Truth (7 page)

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

He patted his left upper arm. ‘Here.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The silence sang.

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

‘Shouldn’t this be a Crucible matter?’

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

‘Just contributing to our ongoing professional conversation.’

‘Whatever the fuck that is. Forget Crucible.’

Hunger.

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

Jim, the fat cook, changed the station on the radio and Paul Keogh came on in full voice:

…these killings, nothing official yet. We throw millions of dollars, that’s millions, throw them at a so-called high-tech, super-sophisticated taskforce, dedicated to stamping out organised crime and what’s to show for the Crucible spending? A few idiots jailed. That’s it. And now this thing’s happened in Oakleigh, which is…

‘Know about this?’ said Dimi, the thinner cook, big hairy hands cupping a mince patty, no gloves.

‘What happened to the gloves?’ said Villani. ‘The food hygiene?’

‘Fuck that shit,’ said Dimi. ‘Start with fucken clean hands, that’s like fucken gloves, no? Anyway, fucken heat kills fucken germs.’

‘I sincerely hope,’ said Villani.

He ate in the car, reading the newspaper, listening to Keogh:

…the latest hideous symptom, it’s a disease, drugs and the tolerance and the rubbish that’s grown up around drugs, the methadone programs, I ask you, we supply these spineless, gutless individuals with a free drug supposed to lessen their dependence, they now clamour for it, demand it as a right, it’s like a superannuation scheme for junkies…

Phone. The secretary, Angela.

‘Boss, first is Mr Colby, he requests a 9.30 meeting. And Deputy Commissioner Barry, he’d like to see you as soon after.’

‘Under starter’s orders,’ said Villani.

…Chief Commissioner David Gillam, the so-called new broom, done nothing except sweep the dirt around and under the carpet. Achieved sweet fanny. All the evidence is that right up to senior levels some of the cavalry have joined the Indians. I’m talking about corruption in my usual roundabout way. And then there is the massive problem of public order. Public safety. The right of law-abiding citizens to go about their business without fear. This city has a very, very serious public order problem, the government, that’s our wonder boy Police Minister Martin Orong, they have done nothing to solve it and so that’s quite rightly a massive issue in this election. Add it to the chaos that is public transport, the gridlock that stops this city twice a day…

Villani studied the hamburger, the cold grey meat, the globs of congealed fat, seam of egg, charred onion strands. He bit into it.

THEY WERE waiting for him in the meeting room, Colby, Dance, Ordonez.

‘Like a Robbers reunion this,’ said Colby. ‘Should be in a pub. So let’s be clear. It’s the fucking Ribarics?’

‘The Ribarics, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Confirmed Ivan wears that earring and Andy’s got the knife scar Ivan gave him when they were kids. Also Andy’s got a hole in his arse the Robbers know about.’

He gestured to Ordonez, head of Armed Crimes.

‘Dates from a payroll job in Somerton in 1997,’ said Ordonez. ‘Security bloke shot him through the right cheek. Six years for that, Andrew, came out in 2002.’

‘The third one,’ said Villani. He took out the camera, found the image, offered the camera to Colby. ‘You might remember this bloke.’

Villani had served in the Armed Robbery Squad under Colby, they went to an in-progress at a bank in Glen Iris, he and Colby and Dance, arrived on the scene late, it ended with Colby jumping onto the bonnet of a moving yellow Commodore, the front-seat passenger stuck his gun out, a Magnum, wrong-handed, fired four shots, took away a big piece of Colby’s right pec, a bit of an ear. Colby crawled onto the roof rack, reached down, got his fingers
into the driver’s hair, pulled his head half out the window and banged it against the frame, repeatedly.

Doing around eighty, the Commodore crossed tramlines, clipped an oncoming tradesman’s van, hit a concrete bus shelter, broadsided into a tree, spun into a small park, rolled twice, came to rest beside a sandpit. Children were playing in it, chirping.

