Truth (4 page)

‘His number, I’ll call him back.’

To Dove, he said, ‘Get Weber.’

They were back in seconds.

‘So tell me,’ said Villani.

‘It’s not good,’ said Dove. ‘They haven’t provided the video for the parking and the lifts. They claim technical difficulties. The publicity says state-of-the-art but nothing worked. Could be a building in the 1950s.’

‘New world of total security,’ said Villani. ‘New world of total bullshit. What about cards, the PINs?’

‘They actually have no idea who could get into the apartment. Just about anyone in security can make a card, program the PIN. Then later they could change back to the old ones.’

‘Shit. Okay, moving on. Scientists.’

Dove inclined his head at Weber.

‘No prints, they say DNA’s unlikely, it’s cleaner than a hospital,’ said Weber, the bright look.

‘No longer a benchmark, hospitals,’ said Villani. ‘What’s the butchery say?’

Weber had a printout. ‘Time of death around midnight on Thursday. C5 snapped, very likely head jerked back, no bruising or abrasions. Recent intercourse. Tearing to vaginal and anal passages. No semen. Used cocaine. She’s sixteen to twenty. Scar on left tricep, more than a year old. Bruising on her ribs left side, probably punched, that’s recent. Slightly displaced septum, probably in the last six months.’

Silence.

‘So what do they offer?’ said Villani.

Weber coughed, he looked at Dove.

Dove said, ‘She’s possibly had her hands tied, she’s gagged, something soft, there’s vaginal and anal intercourse, he’s behind her, he’s very big, as in huge or he’s wearing something or it’s an object, that kind of thing. He at some point jerks her head back violently, breaks her neck. He would have her head in his hands. He places her in the bath and washes her, pulls plug.’

‘Then,’ said Weber, ‘then he disposes of her clothes, shoes, everything and wipes all surfaces touched.’

‘Just another homey night in the Prosilio building,’ Villani said. ‘Before the sex, they probably ate pizza, watched a DVD. Checked
for that, did you, Mr Dove?’

Dove blinked. ‘Ah, no. No.’

‘Possibly
Pretty Woman,’
said Villani. ‘Religious text for hookers. Hooker’s New Testament. Message of salvation. Familiar with it, Mr Weber?’

Weber made a smile, perhaps he forgave the levity, they would never know. ‘You’re saying that, boss? A hooker?’

‘No,’ said Villani. ‘I’m just leaning that way. I’m close to falling over. Checked the laundry chute, the garbage?’

‘Nothing in the laundry chute,’ said Dove. ‘Garbage taken on Friday morning. It’s in the landfill.’

‘That’s really promising,’ said Villani. ‘The manager produce the other stuff?’

‘I don’t think Manton’s flat out on this,’ said Dove, stroking his head. ‘He referred us to Ulyatt, to Marscay. The owners.’

Ulyatt. The man who could speak to someone who could tell the chief commissioner what to do.

‘What about the casino guests?’

Dove looked at Weber. Weber said, ‘Uh, I left that with Tracy, boss. Casino security is run by a company called Stilicho. Sounds like it’s part of Blackwatch Associates.’

‘Well, retrieve it,’ said Villani. ‘That’s not her job. Since when do Blackwatch do this kind of thing?’

‘Don’t know much about Blackwatch, boss,’ said Weber.

‘The name Matt Cameron mean anything?’

‘The cop?’

Villani had served under the legendary Matt Cameron, gone to the scene of the killings of his son and his girlfriend, taken part in the massive, fruitless man-hunt.

‘Once the cop. He runs Blackwatch. Part owns.’

‘This lot is a new company,’ said Dove. ‘I think it’s Blackwatch in partnership with someone else.’

‘Okay,’ Villani said. ‘Dead woman, no clothes, no ID, no idea how she got there, no vision, so we have dogshit.’

‘Encapsulated it, boss,’ said Dove, the little smile-smirk.

Villani rose, stretched his arms up, sideways, rolled his head, some bones clicked, he went to the window, he could not see the eastern hills, lost in smoke. He thought about his trees. If they went, he would never go back there, he would not be able to bear that sight. Smoke, he needed a smoke, he would always need a smoke. Weber would always be a pain, his purity a living reprimand, but he would worry and lose sleep, do a good job. Dove was another matter. Too clever, too cocky, not enough dead seen.

