Truth (18 page)

‘With shit like this,’ said Colby, ‘you would say the sensible go is call the Soggies, they remove the back wall, simultaneously doing their rope trick, what’s it called?’

‘Rappelling.’

‘Yes, that crap. They grab them, excellent, Oakleigh massacre, men held. If they kill the targets, right pricks, wrong pricks, it’s their fault, you walk away blaming gun-crazy gymrats.’

‘Over the years,’ said Villani, ‘I’ve gained the impression Homicide’s business is catching people who’ve killed other people. Putting them on trial.’

Colby put his hands behind his neck, rolled his head on the thick trunk, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Right, well, there’s Homicide’s saintly business and then there’s your career,’ he said. ‘Mr Barry this morning, 6.45am, I’m just back from my twenty-k run, you understand. Feeling perky. He says Gillam rang him and expressed his happiness about Homicide. And guess who rang fucking Gillam?’

‘Yes?’

‘To be clear here,’ said Colby, ‘your thinking was, we’ll just sit and watch, the whole thing will open like a flower?’

Villani said, ‘You know what my thinking is, boss. They should worry about who gave up Kidd and his mate. That’s what they have to worry about.’

‘It’s you I’m worrying about,’ said Colby. ‘Sucked in by this high-tech crap, Crucible bullshit. Ten million hours of fucking phone taps, you can sit there watching exciting vision of arseholes in cars, scratching their balls, doesn’t matter that it adds up to a pint of warm piss.’

Villani had nothing to say because to some extent it was true. The new world of surveillance was intoxicating, seeing the city from on high, zooming in on alleys and back yards, following pursuits as they happened.

‘And at the end of it,’ said Colby, ‘we say fuck to the high-tech, we go jumping over walls and running after a certified ex-SOG psycho who’s quite happy to shoot cops. Fucking pig-stupid or what?’

Eyes locked.

Villani said, ‘I’m sorry. Had some really bad examples to follow. Dumb turkeys jumped on moving cars.’

Colby’s phone murmured. He agreed with the caller five or six times, deferential, hard gaze always on Villani, marbles expressed more meaning. He said goodbye, put the receiver down.

‘There’s a feeling you should be less visible on Oakleigh, Metallic, for a while,’ he said.

‘Whose feeling is that?’

‘Just accept it.’

‘I’m guilty of something, am I? Fuck that.’

Colby pulled an ear, a dried apricot. ‘Think, son. Strategise. We are in a delicate phase. The present lot are now dying fish, Orong’s eyes are glassing over. But they’re still hoping, still paranoid about bad news. On the other side, Mrs Rottweiler Mellish’s got her whole kennel out sniffing for damaging shit.’

He gazed at Villani. ‘You, for example, are damaging shit.’

‘Damaged,’ said Villani.

‘Yes. Both. Second, Gillam’s going to the feds, heaven help the fuckwits, average IQ drops even lower. Mr Barry steps up, acting chief commissioner. I hear that. But not until after the election. So the mick’s got to suck both sides of the street.’

‘I’m slower than usual,’ said Villani.

‘Why’s Barry holding your dick, taking you to meet the glitterati?’

‘Tell me, boss,’ he said.

Colby held up his hands, meshed fingers short and blunt, set like a cactus. In the squad offices, Villani once saw him pick up an armed robber and throw him across a desk into the wall. An old calendar fell down, draped itself over the man’s head.

‘The farmer’s wife wants O’Barry for Pope,’ Colby said. ‘Cleanskin, untainted by the culture. But the boyo himself, he knows it’s a moon landing. The twat’s walking around in the big boots, fucking fishbowl on his head. Knows zero plus buggerall about the place he’s in. At. On. Whatever.’

‘Yes?’ said Villani.

‘So he wants a mate,’ said Colby. ‘He badly needs a mate. Smart person done the shit from the street up, done all the work, fired upon by the scum, a brave and loyal member, no one has a bad word.’

‘Heard about Quirk?’ said Villani.

‘Hear everything,’ said Colby. ‘Anyway, Barry’s the fat kid sucks up to the tough boy. Buys him the Mars Bars.’

‘Me?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘He’s got a tough boy. He’s got you.’

‘No, no, mate, he can’t trust me.’

Villani shook his head, he had no idea how this worked, he didn’t care much either, partly lack of sleep, partly the stupidity of going to the gym. He could feel every punch Les had landed.

‘I’m slow here,’ he said.

‘Well, you, it worked, you’d go straight to crime commissioner,’ said Colby.

‘Me?’ This could not be right.