When Villani and Dance got there, the driver was dead, the shooter was dying, the third man, Vernon Donald Hudson, was unharmed, whimpering. Colby—skull fracture, broken arm, rib piercing a lung—was on his feet, face a blood mask, right arm hanging like a dead fish. He spat, blood and a tooth, looked down at himself and said, ‘Jesus, a brand-new fucking suit.’

‘Vern,’ said Colby, eyes on the camera screen. ‘Less hair but it’s Huddo. He’s a survivor. Was. Where’s the cunt been?’

‘We haven’t heard of him for a long time,’ said Ordonez. ‘He’s supposed to be in Queensland. Retired.’

‘Retired now,’ said Colby. ‘So what’s this shit about?’

‘Ivan’s an animal,’ said Ordonez. ‘Smack addict and animal. High on our list. We reckon he killed the SecureGuard bloke in Dandenong last October, executed him. Also shot the customer at Westpac at Garden City in March, no reason at all. There’s other bashings, one woman’s got brain damage, can’t speak. We reckon these boys have done seven, eight jobs in the last two years. Maybe eight hundred grand. Dandenong was two hundred but that was lucky.’

‘What a pity we couldn’t cull the boys when we took out the old man,’ said Colby.

The coroner determined that Dance and Vickery fired twelve shots at Matko Ribaric before Vickery hit him in the left eye, no skill, just luck, the slug came off the roof. It was not textbook stuff but then Matko was shooting at them in a shopping mall carpark with a Benelli M4 Super 90 semi-automatic shotgun, the pellets hitting the cars like steel hail.

‘Anyway, this is all helpful and also not helpful,’ said Colby. ‘Who would kill the pricks?’

‘No idea,’ said Ordonez. ‘These boys are just robbers.’

‘I should say here,’ said Villani, ‘that the brothers have been worked over like I haven’t seen since Rai Sarris. Noses, tackle cut off, hair burnt. There is pleasure involved.’

‘Our belief,’ said Ordonez, ‘is that the Ribs have done jobs with one Russell Jansen and one Christopher Wales, both serious hardcases. Jansen is a near-fuckwit but he’s good with cars. Stealing, driving. Wales is another druggy. Everything we know is here.’

Ordonez passed a folder to Villani.

‘The Oakleigh address is in there?’ said Colby.

Ordonez pulled a tight-lipped face. ‘No, boss. We did not have addresses for any of them.’

‘They lived there?’ Colby said to Villani.

‘At least four people lived in the house,’ said Villani. ‘That’s at a glance. Vehicles parked all over the place, that’ll take a bit of working through.’

‘Mr Dance,’ said Colby. ‘Since you command the most expensive operation in the history of the force, you will have much to tell us about these cunts.’

Mr Xavier Benedict Dance smiled, long medieval face, ice-blue cattledog eyes. He had his chair well back from the table, ankle on a knee, buffed Italian shoe, cotton sock. Villani knew Colby had always thought Dance was gun-shy. Once, after a chaotic in-progress cock-up and a chase on foot, Colby stared at Dance and said, ‘You practise running on the spot?’

‘Our intelligence focus is on big players,’ said Dance.

‘Like calling the fucking phone book intelligence,’ said Colby.

‘Crucible’s brief is crime networks,’ said Dance.

‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Read drugs. What’s this look like?’

‘Well, Ivan Ribaric only comes on our radar because he did some muscle for Gabby Simon, that’s a few years ago. But he nearly killed a bloke in the Lord Carnarvon in South Melbourne and that was too extreme for Gabby. In public, that is.’

‘So what’s your non-intelligence-based view?’

Dance held up his hands. ‘Could be alternative dispute resolution
involving ten million bucks. Could be argument over parking spot. The fuckers kill each other for anything. Nothing.’

‘And the torture?’

‘Torture is like a Playstation game for arseholes awake for three days on ice. I would say payback. By pricks who hate Vern Hudson a bit less than the Ribbos.’

‘At least you didn’t say gang war,’ said Colby. ‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s get back to what I hear are called our silos. Inspector Villani, a word.’

