Hanlon, the BMW driver is out of the car, mouth open, he is shouting.

‘Got the vision in the gardens,’ said Weber, eyes on the console.

The girl running towards a camera, veering right, no vision.

‘That’s camera six,’ said Weber, ‘middle of park.’ Figure coming towards camera, the girl.

‘Camera nine,’ said Weber. ‘Heading for corner of Dudley and William.’

She came into clear focus, wide-eyed, mouth open, breathless.

Lizzie. Oh God.

No, not Lizzie.

‘Checked Peel Street?’ said Villani. ‘Might’ve gone that way. Must be cameras around the Vic Market. Friday morning, they work early.’

Dove said, ‘Three people around there now.’

Villani looked at the men. ‘Good work,’ he said.

The men looked at him, waited.

‘Twins,’ said Dove. ‘She’s the one at Koenig’s.’

‘The appendix scar,’ said Villani. ‘Oh Jesus.’

Silence.

‘Kenny Hanlon,’ Villani said. ‘Now.’

‘ELECTRONIC gates, cameras, motion detectors, steel shutters downstairs,’ said Finucane, the driver. ‘They own all of them and the ones behind. Hellhound compound. Gorillas on guard fulltime.’

‘Beats the old cement factory in Northcote,’ said Villani. He chewed the last of the salad sandwich. He crumpled the bag, put it in the cup-holder, pushed it back into the housing.

Four doors down, a big man in a windbreaker appeared, looked hard at them.

‘Gorilla at work,’ said Finucane. ‘Hellhound apprentice.’

Villani and Dove and Weber got out. The man put his head down and spoke to the sheet-steel gate of the second of four townhouses, two storeys, set well back from a three-metre wall. Upstairs, fake windows looked out at useless balconies.

As they approached, Weber said, ‘Tell Mr Hanlon the police would like to see him. Homicide.’

The man lifted his upper lip. ‘Let’s see ID,’ he said.

Weber showed the badge. ‘That coat. You carrying or just got a dodgy thermostat?’

‘Fuck you too,’ said the man. He spoke into the grille, an inaudible reply. Bolts clicked. He opened the gate, went in first.

An unshaven man in tracksuit pants and a black T-shirt was in
the front door. Big, forties, fleshy, face pocked like a sweet melon, dark greasy hair pulled into a tail.

‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Hanlon, recognised Villani. ‘Jeez, Sergeant Villani, you fucken following me around all my fucken life?’

‘Have a talk,’ said Villani.

‘Yeah. About fucken what?’

‘I’ll come back with the Soggies,’ said Villani. ‘Knock your fucking house down and kill you. Accidentally.’

Hanlon said to the guard, ‘Okay, buddy, back on station.’

Hanlon turned. They followed him across a tile-floored foyer into a room that was a kitchen and an eating place. He sat at a table of polished granite, two mobiles on it.

‘So what?’ he said.

‘Sure one fuckbrain is enough to look after you?’ said Villani.

‘Fuckall to do with you, buddy. Area’s crawlin with druggies. Did your job, I wouldn’t need security. Fucken poodle be enough.’

‘Intelligent dog, the poodle,’ said Villani. ‘It might not want to protect you. Used to live in your batcave, all of you, so shit-scared of the Angels. Still, crapping yourselves kept you warm.’

‘Just fuck off,’ said Hanlon.

Villani stood at the island bench. ‘It’s about a woman,’ he said.

‘Yeah?’

‘The one you took to the Prosilio building.’

Hanlon smoothed his hair with both hands, looked at his palms. There was a sheen on them. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘where do you come by shit like this? What’s your problem?’

‘Dead girl, that’s our problem,’ said Villani. ‘Account for all your movements on Thursday night a week ago, Kenny?’

Hanlon put a hand into his collar, rubbed himself. ‘Every last second. I’m home fast asleep by eleven any night, every night.’

‘Someone can confirm that?’

‘No. Only about twenty people. And my wife. And my mother-in-law. Good enough? Do you?’

‘Live-in mother-in-law, is it?’

‘Better lookin than your wife, mate, she cooks like, I dunno, that Pommy poof. Better.’

‘So you now transport hookers,’ Villani said. ‘How can that be profitable?’

