Roll With It (20 page)

‘If you didn’t look like such shit, I might actually believe you.’

‘Ask Cecy,’ Laver said.

‘See, that statement worries me all on its own. What are you getting Cecy involved with?’

‘I believe the technical term is “police work”, which I know is generally frowned upon around here. All I want is to run some profiles.’

Slattery leaned forward. ‘You know you don’t have privileges. To anything at St Kilda Road.’

‘What if Cecy asked?’

‘I want Cecy out of this.’

‘Jesus, Slatts. What language am I speaking? Klingon? This is a straight police matter.’

Slattery gazed at him. ‘I’ll consider it. But I don’t want Cecy getting dragged into whatever shit you have going on.’

‘Man, if you have something to say, just say it, Slatts.’

Slatts almost smiled, leaned back. ‘You want to go home? You look terrible.’

‘Nope, ready for duty, even if a little dusty. Never once missed a day because of a hangover. And, yes, there have been hangovers. Biblical hangovers.’

‘An old-time cop.’ Slattery grinned.

‘Tell the kids; even Standish, when he’s up and about. I need their respect for something.’

***

Laver was onto his third Gatorade, pondering the enzymes or whatever those things are in sport drinks that are supposed to rehydrate you.

He and Constable Aimee Ratten had cruised through the city and out the other side, riding to the Shrine and patrolling the Tan, Melbourne’s favourite inner-city running track – which was no hardship for Laver, as a parade of women in lycra jogged past.

They were taking their Gatorade break on St Kilda Road, close enough to police headquarters that Laver could see cops coming and going, feeling pangs of something resembling homesickness, as well as anger that he was on the outside looking in. Now watching a silver Statesman pull up out front, so that Laver saw a slim man with thinning red hair climb out of the back seat in an impeccable navy-blue suit, talking on a mobile phone.

‘Laver?’ Ratten asked, but he was already moving across St Kilda Road, walking fast to get out of the way of a tram ding ding dinging as it rushed towards him. Giving the driver the bird but making it alive to the footpath outside Police Headquarters, Laver catching up to the man at the top of the stairs, just before the revolving door.

Strickland studied Laver in his lycra uniform, raising an eyebrow but not attempting to go through the door. He finished his call and carefully pressed the red ‘hang up’ button before putting the phone in an inside pocket of his suit coat.

‘Senior Constable Laver. What a pleasant surprise. The outdoorsy life looks as though it’s agreeing with you.’

‘Why am I in Siberia, Strickland?’

Strickland sighed. ‘It’s extremely juvenile to ignore titles, Senior Constable. You don’t do yourself any favours.’

‘Excuse me for being juvenile, Mr Strickland.’

‘Actually, in police terms, I am by far your superior, Senior Constable.’

‘Good for you. I’m more interested in real life, and anyway my understanding is that you’re not a policeman anymore, in any capacity, certainly to go by your actions lately.’

‘And what exactly does that mean, Senior Constable?’

‘Freezing me out, for starters. Smells much more like a politician at work than a policeman.’

‘You insolent prick. I’ve done more than my share of years in uniform and on the streets.’

‘Well, those years certainly didn’t scar you with anything resembling empathy for working cops.’

Strickland turned towards the revolving door. ‘As lovely to see you as I would have expected, Constable.’

‘You haven’t answered my question, Mr Strickland, sir. Why would you possibly have invoked Siberia on me?’

Strickland swung back to face him. ‘Because you’re the subject of a serious police inquiry into a fatal shooting. I would have thought that was reasonably obvious for an officer of your experience.’

‘My experience doesn’t seem to carry much stock when I report potentially dangerous perpetrators in my current status.’

‘Because you’re in Siberia,’ Strickland smiled pleasantly. Laver wanted to punch him.

But didn’t. Instead he said, ‘So if I was to tell you that I believe a major crime might be in the works?’

‘And what sort of major crime would that be, Constable?’

Shit, Laver thought, considering the evidence he actually had, now it came down to it: two dodgy guys in a café giving him dead-eye stares. He hadn’t actually thought about what they might be up to, beyond being generic criminals.