‘I EXPECT to hear first, son,’ said Colby. ‘From you or whoever. Not from God. Gillam rang me, girl’s fucking hysterical. Then it’s Mr Garry O’Barry, the Irish deviant.’

‘Sorry, boss.’

‘Yeah, well, listen, all the makings of a shit sandwich this. I see no joy, suffering all round.’

‘Very early days.’

‘I’m thinking get rid of it, handball it to Dancer. Crucible.’

‘It’s Homicide business.’

‘Sometimes you worry me,’ said Colby. ‘You don’t see the whole picture.’

‘No?’

‘No. All that Singleton justice-for-the-dead shit. Homicide, little island of fucking Boy Scouts. Get over it. Singo’s gone, he’s microscopic dust floating up there, he’s air pollution. Stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result in an hour and you’re a turd.’

‘We could get lucky.’

Colby sneezed, a detonation, another, another. ‘Fucking smoke’s killing me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll say this. Get lucky or have plans B to D ready.’

‘Do that then, boss.’

‘Stay in touch. Close touch. I want to know.’

‘Boss.’

When Villani was at the door, Colby said, ‘Career-defining moment this could be. They come, you know.’

‘Bear that in mind, boss.’

VILLANI SAT in the outer office, mobile off, eyes closed. Barry was on an important call, said the secretary. Villani didn’t mind, enjoyed the peace.

‘Commissioner Barry’s free, inspector,’ said the secretary, some signal given.

Barry’s desk was side-on to the window, the venetian blinds half closed, the vertical lines of the buildings thinly sliced.

‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Sit. Just got the chief off the line.’ He paused. ‘Tell me.’

Villani became aware of the aches in his forearms, across his shoulders. The mowing, the whole body tensed, the gripping of the throttle bar. ‘Ivan Ribaric and his half-brother,’ he said. ‘Croatians.’

Barry found a tissue, napkin-sized. He blew his nose, eyes bulged. ‘Never had a cold in freezing bloody Ireland,’ he said. He inspected the tissue, crushed it. ‘Now is that Australian of Croatian descent or citizen of Croatia?’

‘The first.’

‘I’ve found there’s a bit of sensitivity around this kind of thing.’

‘It’s a family with a wog name. Like me.’

‘What about me?’ Barry said. ‘Is an Irishman a wog?’

‘Mick is a kind of early wog as I understand it.’

Barry laughed, rolling pub laugh, he had hard bird eyes. ‘Moving on. Knowing the dead’s a step, catching the deaders, that’s the trick.’

‘Steep curve I’m on.’

Mouth too quick, always his failing. Villani looked at the view. He thought he liked Barry more than his predecessor, a useless Pom from Liverpool who left suddenly for a job in Canada.

‘A joke, Stephen,’ said Barry.

Villani nodded, humbly he hoped. He noticed a white substance on the side of his left shoe. Birdshit? Please, God, not something from Oakleigh.

‘This election. Now I’m no expert on local politics but I’m told there could be changes coming, people moving around. That’s likely.’ He stared at Villani. ‘We could work well together, you and me. A team. What’s your feeling?’

‘I think we could, boss.’ Villani had no idea what he meant.

‘Can I advise a bit of an investment in presentation? It’s important. Couple of new suits. Dark grey. Shirts. Light blue, cotton, buy half a dozen. And ties. Red, silk, Jacquard silk. Black shoes, toecaps. Good for morale, shoes, the women know that.’

Villani thought it best to say nothing.

‘Now I haven’t offended?’ said Barry.

‘No, boss.’

‘I’m looking out for you, Stephen.’

‘I appreciate that.’

‘Good. So Oakleigh, we need a result, that’s the ticket. Your clearance rate overall needs a boost.’

‘Boss.’

The clearance rate was all luck. A decent run of domestics gone sad, pissed fights, gatecrash stabbings, gang bashings, fatal clashes among the homeless and hopeless—easy, you could clear the lot inside a week or two, it looked pretty good, efficient.

‘And the Prosilio woman? What’s happening there?’

‘Making progress in identifying her. A lot of work done. Yes.’