‘You.’

‘No. Anybody ever done a jump like that before?’

‘Look around, son. Just traffic deadshits, long-lasting legacy of our lady Fatima. You now stick out like a hardie in the convent showers. Proper cop.’

‘And you?’

‘Well, roll the dice,’ said Colby. ‘I’m happy to take a package. Anyway, the mick wants you below the parapet for a while. Racing with cover.’

‘And Kidd?’

‘I’ve heard the tape. There’s nothing there.’

‘He was going nowhere before he got that call,’ said Villani. ‘Then he takes another one on his auntie’s mobile and they’re off. And not in the Prado.’

‘Pure fucking supposition. Anyway, assuming he was dropped, there’s no way we can find the dog. Yes?’

‘We can try.’

Colby blew like a horse. ‘Mate, mate, don’t dial-a-turd here, the job leaks from the minister to the fucking typists. Who’d you give the name to first? Mr Barry?’

‘My recollection, yes,’ said Villani.

‘In that case, my advice is forget it. What we want is ballistics matching Oakleigh to the dead blokes. Then we can close the door on this shit. Be grateful people are looking out for you.’

Villani did not feel grateful. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.

‘Yeah. Searle’s the worry here, he’d like to see me buried. Whole Searle family’d have a wakey. My distinction is, I punched out two Searles in one fight, this cunt’s old man and his uncle, two weaker dogs you never saw. Know that?’

‘Yes, boss.’

Everyone in the job knew it, it was legend. From never speaking of it, Colby had now told the story five or six times in the last year. Not a good sign.

‘Collingwood, of course,’ said Colby. ‘Fucking over the slopes, that was the Searle speciality. Kings of Richmond, lords of Saturn Bay, there even the mozzies obey them and the tradies build their houses out of stuff stolen off building sites.’ He coughed. ‘I gather you’ve carried on Singleton’s policy of treating Searle like dogshit.’

‘He is dogshit.’

‘No argument on facts, your honour. The point is I hear the squatter’s wife’s told the vermin he’s her pick for media boss. Subject to performance. You with me?’

‘Boss.’

Pointing. ‘What’s that red?’

‘Old bloke hit me,’ said Villani.

Colby blinked at him. ‘Not still doing that shit?’

Villani shrugged.

‘Why don’t you go for a fucking walk in King Street? People will hit you for nothing.’

HE TOOK his seat, clear desk, looked at the big room outside. It was more than two years since he’d taken charge, the day of Singo’s stroke. Even if you thought you didn’t deserve to be the boss, it grew on you. After a while you didn’t think anyone else could do it better.

Kiely came out, touched his oiled hair, walked around the room, people ignored him, came to Villani’s door.

‘Instructions?’ he said.

Villani said, ‘Found out who sold Kidd yet?’

‘I’d like to say,’ said Kiely, a little liplick. ‘I want it on record that I think this squad should be managed in a professional manner. Not like a bad restaurant where the manager also wants to do the cooking.’

He would have to die. Villani felt the pressure in his head, considered letting go, saying,
Take over, I’ve got flu coming on
, going home, the old couch in the back room, sleep, sleep.

The old couch was long gone. And it wasn’t his home anymore.

‘Is that walking away from your fuck-ups?’ he said.

Kiely’s eyes wide. ‘Excuse me, nothing last night was my responsibility.’

‘I mentioned the full weight of the surveillance state, didn’t I? No laser, no tags, we let the prick run out of his back door, fire at
me and Winter and then bloody vanish. Want more?’

‘All irrelevant to the outcome. Which wouldn’t have been the outcome if my advice hadn’t been sneered at. That’s on record, my word.’

‘What record?’

‘Memos to command.’

‘Ah, the Kiwi way,’ said Villani. ‘Here, that’s called being a dog.’

Kiely tried the Singo look. Villani said, ‘Staring at me?’

‘Moving on, it’s also my opinion that Weber should take over the Prosilio matter.’

‘What’s wrong with Dove?’

‘Not ready for responsibility. Shown that, hasn’t he?’

‘Told him that?’

‘Not yet.’

Villani looked, saw Dove waiting, bony figure sitting on a desk edge, shoulders slack, head down, light reflected on his scalp.

‘Jesus, mate,’ he said. ‘He took a bullet. These days they take a love-tap, they go on sick leave, stress leave, next it’s full disability for life. But this bloke actually comes out of hospital, he reports for duty. Give him a fucking break, will you?’

Kiely shrugged, blinked. ‘Well, made myself plain. That’s my responsibility.’

