Truth (9 page)

‘What traces?’

‘Lipstick on cigarette butts in the sitting room.’

‘Two women,’ said Villani. ‘Different scents in the bedrooms.’

Birkerts raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’

‘Yeah. Phones?’

‘Not a one, should have said that.’

Birkerts touched his chest, felt for his mobile, went outside.

Villani tasted the coffee, passable, some ashy sweetness. The place was unreliable, baristas came and went, sacked, poached, some did a geographical, moved to the country in the childish hope that a change of scene, the clean air, would help them kick their drug habits. He looked up and met the eyes of the woman, a second, he looked away. Once he had exchanged looks with a handsome, sharp-faced woman here, that was in the days of big shoulders. Her name proved to be Clem, an interior designer, the man on the till gave him her business card when he was paying.

‘She said to give it to you,’ he said.

Birkerts came back, spoke behind fingers. ‘Three vehicles in the street registered to the Ribbos’ dud names. Also two stolens, can’t be stupid enough to park a stolen car in your own street.’

‘You’re not dealing with criminal masterminds here,’ said Villani. ‘You’re dealing with fuckheads. We’ll probably read the full story by Tony fucking Ruskin in the
Age
tomorrow, he’ll give us all the details, we look like complete twats once again.’

His mobile pulsed. He wasn’t going outside, it was too hot out there.

‘Interrupting anything?’ Cashin.

‘Got a cold?’ said Villani. ‘Like a man with tampons up his nose.’

‘Clearing my throat, first words of the day,’ said Cashin.

‘Of course. Mostly use sign language down there on the blue-balls coast. The two fingers, the kick, the fist. How’s the weather?’

‘We have wind today,’ said Cashin. ‘We have a great deal of wind.’

‘And still the place sustains life. Forms of life. Amazing.’

‘I saw Birk on television. What’s this torture stuff?’

‘Two blokes tied to pillars. Noses gone, teeth smashed, tackle cut off, hair burnt. Also stabbed and shot.’

Silence. ‘Sarris,’ said Cashin.

‘In the style of Sarris, yeah.’

‘It’s him.’

‘Plenty of torturers around, mate. But I’ll send what we’ve got. Might spark something in a fucking obsessive like you. Semi-retired obsessive.’

‘Fax it home if it’s after six.’

‘Be dark down there by then. Keeping warm? Is it true you should never wash your woollen longjohns? Loses the body oils?’

‘It’s summer here,’ said Cashin. ‘We are wearing shortjohns.’

‘I thought you went spring-autumn direct? Well, give the dogs a few kicks for me. Little kicks. Affectionate kicks.’

‘I was thinking about Bob just now. The heat’s getting close.’

‘He says he hasn’t noticed anything unusual,’ said Villani.

‘That’d be right. How’s Dove travelling?’

The grey-eyed woman was still looking at him. Villani gave her the measured blink, he could not stop himself, always the teenager panting for his first screw. Ashamed, he looked away.

‘Made a full recovery,’ he said. ‘Gives cheek. Wants to see my medical records. Check if I’m fit to work. So you’re now the only cripple on staff.’

‘I’m not on staff, Steve.’

‘Son,’ said Villani, ‘you’re on staff till I say you’re not. Currently on loan to police the sheepshaggers. Talk soon.’

Birkerts said, ‘Cashin?’

Villani nodded.

‘Tragic,’ said Birkerts. ‘Sarris is dead or he’s on his arsebone in the Bekaa Valley, snorting Cloud Nine. Rai didn’t invent torture. A bloke in Brissie, he’s a nothing, subsistence dealer, they flog him with barbwire and then they put him on a massive gas barbie. The Supreme Ozzie Partymaster, six turbo wok burners.’

‘Less Queensland information, please,’ said Villani. ‘Brief Kiely, will you? He’s unhappy. Feels neglected.’

On the way out, he avoided looking at the woman. What was the point?

Near the car, his phone rang. Barry.

‘Listen, boyo, I should have said when we were chatting earlier, there’s a little function this evening. I want you to take a break, hour or so, show yourself in public. Good for you.’

‘Not the best time, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Bit on, yeah.’

Silence. ‘Well, you make your own luck in this life, don’t you, inspector?’ said Barry. ‘And a good commander knows when to delegate. I’ll say no more.’

Villani sidestepped two teenagers, a skinny ginger, a bow-legged fat wearing sunnies, neither walking straight, the skinny was moving his hands as if winding something, like wool.

‘But I’ll be there, boss,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Where is that?’

‘Persius. The Hawksmoor Gallery. Six-thirtyish. They’ll have your name.’