Villani thought about the dead he had seen. He remembered them all. Bodies in Housing Commission flats, in low brown brick-veneer units, in puked alleys, stained driveways, car boots, the dead stuffed into culverts, drains, sunk in dams, rivers, creeks, canals, buried under houses, thrown down mineshafts, entombed in walls, embalmed in concrete, people shot, stabbed, strangled, brained, crushed, poisoned, drowned, electrocuted, asphyxiated, starved, skewered, hacked, pushed from buildings, tossed from bridges. There could be no unstaining, no uninstalling, he was marked by seeing these dead as his father was marked by the killing he had done, the killing he had seen.

Villani said, ‘Tell Mr Searle we want her on all channels tonight, hair up, hair down, a women found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building in Docklands.’

‘Is that like being murdered?’ said Dove. ‘Is murdered a word that can be used?’

‘That’s it, Detective Weber. Detective Dove, a minute.’

Weber left. Villani gazed at Dove, blinked, gazed, didn’t move his head, his hands were in his lap. Dove blinked, moved his head back and forth, wouldn’t look away, blinked, touched an ear.

‘Understand that I don’t like a smartarse,’ said Villani. ‘You’re only here because when they offered you around trying to get rid of you, I took you on. Now all you’ve got going for you is you got shot. The sympathy vote.’

‘Haven’t exactly had much of a chance,’ said Dove.

‘This is your chance,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t stuff it up. Tell Manton we don’t get everything today, staff names, CVs, who
came and went, we will say some very nasty things about the Prosilio building. And we want that Orion guest list too.’

He did paperwork, read the case notes, wrote instructions, gave instructions, spoke to squad leaders. Things were in hand, the day ticked by. At 5.40pm, he left, bought Chinese on the way, reached the empty house in time for the television news. They showed her face. The resemblance to Lizzie was strong, he hadn’t imagined it. Even in death, she was lovely, serious, but she looked no more dead than if it were her passport photograph.

No mention that she was found broken-necked. No mention of the Prosilio building. Just an unidentified young woman. He changed channels, caught the item on Ten. The same.

He rang four numbers, he could not find Searle or anyone else to rage at, left a short message for Dove.

He was watching the 7pm ABC news when Dove rang.

‘Before you say anything,’ said Villani, ‘who decided no broken neck, not found at any particular place?’

‘Not us, boss. I used your words. A young woman found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building.’

The woman on screen. Hair down.

…police are appealing for information about the identity of this young woman. She is Caucasian, brown hair, in her late teens and would not have been seen for several days…

New image. Her hair was up.

…please contact Crime Stoppers on…

‘Searle will turn in the wind for this,’ said Villani. ‘Anything comes in, let me know.’

‘Is that any time, night and day?’ said Dove.

‘When you make a bad call, I’ll tell you. It’s a sudden-death thing.’

Saturday night. Once high point of the week. He showered, found crumpled shorts, opened a beer, went shirtless into the hot night. He took a piss on the former vegetable strip along the fence, dead hard-baked soil, heard voices, laughter from two sides. A splash, splashes. How had he missed a pool going in next door?

He sat in a deckchair on the back terrace, drank another beer,
ate cold Chinese. It wasn’t bad, possibly better cold than hot, hot was less than wonderful. He registered the rough brick paving underfoot, laid by another him and another Joe Cashin in another age. It took a weekend.

Sudden craving for red wine. He found a bottle, the second last one in the case.

In the kitchen, the corkscrew in hand, his mobile on the benchtop sang.

‘Is this a good time?’ said Dove.

‘Speak,’ said Villani.

‘Crime Stoppers call from a woman in Box Hill. I just talked to her.’

‘So?’

‘She’s pretty sure she saw our girl at a truck stop on the Hume about two months ago, sixteenth of December, about 9pm. This side of Wangaratta.’

‘Saw her how?’

‘In the toilets. There was a man waiting outside for her and they spoke in a foreign language. Not Italian, French or Spanish, she reckons, she’s been there. Went to a new Holden SV, black or dark green. Another man was driving. She says there might have been someone else in the back seat.’

‘Rego?’

‘No.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘Well, HSV, that’s a muscle car, only driven by men with big balls,’ said Dove. ‘Web’s asking our traffic and New South if they had an offender on the day.’

‘That’s not stupid. I’m off to sleep soon, looking forward to it like a first root. Tomorrow I’m going up country. You don’t get me the first time, keep trying. Reception’s rough up there.’

‘I’ll just keep bombing it to Snake,’ said Dove.

‘Quick learner,’ said Villani. ‘You’re a bright young man.’

He sat outside, drank wine, it seemed to be getting hotter. He showered again, went outside and rang Bob Villani. It rang out.

