Truth (36 page)

You’re not the doctor, boy, you’re the fucking copper.

Mark.

Mark was Bob’s achievement in life, the proof that his sperm carried cleverness. He saw no wrong in Mark, he would hear no evil about Mark, he exempted Mark from anything Mark didn’t want to do.

He did crossword puzzles with Mark.

Bob never once asked Villani a crossword question. Never.

And then Luke, the bastard by the Darwin whore. The cheeky one, the one who had no fear of his father, demanded affection
from him like a puppy, hung onto him, crawled up his legs into his lap, ate off his plate, found sweets in his pockets, fell asleep on him in an instant, safe, safe and home at last. Bob carried him to his bed like some precious newborn, tucked him in, Villani saw that from the door, the tucks, the kiss.

And then, come Monday, it would be his job to see to the whining little shit.

On his desk, a note from Dove about the Preston excavations:

Young female, dead at least three months. Also remains of male, age forty-plus, pictures of rings on little fingers supplied by forensic suggest Hellhound. Armed Crime say strong possibility is Artie Macphillamy, 43, not seen for 18 months since involved in pub fight with Kenny Hanlon and others.

He rang Dance.

‘I hear you’ve left home,’ said Dance.

‘Where’d you hear that?’

‘The most expensive intelligence-gathering operation in police history at my disposal, where do you think I’d hear it? One of my blokes was in a pub.’

‘That’d be right. Question for you, I want a straight answer.’

‘When did you not? Professional? Personal?’

‘Both.’

‘I find the phone so impersonal,’ said Dance. ‘Take a walk down Bromby Street, I’ll come along in, ah, ten minutes. I take it you’re at work.’

Villani went out, sat on Dove’s desk. He was on the phone, finished the call.

‘What was his name? Birdy?’

‘Maggie,’ said Dove. ‘No phones in the name. Got his rego, put out a KALOF.’

‘Thousands of ancients on the road,’ said Villani. ‘Sitting in the caravan park looking at other ancients, the wife’s inside wiping surfaces, ironing, wearing a housecoat and an apron. That’s the reward for a lifetime’s work.’

‘Koenig,’ said Dove. ‘I reckon he wasn’t at Portsea.’

They were alike, their minds worked in the same strange cop
way. ‘You reckon, do you? What about Bricknell?’

‘Koenig and Bricknell,’ said Dove. ‘I think we should try to shake Bricknell, boss.’

‘Shaking Koenig was so productive,’ said Villani. ‘Give me something more than phone calls, son.’

He took a smoke off Dove, stole his lighter, went down to the street. The heat pressed on him, it was too hot to smoke. He crossed the avenue and walked down Bromby Street. An Audi pulled up ahead of him, unlawful park. When he reached it, Dance bent his head, looked at him. Villani got in, chilled air, silent engine.

‘Nice car,’ said Villani. He lit the cigarette.

‘So what’s this?’ said Dance.

‘Minter Street, Southbank. A building called Exeter Place. Dogs on it. Yours?’

‘Minter Street,’ said Dance, thoughtful. ‘You have no idea how many people of interest live in Minter Street. They have gathered there, driven by some primitive drug-scum herding instinct.’

‘Yes or no?’

‘Yes. So if you don’t want to be logged entering and leaving Exeter Place, with or without Ms Markham, don’t go there. I’m not doctoring logs for you or anyone else.’

‘How’d fucking Searle see them?’

‘Gillam asked for them. For all I know he passed them around at a Rotary Club lunch, taped them to a hooker’s thigh.’

Villani said, ‘The story is I leaked the Koenig material to Ms Markham. DiPalma’s made it known I’m dead and Quirk’s coming back.’

Down his nose, Dance was watching three girls going by, bare, sweaty brown shoulders, midriffs, legs. They were arguing about something, not serious, extravagant gestures, pulling faces, big made-up eyes. He turned his killer-priest’s face to Villani as if averting his gaze from sin.

‘Well, Stevo,’ he said, ‘I hear that. There’s two possibilities. These tools get back in and try it on. Two, they don’t get back and
the other lot does it for them. We have to hope the first doesn’t happen and plan for the second.’

‘Don’t know what hoping can do.’

‘You hope and also give things a shove.’

Dance was looking at Villani in a way that said:
Don’t ask.

‘On election night,’ he said, ‘if it’s necessary, someone will tell the squatter’s wife that Quirk is baggage they don’t want, that people in the job will make sure they pay a terrible price for revisiting Greg.’