‘Metallic. Tell the ballistics pricks we want a yes or no on the Ford guns and Oakleigh in hours.’ Impassive, Kiely left.

Villani found Dove’s gaze, nodded. Dove crossed the room, file in hands, stood.

‘Nobody told me this bloke Kidd’s name,’ he said. ‘Am I on some blacklist?’

‘Remarkably bad time to fuck with me, son,’ Villani said, he held his iron face.

‘Sorry, boss,’ said Dove. ‘Alibani? Prosilio…’

‘I remember,’ said Villani. ‘I’m paid to remember.’

‘Right. Well, in looking over the family unto the thirteenth cousins, I find that he owns a house in Melbourne. Preston.’

‘It’s him?’

‘Well, the address for rates is an accountant in Sydney. He says Alibani has been gone for years, hasn’t heard from him, but he left money to pay the rates on three properties. Rates and other bills, they come to the bean counter.’

Villani thought about his pledge to stop interfering, stop taking charge. ‘Get a car,’ he said.

THE SKY was old bottle glass, smoke in the air. Villani slumped in the passenger seat, another air-conditioner that didn’t work, the car smelled of cigarette smoke and chemical aftershaves, deodorants.

They drove up the spine of the clogged city, Dove cautious, bullied by reckless Asian taxi-drivers, black BMWs, Audis, drivers quick to hoot, force an entry.

When he looked up, they were in Russell Street.

That long-ago day, he came out of the old stone magistrates’ court, he was there to give evidence, it wasn’t going to happen until after lunch, half a day wasted, the woman was genetically programmed to steal stuff, you might as well imprison dolphins for leaping out of the sea. The next day was Good Friday, he was off, thinking about going surfing, hungry, he was waiting to cross to the Russell Street station, standing on the La Trobe corner. You could get a decent ham and cheese sandwich from the canteen, there was a woman cop crossing the road.

The world went orange, a massive impact knocked him over, his head hit the tarmac, something landed on his chest, he grasped it in both hands, mind blank, registered more explosions, people screaming. He got up, vision blurred, no idea of what had happened, his nasal passages were full of burnt rubber and hot
dust. He focused on what he was holding. A hubcap, folded, like a pastie.

He sat down, feet in the gutter, head on his knees, feeling tired, unsure of mind, have a little rest. Then the thought rose in him:

You’re a policeman. Get up. Do something.

He got up, not at all steady, he brushed himself, there were dark marks on his shirt, he nodded at them and stepped into the street.

The policewoman he saw crossing the road died of burns. She was about his age, he knew her by sight. Much later, he worked with cops who knew the men sentenced to life for killing her, for injuring all the others, they were armed robbers, they hated cops, turning a lifted Holden into a gelignite bomb was a very funny thing to do, an outlaw thing.

Livin on the wild side, mate, stick it up their fucken arses, park it outside the fucken front door, how’s that? Cop fucken HQ. Middle of the fucken day, all those fat cunts in there talking on the radio to other cop cunts, Read you, car fucken fifty-one, over and out, then it’s fucken KABANG!!!

They could have murdered any number of people, just luck a group of cops wasn’t passing, the SOGs from around the corner, cops coming out of the station. Him. That day he grew up, he realised just what it meant to put on the uniform.

Lizzie.

A teenage druggy who didn’t give a shit about her family.

Laurie’s family were nothing to write home about. Her old man, Graham, big-nosed Graham, he worked for Telecom all his life, not so much a job as an explanation for being away from home in daylight. Her mother was pretty, a self-taught bookkeeper for a Fitzroy leathergoods factory that went under in the nineties. She did a lot of overtime, Graham often said that, fake smile. Villani took it to mean she’d been fucking the boss.

Whose fault was Lizzie?

After Rachel Bourke, Tony’s friend’s mother, things went badly sour. He met her when he went to watch Tony play hockey, she was a mistake but she’d stalked him, he hadn’t looked for it, didn’t cross the street for it. Anyway, it was weeks, six tops, four or five fucks,
that was it. Laurie knew, she had no evidence but she knew, women knew, she read it in his body, his voice.

‘Not exactly sure where we are, boss,’ said Dove. ‘The GPS isn’t working.’

Villani looked around. They were in Plenty Road. ‘Jesus, how’d you get here?’

‘A bit new to me, this part.’

‘Cops don’t get lost,’ said Villani. ‘They study Melways at night, they study it before they get in the car. Don’t need a degree to learn the Melways. No wonder the feds use a GPS to find their dicks.’