Hanlon tapped his forehead with two fingertips. ‘I’m in hospitality, buddy. You pricks been over me like slime for years. Want to go again? Go for your fucken life.’

A silence. Dove, face blank, was looking at his clipboard.

‘Your car,’ he said. ‘That’s the black Beemer. Involved in a collision in La Trobe Street Friday morning before last, 2.23am.’

‘Not me, mate. Had it with fucken German cars, had it with the Krauts. Holden SV now, mate. Aussie car.’

In the doorway appeared a woman in a cream velvet tracksuit. She was snap-frozen at around sixty, blonded, bee-swollen, decorated in a glowing shade of peach, bright pink plump collagen lips.

‘Guests, Kenny,’ she said. ‘So early.’

‘Give us ten, Suzie, there’s a love,’ Hanlon said.

The woman smiled at Villani, it lingered as though facial muscles had gone into spasm. ‘So lovely to meet you,’ she said. She left, beatific.

Hanlon stood, reached to a counter and picked up cigarettes, Camels. ‘Smoke?’

They didn’t respond. Villani went to the door and closed it, turned the lock. He looked around the room at the commercial coffee machine, the stainless-steel fridges, the stone-topped counter. ‘Our understanding,’ he said, ‘is that you keep hookers jailed in a house in Preston. Confirm that?’

Hanlon pulled a face. ‘Reality check here. Can I go back to planet fucken earth? Rejoin the human race?’

‘Rejoining would require prior membership,’ said Dove.

‘Who’s this smartarse boong?’ said Hanlon. ‘Can’t get white people to join you cunts now? Scrapin the fucken barrel?’

Villani looked away, moved closer, balanced himself, hit Hanlon under his ribs, big right hand punch, gave him a left in the ribs, a
heavy right into a flabby pectoral.

Hanlon went to his knees and puked, yellow, projectile.

‘Respect, Kenny,’ said Villani. ‘Even if you don’t respect the man, you have to respect the badge.’

He found a dishcloth on the benchtop, threw it at Hanlon. ‘Clean it up before the Botox witch sees it, Kenny. She might paddle your hairy arse. Or does she do that for you anyway?’

Hanlon wiped his mouth with the cloth, wiped the tiles, stood up. ‘Die for that,’ he said. ‘Fucken die.’

‘Detectives, note that Mr Hanlon threatened me with death,’ said Villani. ‘Kenny, I’m giving you a chance to talk to us. Might save your life.’

Hanlon sighed, Villani heard resignation. ‘How stupid you think I am? How stupid are you? Couldn’t save my fucken cat’s life.’

‘Clears that up,’ said Villani. He smiled at Dove, turned the smile on Hanlon. ‘Enjoyed talking to you. Kenneth.’

‘That’s it?’ said Hanlon. Hands in the air, hairy fingers, two gold rings on each hand, forefinger and pinky.

‘Unless you want to say something.’

Hanlon found a cigarette, lit up with a plastic lighter, lifted his head, blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Goodbye. I want to say that. Goodbye.’

‘Those Camels,’ said Villani. ‘Duty paid?’

‘Bloke give me a carton.’

‘Bloke in a pub?’

‘You know him?’

At the kitchen door, Hanlon said to Villani, ‘Occurs to me, you related to Dr Marko?’

‘Never heard of him, sunshine,’ said Villani. ‘Face the wall, close up, hands behind you. You’re under arrest.’

‘Don’t be fucken…’

‘Draw your weapon, Detective Weber,’ said Villani. ‘Mr Hanlon is about to resist arrest. Kenny, I’ll kick your balls off and then we’ll shoot you.’

‘Like you done Greg Quirk?’

Villani took back his right hand. Hanlon looked into his eyes and he turned, put his hands behind his back. Weber cuffed him and told him his rights.

Villani pointed to the mobiles on the table. Dove put them in his inside pocket.

‘Open the door, Detective Dove,’ said Villani. ‘You go first, Mr Hanlon. And tell your prick outside to keep his hands out of his clothes or we’ll kill him and that will be a pleasure and a public service.’

At the car, Weber in the back with Hanlon, Dove’s mobile sang. He plugged it into his ear, talked, put it away, looked at Villani with bright eyes.

‘Where you suggested, boss,’ he said. ‘Tomasic’s got a bloke, just come on shift a minute ago.’