Strickland was waiting, so he said, ‘Drugs, sir. I think there’s a good chance a major drug deal is going down.’

‘Then I’d say the government and the ombudsman’s office share full confidence that our highly accomplished and professional serving police officers – who are not under investigation for reckless shootings – will discover any such deal and catch those responsible.’

‘Other officers can’t be told about it because I’m in Siberia.’

‘Well, it is unfortunate that you appear to be the only source and you don’t currently exist.’

‘Because you seem to be the one insisting on it. Shouldn’t it be my direct superior, Assistant Commissioner Broadbent, who tells other officers whether to cooperate or not?’

Strickland frowned, either in annoyance or anger – Laver couldn’t tell. His voice remained infuriatingly level.

‘You seem to have a rare ability to look for divisions within the Force, Laver. We’re all actually in this together. Remember? Good guys versus bad guys. Maybe Assistant Commissioner Broadbent hasn’t become involved because he liked and respected you and you’re fast becoming an embarrassment to him.’

Laver didn’t miss the past tense in ‘liked’ and ‘respected’.

‘So, just to help a constable along, are you representing the good guys or the bad guys by being the government PR spinner in all this and by freezing me out?’

‘Being a smart-arse isn’t exactly helpful to your situation, Senior Constable.’ Strickland leaned in close, and now a grade of steel found its way into the civility of his voice. ‘You’re on ice so thin that a single snowflake might cause a crack. I’d worry less about who put you in Siberia and worry more about whether you’ll ever get out. Your apparent refusal to actually keep your head down and ride your bike is an encouraging start for those who’d like you off the Force.’

‘That would be you.’

Strickland shrugged. ‘I don’t think a trigger-happy cowboy with bad manners would be a great loss to Victoria Police. The government has a wider view than you do from your bike saddle.’

‘Trigger-happy? He shot at me first.’

‘That’s for the inquiry to examine, Senior Constable. And now I’m late for a meeting with the commissioner and his assistants – including your old friend Broadbent, as it happens. I’ll send him your best.’

‘Please do. He certainly doesn’t return my phone calls.’

Strickland gave him that same smug smile Laver desperately wanted to punch and said happily, ‘Well, why would he?’

And walked through the revolving door into headquarters. Leaving Tony Laver outside.

***

Lou felt his presence before she saw him. Heard the bells on the door jangle as she dug around under the desk for a paper bag and somehow just knew. She finally lifted her head and felt her body jump. There he was, hair shaved into a mohawk style now, looming behind the woman with the pram. Lou placing the organic-oatmeal Anzac cookies in the bag and composing her face, handing them to the customer.

Watching him fail to stand back and give more room as the woman struggled to negotiate the pram into reverse and out the door. Now watching him approach, just the counter between them.

‘Louie, Louie,’ he said. That punched-in-the-throat voice. ‘Oh boy. I say. Away I go.’

Lou not saying a word, registering body odour.

‘Stig was right about you,’ he said, looking her slowly up and down. ‘You’re a package.’

‘I don’t think I have anything to say to you.’ Louie involuntarily crossing her arms across her chest, aware of the sinewed muscle in his shoulders, of the tattoos emerging from where the singlet covered his chest. Of the faded tattoos on his arms. Jail tattoos. Of other customers also sneaking worried looks.

‘Why not?’ He looked genuinely surprised. ‘We’re friends of a friend. Isn’t that a good enough reason to share a friendly coffee in Melbourne?’

‘Not when the only time we’ve met you were threatening me.’

‘How was I threatening you? I was playing.’

‘Well, you and I have a different idea of the word “play”.’

The tall man grinned at her. ‘I’m not so sure about that, Louie. I reckon we could find some common ground you might enjoy.’

Lou gave him a level look, determined not to show fear, and said, ‘What’s your name again, friend of Stig’s?’

‘You can call me Wildie.’

‘Okay. Then I do have something to say to you, Wildie. Fuck off.’