‘Right.’

‘Good. Buck’s can probably fix you up with a suit that fits. Respectable tie, et cetera.’

‘I’ll try them,’ said Villani.

DOVE AND Weber in the doorway. Villani nodded, they entered. Dove sat on a filing cabinet, Weber stood like a soldier.

‘Go,’ said Villani.

‘First,’ said Dove, ‘this Alibani on the Hume, he flew to Greece two years ago, no re-entry. Dead end there.’

‘Unsurprising,’ said Villani. ‘Pinched ID. Well, could be family, the thickheads stick close to home. Get the Alibanis unto the thirteenth cousins, the fucking lot, every name.’

Dove, looking at the back of his left hand, he tickled the skin, he said, ‘Done that, asked for the names.’

‘Don’t make me wait to hear what you’ve done, detective,’ said Villani. ‘Whatever the practice was in the feds.’

A cough, Weber had his notebook open. ‘Boss, the company that owns the Prosilio apartment? Shollonel, registered in Beirut?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Marscay says it’s not obliged to disclose details.’

‘I’ve had it with Marscay,’ said Villani. ‘Okay, let’s be clear. A woman comes into this palace, we don’t know how. Unless she’s got a card, she can’t get to the floor, she can’t get into the apartment. She does, she dies there, maybe it’s accidental, heavy sex. But the place is wiped, her clothes, everything she had, they’re disposed of. Killer or killers leave. No CC vision, no one in the building sees a
fucking thing. As for ID, three days, not a clue except a possible sighting on the Hume, probably crap.’

‘That’s about it,’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’

‘Jesus, we are looking pathetic,’ said Villani.

‘Not a good look,’ said Dove, the rictus smile.

Villani thought about how unsuited Dove was, he should be in some desk job, trading shares on a screen, that would suit him, you couldn’t resent the screen, it didn’t give a shit about your life, your history, your colour, your complexes, the size of your dick.

‘Mr Dove,’ he said, ‘in shorthand, I’m saying I want some progress. Know shorthand?’

‘Is that a disability?’ said Dove. ‘Boss.’

An officer shot in the line of duty. On the cold tiles, a small hole in his front, a fist-sized hole in his back, serious damage inside, the blood flowed, made a pool. And then, just before the curtain fell, it stopped flowing, it clotted.

In the main, cops hurt this badly you never saw again unless you went to visit them in retirement, bloated, semi-drunk, on antidepressants, sleeping pills, wake-up pills, they often took to smoking dope, they had the stupefied look, the wife always angry, shouting at them, at someone on the phone, the fat little dog on the chair, farting.

Eleven weeks, Dove came back to work.

‘I want you to shake Manton and Ulyatt, fucking Marscay,’ said Villani. ‘All details or we guarantee media about non-existent security in millionaires’ building, residents gripped by fear. That kind of shit.’

‘I’m authorised to make that threat?’ Dove said.

‘What threat?’

He remembered the call at Bob’s. ‘What’s the security company called?’

‘Stilicho.’

‘Is that Max Hendry’s son running it?’

‘Yes, Hugh,’ said Dove. ‘I forgot to say. Blackwatch owns half.’

‘What’s Blackwatch want with another security company?’

‘Stilicho’s bought this Israeli technology, puts it all together—secure entry, the ID stuff, iris scanning, fingerprints, facial recognition, suspicious behaviour, body language, all the casino cameras. We’re talking hundreds of inputs. Cameras, ID entries, door contacts, smartcard readers, all kinds of electronic stuff. They say it’s a first. Stilicho’s even trying to get access to the crimes database, photos and photofits, prints, records, the lot.’

‘Why?’

‘Well, preemptive strike. Your face’s in the base, you show up somewhere Stilicho’s doing the security, that’s just come in the door, get into a lift, walk down a corridor, you’re on camera. The technology recognises you, red light goes on somewhere, you are stopped, tracked, barred, whatever. Shot.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘Talked to people. Boss.’

Villani nodded, acknowledged the reference, did not show amusement. ‘Interesting. Do away with cops. I can understand why the system doesn’t work but this lost-all-vision shit, no, I’m unhappy. Make sure that message gets to Mr Hugh Bloody Hendry.’

‘Tried that, boss. Repeatedly.’

Angela from the door. ‘Your mate. The old days. Says it’s urgent.’

Dove left, he took the call. Afterwards, he thought about Colby’s advice. There was no upside to Oakleigh. It was just wading into a swamp. What did it matter if homicides went to some other outfit, they had enough dead people. He sent for Birkerts.

