Luke put his arms around Bob. ‘This fire gets serious, mate, I want you out of here, okay? I’ll come up and drag you out myself.’
‘Be fine,’ said Bob. ‘Got Gordie to look after me.’
‘Do that, Gordie,’ said Luke. ‘I’m holding you responsible for this bastard.’
‘Do that, Lukie,’ said Gordie.
Luke hugged him.
They watched the car reverse, swing, fat tyres spat stones, Luke gunned it down the drive.
‘My turn to go,’ said Villani.
His father looked down, rubbed his stubble. ‘You could stay, have the barbie,’ he said. ‘I’ll get you up at sparrer.’
To say no was in Villani’s mouth, he had the excuses. But his father turned the black stone eyes and he could not utter them. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘The meat, the beer.’
‘Fire up the bugger, Gordie.’
‘Total fire ban,’ said Villani.
‘For dickheads,’ said Bob.
The day ended slowly, a fever in the western sky. Villani ate too much steak, smoked Gordie’s cigarettes, slept in his old bed. Some time after midnight he woke, felt the storm coming, the trembling stillness, then the first solid movement of air and the thunderclap, it shook heaven and earth, a wind struck the house, squeaked the timbers, squealed the roof iron, rain hit like buckshot, two or three minutes under heavy fire, gone, the dying sluice of water in the downpipes.
His father didn’t have to wake him. When he came into the pewter day, Bob was there, shorts, bare-chested, all rib and bone, sinew and muscle.
‘No need to get up,’ said Villani.
‘Hear the rain?’
‘Woke me.’
‘Yeah. Done buggerall, need a soaking.’
‘The finances,’ said Villani. ‘Coping?’
Bob Villani flexed his arms. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Just asking.’
‘That boss stuff,’ said Bob.
‘I’m not worrying about it,’ said Villani.
‘The way things were, you looking after the little buggers.’
‘You can let this fucking house burn down,’ said Villani, ‘but if the forest goes I’m coming after you.’
They shook hands, just touched skin. He wanted to hug his father as Luke had done and give him something, some evidence that he too was a worthy son, but that was not possible.
Before first light, still cool, he drove down Selborne’s curt main street. Beneath the pub’s sole elm, a man slept on his ute tray, he was embalmed in a grey blanket, one naked marble-white foot showed. Around his head was a rough semi-circle of empty stubbies.
On the main road, Villani switched on the radio.
… firefighters arrive from West Australia today to support the weary teams battling to save three towns now under threat in the high country…
When the mobile rang, the towers were in sight, he was in the early Monday commuter traffic, all slit-eyed men, close-shaven, dreaming of Friday afternoon so far.
‘Villani,’ he said.
Birkerts said, ‘Three dead, it’s a shed in Oakleigh.’
‘Three?’
‘Yeah. Pretty fucking rough.’
THE SMELL was of a slaughterhouse, of excrement and piss and blood and fear.
Breathing shallowly, Villani stepped over the black creek and stood just inside the tin cavern. Light from the doorway lay across a man near them, on his front, his fluids had formed a clover shape before they ran out under the door.
Ten metres away, against a side wall, two men sagged from steel roof pillars, hands tied above their heads with gaffer tape. They were naked, covered in caked blood, feet in black ponds.
‘Jesus Christ,’ said Villani. ‘Jesus H. Christ.’
He took the long route to the first upright man, kept close to the wall, stopped well short.
The man was tanned, muscular, big-calved legs, small paunch, tracks on his arms. His hair appeared to have been burnt off, his genitals cut off, a thing of flesh lay on the concrete, head like a kicked cabbage dipped in blood, glint of teeth. Skeins of viscous material, gobbets of flesh, stuck to the tin wall behind him.
Villani went to the second man. He was paler, bigger beer gut, semi-circle of scar tissue under his left nipple. The same damage had been inflicted upon his face and genitals.
He looked around. The shed was a vehicle tip-carcasses of cars, doors, bonnets, windscreens, wheel rims, pistons, seats, dashboards, steering wheels, engine parts, they lay as if dropped from the sky.
Behind him, Birkerts cleared his throat. ‘Forensics two minutes away. Ditto coroner.’
‘We’re out of here, then.’
At the door, it was dead quiet, Villani heard something, looked up and saw a starling in ragged flight beneath the silver ceiling it had bounced off.
They passed through the door, the uniforms parted for them, and they went outside and stood on the concrete apron and sucked the dirty city air, so clean now. Birkerts offered, they lit.
Gawkers lined the side fence, workers from the car repair shop next door.
‘Shit,’ said Birkerts. ‘This is a step up.’
‘Who found them?’
‘Security bloke. Walking along that fence, he saw the blood, went around to the front of the house, door open, no one home, he came through and had a look. He’s in shock.’
A warm wind from the north-east now. Villani looked at the sky, thin streaks of high cloud the colour of tongue fur, heard the sound of a train, the rip and flap of a loose truck tarp in the nearest yard.
‘Well, three,’ he said. ‘Three is just one times three.’
‘Simple as that,’ said Birkerts, he was looking over Villani’s shoulder. ‘The scientists.’
People in blue overalls were coming down the side of the house, the crime-scene team, blood, ballistics, fingerprints, photography, they carried bags, not in a hurry. They walked across the concrete yard, chatting side-on, could be tradies coming on site.
Two of Birkerts’ crew came around the corner, in black, scratching, yawning, Finucane in front, work needed on his shave, as much hair on face as scalp, the pitbull Tomasic behind him.
Next was the forensic pathologist, Moxley, a balding ginger Scot. Villani raised a hand.
‘Doctor Death,’ he said.
Moxley grounded his bag. ‘The head of Homicide. Isn’t this early for someone so important?’
‘Never sleep. Three deceased here, two with no clothes on. May I request an extreme hurry-on?’
‘ASAP is always the aim,’ said Moxley.
‘Of course,’ said Villani. ‘Must be painful always to fall short.’
‘Well, it takes more than your nine or ten years of third-rate schooling to understand professional procedures.’
‘Yeah, but in Australia,’ said Villani. ‘Outranks a Glasgow PhD.’ ‘Probably couldn’t find Glasgow on a map,’ said Moxley and left.
Villani watched him go. ‘When I kill him, I want three days’ start,’ he said. ‘Like Tony Mokbel. Sum up the position for these two, Birk.’
Birkerts said, ‘Three dead. One shot, the others, the Christ knows, could be tortured to death, make you puke, I can tell you. Found by security. That’s it. Boss?’
‘It would be at night,’ said Villani. ‘Can’t be long ago.’
The day was warming quickly, cracks and pings from the tin building, the structure around them. ‘Not exactly in the bush,’ said Villani. ‘Someone around here must have seen something.’
‘Kill three people,’ said Birkerts. ‘Tie two up. How many does that take? You’d want to come in force, wouldn’t you? Say two cars, at least.’
‘Unless they came in a little bus,’ said Villani. ‘Like an outing.’
‘Non-linear thinking, boss.’ Birkerts gestured at Finucane, Tomasic. ‘Let’s get out there and ask about the place, start with those dorks at the fence.’
‘Media,’ said Finucane.
Villani looked. Television crews were arriving at the side fence, jostling.
A faint chop in the west, a television helicopter, a second one, bugs on the surface of the huge pale pond of sky. He said to Birkerts, ‘Since you look so sharp, when the time comes, you talk to them.’