He laughed and picked a stick of Tasmanian gluten-free liquorice from the open box on the desk. He chomped on it and smirked.

‘Come on, Louie. We could be great friends. Very close. Just like you and your little boyfriend the other day.’

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she said and cursed inwardly the moment the words left her mouth.

‘Really?’ Wildie’s eyebrows shot up in mock surprise. ‘So there’s room for a tall stranger in your life then? Excellent news. But what I’m really wondering is who the non-boyfriend is, if he’s not a boyfriend?’

Lou’s arms were still crossed, tight. She frowned at him but remained silent.

‘Stig’s kind of interested in who his girl is hanging out with, so I’d love to put his mind at rest.’

‘Good for you. And I’m not Stig’s girl.’

‘Stig’s concerned this guy might not be a friend.’

‘If Stig keeps hanging around with you, that would be true of pretty much everybody.’

Wildie laughed again, a genuine laugh, loud as he threw his head back. Customers who hadn’t been staring now stared.

‘That’s good. You’re funny. Stig always said you were funny. I think he mentioned passionate and flexible and tasty as well.’

‘Wildie,’ Lou said sweetly, working hard to keep a tremble out of her voice, ‘fuck off or I’m calling the police.’

Wildie stopped smiling. ‘All I want to know is who the dweeb was.’

‘All I want to know is why you can’t take a hint and use the door.’ Anger replacing fear.

Wildie shrugged. ‘You’re playing this wrong. If you don’t tell me about him, I’m going to have to talk to the non-boyfriend directly.’

Lou didn’t say anything. Wildie pointed a finger at her, like a gun. And fired it.

Lou leaned forward. ‘Wildie. Next time, tell Stig I’d rather talk to the organ-grinder, not the monkey.’

She felt her mouth dry up as his eyes hardened. The rules of engagement had shifted. To somewhere she didn’t know, or like at all.

‘Careful babe,’ he said softly. ‘Being highly fuckable only gets you so many “Get out of jail free” cards.’

And then he was leaving, the Smith Street wildlife in the shop peeling out of his way by instinct. Darwinism has always worked in its truest form on the street.

It took forty-five minutes to ride back to bike-cop HQ. Ratten
was heroic in not pointing out how many times she’d had to wait for her clearly labouring partner to catch up.

It hadn’t helped that, on top of his hangover and his run-in with Strickland, he’d tried five times throughout the morning to contact Marcia. After the two messages to her work phone, on top of a trifecta of voicemail on her mobile, he figured she knew by now that he wanted to grovel.

Laver was hardly stunned to find his work email and phone were both message free; it wasn’t just Marcia giving him the silent treatment. There was no response to his attempts at information from official sources. No calls from mates within the Force. No flowers from Broadbent. Clearly, Strickland hadn’t been moved to a dramatic change of heart by their talk.

Mixing Berocca into a glass of water, he felt Cecy approach and saw her grin spread as she took in his face.

‘Looking sharp, Laver.’

‘Ever heard of respect for a senior officer, OJ?’

‘At this exact moment, we’re ranked the same, so sit and spin,’ she returned. ‘And keep calling me OJ and see what happens to you.’

‘Can’t believe nobody here has taken it and run with it.’ Laver chugged his fizzy drink, grimacing as it burned his throat. ‘The Force isn’t what it used to be.’

‘Thank God. You look like you’re moving slowly today.’

‘Which is a shame because Victoria Police has endless demands for my talents, right?’

‘Man up,’ she shrugged and, with another dazzling smile, was gone.

He was still watching her walk away when his mobile went off. He felt an unexpected flush of shame, as though Marcia had caught him scoping his young colleague’s lycra-clad shape. Glancing at his phone, he realised it wasn’t her number. It was a 9497 prefix. Where the hell was that? Fairfield?

‘Laver.’

‘Umm, Mr Laver? It’s Jake Murphy, from last night.’

***

Stig found a quiet corner of the internet café. He and Wildie drew enough looks without people getting a close look at his web search.