‘I’m leaning to the view that Oakleigh should go to Crucible,’ Villani said. ‘Let’s stick to women drown their babies, men knife their wives, that’s our comfort level.’

‘Well excuse me, we have…’

‘Drugs,’ Villani said. ‘This is drugs, it’s like spit, no natural end. You never nail anyone who matters, never have the final day in court.’

Birkerts’ head inclined to the window. ‘Well, just turn it over before we have a chance, I mean…’

‘Not running a democracy,’ said Villani.

‘You can’t run a democracy, that’s the thing about democracies, they…’

‘Tell Angela to ask Mr Kiely to step in, will you?’

Villani looked away until Birkerts had left, two fingertips in the hollow of his throat, feeling the pulse, before a fight it was a way to steady yourself, get your breathing right.

‘Inspector,’ said Kiely, face stiff.

‘Take the media gig this afternoon?’

‘Well, yes, certainly. Yes.’

‘Give them the waffle. Can’t name Ribarics. On the torture, it’s out there, so the line is horrific and so on. We’re shocked. Scumbags’ inhumanity to other filth. With me?’

‘Urge people to come forward?’

‘Mate, absolutely. In large numbers.’

Kiely smiled, uneasy.

‘Anyway, the communication expert will guide you,’ said Villani. ‘Ms Cathy Wynn. Just don’t embed her.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing. Joke.’

‘Your jokes,’ said Kiely, ‘are either very crude or very obscure.’

‘Let me think about that, will you?’

‘It’ll probably take you a while.’

‘That’s cheeky for a subordinate,’ said Villani.

‘THE OLD DAYS,’ said Vickery. ‘My fuck, some good ones, right?’

They drank, set glasses on the counter cloth. The bar was in the basement of an office block, smell of pissed-on camphor balls, nylon carpet outgassing, the fears of failed salesmen.

‘Think about them?’ said Vickery.

‘Oh, yeah. The good times.’

Villani often thought about the rushes, about being young, unbreakable, stupid. He never thought about them as the good times.

‘We missed you,’ said Vickery. ‘Always miss a steady bloke. Reliable bloke. Bloke likes a joke.’

Vickery and a cop called Gary Plaice almost killed a half-arsed little robber called Ivanovich, they said he broke free, tripped and fell down a flight of stairs.

‘The lesson the scum can draw from this,’ said the boss, Matt Cameron, ‘is that you don’t get between Vick and a hard Plaice.’

Villani knew what Vickery was saying. ‘Different jokes now,’ he said.

‘Oakleigh, got a joke there. Good fucking riddance. Listen, won’t hold you. The reason is, we heard a story.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Um.’ Vickery’s tongue bulged his upper lip, did a few wipes over his gums. ‘Lovett carked it, hear that? Lung cancer.’

‘I heard that,’ Villani said. He had felt no loss at the news, every day dawned brighter without Alan Arthur Lovett.

‘Didn’t break down myself neither,’ said Vickery. ‘But he’s on a fucking video, coughing and spitting, the twat says we fitted the little Quirk bastard.’

‘Why would he say that?’ said Villani.

Vickery gave him the long look. ‘Yeah, well, the drugs fuck with your brain, my brother-in-law, another prick, he came up with all kinds of shit, incest, you name it. It’s the Super K.’

‘When was it made?’

‘What?’

‘The tape?’

‘Dunno. What’s it matter?’

‘Could matter a lot.’

Vickery turned his back to the bar, glass in hand, looked around the dungeon. ‘Anyway, the problem here’s the wife, bloody Grace’s found God, fucking never-never-land shit and she’s sent the DPP the tape.’

Down the bar a blade-faced man coughed and coughed, could not stop coughing, it was painful to hear, he bent his head, ejected something into an expectant palm.

‘Fucked,’ said Vickery. ‘Another cunt going Lovett’s way. My guy says they’re talking second inquest. And there’s people very keen to see us go down. So we need to consider taking steps.’

He looked into his glass. ‘Coming man like you, you can raise this in the right places.’

‘Don’t know about that,’ said Villani.

Vickery turned to be at a right angle to Villani, he was the same height, heavier, torso sausaged in cold blue polyester.

‘Mate, mate,’ he said. ‘Clarity here. Courtesy this mad prick we can go down as killers, perjurers, eternal disgrace to the fucking force.’

In dreams, Villani always saw the fire escape, the kitchen’s grey
vinyl tiles, dirty, peeling, the blood, on the ceiling, on the walls, on the windowpanes, lying on the carpet like drops of scarlet syrup. He never saw Greg Quirk’s face, never the blown-away throat, he never saw the face of the dying man.