‘Price like what?’ said Villani. He knew.

‘The crypts will be unsealed, the vaults will be unlocked, the dead will walk. For openers, pictures of party icon shagging fifteen-year-old twink.’

Fifteen-year-old. Lizzie’s age. Villani said, ‘There’s something else. My little girl’s accused…’

Dance raised a hand. ‘Heard about that. Vick’ll get her found, we’ll work something out.’

He took a small player out of his shirt pocket, thumbed it, showed it: grainy picture, two men in evening dress, bow ties. One bent his head to the counter. He lifted his head, put a knuckle to his nose, sniffed. The hidden camera caught an
Aren’t-I-a-clever-dog
look.

‘When shove comes, Mr Barry will do what’s right or he gets the hot shot.’

It came to Villani that Dance was much, much more dangerous than he had ever thought.

‘Bob’d be in that pub up there now, wouldn’t he?’ said Dance. ‘Wait it out in the beer cellar. Too smart for the defend-your-property shit.’

‘No,’ Villani said ‘He’s got a firetruck and a bulldozer and he’s got Gordie and he’s going nowhere.’

Dance looked at him for a while. ‘Well, you make a stand somewhere, don’t you,’ he said. ‘Choose your friends, choose your fight.’

He opened the box between the seats and took out a mobile.

‘Call you, give you a number.’

Villani took it and went into the day. The wind was in the north now, coming from a burning hot, stone-dry place.

THE PAGE lay on his desk. He looked at it again.

Received 02.49: WHAT?

Sent 02.50: SOON.

Received 03.01: ?????

Sent 03.04: GOING IN.

Sent 03.22: OTU BANZAI OK

Kidd and Larter near the house in Oakleigh.

Someone waiting for a message from them. Someone also close by. An impatient person, two messages in ten minutes. Who?

What were the two men waiting for? Had the lights gone out in the house? Did they want to be sure the Ribarics and Vern Hudson were asleep?

Four minutes past three: the decision to move.
GOING IN.

Just shadows moving. At the back door. One kick, take the latch and the screws out of the woodwork. They were professionals.

03.22: Job done. Hudson dead, the Ribarics tied to the steel shed pillars with tape, their mouths would be taped too.

Time to call the impatient person waiting. The man with the knife. This wasn’t an ordinary run-through, this wasn’t ordinary payback. It was far, far beyond payback. This was a desire to inflict terrible things on the brothers.

OTU BANZAI OK.

Over to you. Banzai. OK.

Why
OK?

Villani closed his eyes, no energy in him. His last Saturday in the job. You could survive a lot of things but not child sex-charges. Crime commissioner. That prospect hadn’t lasted long.

Why
OK?

Why hadn’t he been suspended? Why hadn’t Gillam issued the instruction? What were they waiting for? Was it a matter of timing? Did they want him to resign like Koenig?

She says a Father Donald, he came. He’d kissed the Holy Father’s ring, and he asked her a lot of questions and he said she’d be at God’s right hand for telling Father Cusack about the evil. Pretty much a booked seat. Specially blessed. Yeah.

Villani felt a coldness on his face, as if the room had its own weather, a cool change from the south-west, from Singo’s box of junk.

The evil. Telling Father Cusack. Who told Father Donald. What about the confidentiality of confession? Could priests swap confessions with each other? Perhaps in their own confessions they could say things to their confessors, who could in turn…

No.

The evil. What story of evil could Valerie Crossley tell Father Cusack? A story she’d waited to tell until she saw her own death.

The thought came to him. He dismissed it. It came back. He got up, the thrumming in his body, he went to find Birkerts. He was half-hidden behind folders.

‘A moment of your precious time,’ said Villani. ‘Where were the Ribarics in 1994?’

‘Thought I heard someone say we didn’t need any more Ribaric family history?’

‘My mood’s changed. Experiencing mood swings.’

Birkerts sighed. ‘I’ll ask the custodian of the Rib family history. Like you, he forgets nothing. I think it’s an illness.’

Villani went back to his desk, couldn’t resume drowsing, stood up, saw the file Burgess had brought: the girl on the snow road. He
went out. Dove was on the phone, put his hand over the mouthpiece.

‘Read this,’ said Villani. ‘My eyes hurt.’

The weekend switch operator’s hand up, the phone sign.

‘Boss,’ said Tomasic, ‘in 1994, the Ribs were in Geelong.’

Relief. Not losing it yet.

‘How do you know?’

‘Six months suspended in the Geelong Magistrates’ Court in March 1994. Assault.’