Villani rang the number. ‘Villani. Got a piece of shit to be taken off my hands. Yeah. Twenty minutes.’

To Dove he said, ‘Charge him with accessory to murder, conspiracy to pervert, deprivation of liberty, any old fucking thing crosses your mind. Then he can wait for Monday, have a little time to think.’

IN THE security office, Villani shook hands with the man. He had a big belly and a beard like faded red moss and should have been retired in Venus Bay.

‘Tell me, Vic,’ said Villani.

‘Well, I seen her comin at the Dudley Street corner,’ said Vic. ‘Light’s not bad there, and she run across the street and I seen she’s got no shoes on. She sees me, she runs up to me, she can’t hardly breathe she’s that tired.’

‘What’s she look like?’ said Villani.

‘Just a kid. Like sixteen maybe? Thin, white skin, black hair.’ He touched his shoulders to show the length. ‘She got on like a party dress, black? Those little straps, y’know.’

‘Shoelaces?’

‘Yeah. Them. Red lipstick.’

‘What did she say?’

‘Got no English. Very little.’

‘So?’

‘So I said, come with me and we come around here. She’s really scared, she’s jabberin on in Romanian and she’s lookin back, down Peel and she’s kinda tryin to hide in front of me. Y’know? Like gettin in my way?’

‘Romanian?’ said Villani.

‘Yeah. Didn’t know what it was. Just wog jabber to me, mate.’

‘And?’

‘I give the other bloke a call. Made tea, she can’t hardly drink it. Anyway, he comes, name’s Maggie, he’s a wog too. He can’t understand her but he says she’s a Romanian, he gets that. So he says, get the police and she knows about police, she goes ballistic, no, no, no, she’s crying.’

‘Common reaction,’ said Dove.

Vic laughed. ‘So, anyway, Maggie says he knows a Romanian, he’ll ring him in the morning. We tell her don’t worry, no police, make a bed for her in the back. She just drops off like that, curls up, she’s dead to the world.’

Villani said, ‘In the morning?’

‘Maggie rung the bloke, puts her on, she talks to him. I knocked off but he come around for her. Maggie stayed on.’

‘How do we get hold of Maggie?’

‘On holiday. With the caravan. By himself. Monday he went.’

‘Went where?’

Vic shrugged. ‘Dunno, mate. Fishin, mad keen. Mad Collingwood, mad fishin. Go anywhere.’

‘Phone number?’

Vic went to a shelf and found a torn folder, put it on the table. It held stapled pages. He ran his finger down one. ‘Jeez, the turnover here, mate, you wouldn’t believe. Here. Name’s Bendiks Vanags. How’s that for a name?’

‘Means hawk,’ said Tomasic. ‘Vanags.’

‘Yeah,’ said Vic. ‘He said that. That’s why they call him Maggie. Got a pen?’

Dove wrote down the number. ‘Mobile?’ he said.

‘No mobile here.’

‘Got a family?’

‘No, mate. All alone. The wife give him the arse, that’s a while ago. Years.’

‘Get the address off you,’ said Dove.

They went outside, the scorching day, hard planes of light off
the windscreens in the parking lot, Dove on the phone as they walked.

Lizzie. Did it cross her mind that she would destroy him? He took out his phone.

‘Mate,’ said Vickery, third-pack-of-the-day voice, last drink.

Villani described the man. Dreadlocks, tatts on his face, between his eyes. Dirty did not have to be said.

‘I remember,’ said Vickery. ‘Beat the drums for the cunt now.’ Pause. ‘Constructive conversations important, not so? So everybody faces the rising sun.’

‘Absolutely no question, mate,’ said Villani, the taste of copper in his mouth.

BIRKERTS PUT a page on the desk.

‘Texts,’ he said. ‘In a possible time frame, in the LAI. But no date.’

Villani looked.

Received 02.49: WHAT?

Sent 02.50: SOON.

Received 03.01: ?????

Sent 03.04: GOING IN.

Sent 03.22: OTU BANZAI OK

‘Tell me,’ Villani said.

Birkerts caressed his shave, found something under his chin. ‘New light on the matter,’ he said. ‘I would say Kidd and Larter do the SAS stroke SOG stuff, kill Vern Hudson, hang the brothers up. Then they hand over to someone.’