VILLANI ROSE in the dark and stifling house, stood in the shower, dressed, took his canvas bag and left. The world was spent, only the desperate were on the streets. On the ramp before the exit, a tall black man, head shaven, was walking, behind him a shorter person, hidden in grey garments.

In the mirror, Villani saw she had only a slit through which to see the world.

It took three hours, the country drying out, the last stretch up the long yellow hills, paddocks skun, the livestock skinny, handfed.

…today is a day of total fire ban. Four fires are still burning out of control in the high country around Paxton and the town of Morpeth has been evacuated. Firefighters fear the blazes will join into a sixty-kilometre fire front…

From a cafe called Terroir in the last town before Selborne, Villani bought poached chicken breasts, a loaf of sourdough, a lettuce and a container of mayonnaise. He asked for the bread to be sliced.

‘If you wish,’ said the man, too old for his tipped, gelled hair, silver nostril stud. ‘You realise it won’t keep as well.’

‘I have no long-term plans for it,’ said Villani. ‘I propose to eat it within weeks.’

The man tilted his head, interested. ‘You local?’

Passing through Selborne, he looked for changes, it was his
town, any alteration or addition caught his eye. And then the last winding stretch, the gate. Villani got out, did the lift and drag, twice, he drove down the driveway and parked beneath the elm. He had climbed this tree a hundred times, it was not looking good.

Out of the vehicle, he stretched, tested his knees, looked at the house. His father came around the corner, something different about his walk, the way he held himself.

Nodding, nothing said, they shook, soft hands, they were beyond gripping. Having touched like boxers, they could get on with it.

‘Grass’s a bit fucking much,’ said Villani. ‘Serious fire hazard.’

‘Gets this far, you’re buggered anyway,’ said Bob.

‘That’s not what the CFA manual says.’

‘They know fuckall, they start the fires. Lukie’s coming, staying tonight.’

‘Thrilling news. When d’you last see him?’

‘He’s busy.’

‘When?’

‘Haven’t seen your lot for a while. Bloody years.’

‘Kids,’ said Villani. ‘You know.’

‘No, never worked out kids.’

‘Well, lack of effort could be involved.’

His father never asked about Laurie and she never asked about him. From the start, she and Bob behaved like dogs who’d had a bad fight, shifty eyes, didn’t kiss, had nothing to say to each other.

‘Eaten?’

‘Yeah. Brought us lunch.’ ‘Cup of tea?’

‘Might do some mowing first. Get this stuff down.’

‘Can’t mow. Total fire ban day.’

‘Leaving it’s a bigger risk than the mower.’

‘Gordie’ll do it.’

‘Not sure I want to trust my inheritance to Gordie coming around one day.’

‘Who made you the prince? I’ll leave the place to Luke.’

You did not want to take Bob seriously, he could take and give, he could dissolve everything you thought solid.

Villani got the Victa out of the garage, fuelled it, pushed it around to the front. He opened the throttle and tried to pull the cord. It wouldn’t move. He upended the machine, tried to move the blade, brushed his knuckles, quick blood. He went to the woodpile, chose a length, came back and hit the blade, the third blow shifted it.

‘First resort,’ said his father. ‘Brute force.’

‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Learned from you.’

He righted the mower, pressed the nipple a few times, it was covered in grease and dirt. He pulled the cord. The motor plopped. He tried again. Again. Again, a wire of pain up his arm, into his shoulder.

‘Not getting juice,’ said his father. ‘More tit.’

‘Filthy, this machine. What happened to never put a tool away dirty, that’s what you always said.’

‘Dust,’ said his father. ‘Whole fucking Mallee’s blowing over here.’

Villani thumbed the plunger until he smelled fuel, stood up and pulled the cord: a piston puff, he tried again, the engine puffed twice, he gave another rip. A roar, dust, lapwings rose from the grass. He trimmed the throttle, pushed the mower down to the northern corner of the house block and began.

On the second tank, he saw Bob Villani wave. They sat on the gap-planked verandah and drank tea. The dog, yellow of hair and eye, lay with his long snout on his master’s boot.

For another half-hour, he pushed the machine. The dust he raised mingled with petrol fumes and stuck to his skin, a headache began. It was over thirty, wind gone, nothing stirring, a hot, dead world smelling of smoke. On the long east-west run, itching, dust in his eyes, sticking to his face, he could look at the blue-grey mountain, the treeless dark of the upper slope. It appeared close but it was an hour away, the country was deeply folded.