‘Dig it out, Tom, the details. Matter of urgency.’

‘System’s giving lots of shit, boss. Just goes blank.’

‘We all just go blank. Talk to the cops there, must be some cunt remembers. And Father Donald. I want Father Donald. If you have to ask the Pope.’

He went to Birkerts. ‘Little excursion to Geelong. Pass the time.’

Birkerts didn’t look up. ‘Rather pass razorblades. In connection with what urgent matter, inspector?’

‘Metallic. Oakleigh.’

‘Irresistible. Saddle up and ride.’

IT TOOK almost an hour to find anyone connected with St Anselm’s Parish and then it was done only by ringing Tomasic.

‘There’s Annette Hogan,’ he said. ‘She wrote to Mrs Crossley. See what I can do, boss. Call you back.’

Tomasic rang when they were sitting in the heat, drinking bad coffee at a place on the waterfront. The whole area had been worked on by architects, every place he went back to had been tricked out.

‘Spoke to the friend, she’ll be home in fifteen,’ Tomasic said. ‘Newtown. Know where that is, boss?’

‘Can you find your dick, son? Address?’

Annette Hogan came to the door, a tall, desiccated woman in her sixties, beaky nose, led them into a sitting room. One of the chairs still had its plastic wrapping.

Birkerts asked the question.

‘Father Cusack died about six months ago,’ she said. ‘He’d had a few heart attacks.’

‘He had a parishioner called Valerie Crossley,’ said Birkerts.

‘Mrs Crossley, yes. She’s dead too. A month ago, thereabouts.’

‘This is delicate, Mrs Hogan,’ said Birkerts, ‘but it’s very important. Do you know anything about the last confession Mrs Crossley made to Father Cusack?’

Annette Hogan’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not thinking Father Cusack would tell anyone about a confession, are you? Don’t you know about the sanctity of the confessional? Not Catholic, are you?’

‘No,’ said Birkerts. ‘Proddy dog. Lapsed.’

‘Well, he’d be excommunicated, wouldn’t he? In the confessional you’re facing the power of God. The priest can never speak of what he hears. He’d be sinning. Good heavens.’

‘Sorry,’ said Birkerts.

Silence. In the passage, a board creaked. Villani thought that would be the friend.

‘There’s a Father Donald,’ said Villani. ‘I don’t know if that’s the first name or the surname.’

She was still offended at the heathen inquiry. ‘Father Donald? Not in this town. Never heard of a Father Donald.’

Villani stood, Birkerts followed.

‘Well, thank you, Mrs Hogan. Did you know Mrs Crossley?’

‘Not really, no.’

Villani said, ‘The place where she died? Where’s that.’

Annette Hogan gave them directions. She walked them to her front gate and waited for them to drive away.

‘I don’t think we’re on a winner here,’ said Birkerts.

‘We may not even be on a horse,’ said Villani. ‘Look for somewhere to buy smokes.’

They stopped at a fish and chips shop. Villani went in, hunger took him, he had trouble remembering breakfast. He went back to the car with cigarettes and six dollars worth of chips, hacked with a cleaver, six to a big spud. They ate them on the spot, the oily parcel steaming sharp vinegar on the armrest between them.

‘This’s how the cars get their smell,’ said Birkerts, taking the last chip, chewing, thoughtful. ‘Egg farts, Whoppers, vinegar, chip fat, cigarette smoke, Old Spice, four-day socks.’

‘Put it in an aerosol, subdue the violent with a spray in the face,’ said Villani.

‘Then shoot them a few times to be on the safe side. Why are
we going to this gerry place? I’m not making connections.’

‘In time, you may see the utility,’ said Villani.

‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ said Birkerts. ‘Just being with you.’

‘I’ll come around to your house inspections. Shitfaced. Tell everyone I’m the neighbour. Break stuff. Jump in the pool.’

Birkerts turned the key. ‘Navigate me,’ he said.

IT WAS a T-shape of yellow brick, a tarmac parking area, a dozen splintering
E. nicholi
in a long strip of dead grass.

They went up a concrete ramp with handrails. In a waiting room with brown vinyl tiles, Birkerts pressed a bell five or six times.

A door opened and a sad red-faced balding woman in blue came out.

‘Not visiting hours,’ she said.

Birkerts showed her the badge, said who they were. She went redder.

‘I’ll get matron,’ she said. ‘Have to wake her.’

They went outside, leant against the rails, smoked.

‘What happens on a free Saturday night?’ Villani said.