‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Yeah, well, listen, all the makings of a shit sandwich this. I see no joy, suffering all round.’
‘Very early days.’
‘I’m thinking get rid of it, handball it to Dancer. Crucible.’
‘It’s Homicide business.’
‘Sometimes you worry me,’ said Colby. ‘You don’t see the whole picture.’
‘No?’
‘No. All that Singleton justice-for-the-dead shit. Homicide, little island of fucking Boy Scouts. Get over it. Singo’s gone, he’s microscopic dust floating up there, he’s air pollution. Stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result in an hour and you’re a turd.’
‘We could get lucky.’
Colby sneezed, a detonation, another, another. ‘Fucking smoke’s killing me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll say this. Get lucky or have plans B to D ready.’
‘Do that then, boss.’
‘Stay in touch. Close touch. I want to know.’
‘Boss.’
When Villani was at the door, Colby said, ‘Career-defining moment this could be. They come, you know.’
‘Bear that in mind, boss.’
VILLANI SAT in the outer office, mobile off, eyes closed. Barry was on an important call, said the secretary. Villani didn’t mind, enjoyed the peace.
‘Commissioner Barry’s free, inspector,’ said the secretary, some signal given.
Barry’s desk was side-on to the window, the venetian blinds half closed, the vertical lines of the buildings thinly sliced.
‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Sit. Just got the chief off the line.’ He paused. ‘Tell me.’
Villani became aware of the aches in his forearms, across his shoulders. The mowing, the whole body tensed, the gripping of the throttle bar. ‘Ivan Ribaric and his half-brother,’ he said. ‘Croatians.’
Barry found a tissue, napkin-sized. He blew his nose, eyes bulged. ‘Never had a cold in freezing bloody Ireland,’ he said. He inspected the tissue, crushed it. ‘Now is that Australian of Croatian descent or citizen of Croatia?’
‘The first.’
‘I’ve found there’s a bit of sensitivity around this kind of thing.’
‘It’s a family with a wog name. Like me.’
‘What about me?’ Barry said. ‘Is an Irishman a wog?’
‘Mick is a kind of early wog as I understand it.’
Barry laughed, rolling pub laugh, he had hard bird eyes. ‘Moving on. Knowing the dead’s a step, catching the deaders, that’s the trick.’
‘Steep curve I’m on.’
Mouth too quick, always his failing. Villani looked at the view. He thought he liked Barry more than his predecessor, a useless Pom from Liverpool who left suddenly for a job in Canada.
‘A joke, Stephen,’ said Barry.
Villani nodded, humbly he hoped. He noticed a white substance on the side of his left shoe. Birdshit? Please, God, not something from Oakleigh.
‘This election. Now I’m no expert on local politics but I’m told there could be changes coming, people moving around. That’s likely.’ He stared at Villani. ‘We could work well together, you and me. A team. What’s your feeling?’
‘I think we could, boss.’ Villani had no idea what he meant.
‘Can I advise a bit of an investment in presentation? It’s important. Couple of new suits. Dark grey. Shirts. Light blue, cotton, buy half a dozen. And ties. Red, silk, Jacquard silk. Black shoes, toecaps. Good for morale, shoes, the women know that.’
Villani thought it best to say nothing.
‘Now I haven’t offended?’ said Barry.
‘No, boss.’
‘I’m looking out for you, Stephen.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘Good. So Oakleigh, we need a result, that’s the ticket. Your clearance rate overall needs a boost.’
‘Boss.’
The clearance rate was all luck. A decent run of domestics gone sad, pissed fights, gatecrash stabbings, gang bashings, fatal clashes among the homeless and hopeless-easy, you could clear the lot inside a week or two, it looked pretty good, efficient.
‘And the Prosilio woman? What’s happening there?’
‘Making progress in identifying her. A lot of work done. Yes.’
‘Good, good. Keep me posted on anything I should know, won’t you?’ said Barry, raised his hands, made pistols, brought the muzzles together. ‘Directly.’
‘I will, boss.’
‘And I don’t think we need to refer to Prosilio. There’s a degree of sensitivity about that too. With me?’
‘Boss.’
Rising in the building’s intestine, air like dry-cleaning fluid, Villani thought of lying down on a hard bed in a cool, dim room, pulling up his knees and going to sleep. His mobile rang.
‘Tentative conclusions,’ said Moxley. ‘Man near entrance is shot in the head at close range from behind. The other two, multiple stab wounds, genitals severed, other injuries. Also head and pubic hair ignited, shot, muzzle in mouth. Three bullets recovered, 45 calibre.’
‘So you can’t rule out an accident?’ said Villani.
‘Any other questions?’
‘Time. Not a problem on television, the cops get answers,’ said Villani. ‘Up to speed on modern forensics, professor?’
‘No more than twelve hours.’
‘That’s something, I suppose.’
‘May I say how much I miss the professionalism of Inspector Singleton?’ said Moxley. ‘Goodbye.’
VILLANI SAT at his desk and the phone rang.
‘Mr Searle, boss.’
‘Okay.’
‘Steve, mate,’ Searle said. ‘Mate, I’d love to be first call on stuff like Oakleigh. Just someone give me a buzz. You know we never sleep.’
‘There’s a long queue for first call,’ said Villani. ‘Why don’t you take it up with my superiors? As I plan to take up the issue of the strange treatment of the Prosilio murder on fucking Crime Stoppers.’
Searle whistled. ‘Steady on, that’s a bit hostile.’
‘As intended,’ said Villani.
‘Right. I’ll move on.’
‘Giving me an explanation or what?’
‘Some misunderstanding, that’s all I can say,’ said Searle. ‘I take it Oakleigh will go to Crucible?’
‘Don’t you know a homicide when you see one?’
‘Okay, okay. Huge story like this, I suggest I embed Cathy Wynn with you. Everything run by you, of course, you’re in total control.’
Singo had hated Searle. ‘Mongrels, every last fucking Searle,’ he said when he heard of Geoff Searle’s appointment. ‘This prick’s the runt of the litter.’
‘Embed?’ said Villani. ‘Emfuckingbed?’
‘I can promise you will be happy with the result. And the process. Absolutely no downside. At all.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Right. That’s fine. Respect your view. Who should we liaise with?’
‘Inspector Kiely.’
Searle coughed.
‘Steve, mate,’ he said, ‘Singleton had it in for me, buggered why. But can we move on? I mean, we’ve both got jobs to do, right?’
‘I’ve got a police job, yes,’ said Villani.
‘Well, managing your profile can’t hurt, can it?’
‘I have no idea what that means,’ said Villani. ‘Nor do I wish to. Call-waiting. Homicide business, murders, that kind of thing. I’ll get back to you.’
‘Appreciate that,’ said Searle. ‘Cathy Wynn is your point of contact.’
Villani thought about his profile being managed. The phone rang.
‘Mr Dance, boss,’ said the switch.
‘Okay. Dancer?’
‘Comrade,’ said Dance. ‘Bloody Colby’s arsier every time I see him. You’d think I dreamt up bloody Crucible myself. Anyway, just had a word from Simon Chong, our boy genius, he’s run some program the nerds invented.’
‘Yes?’
‘It picks names out of the stuff we pull in. The soup. Our friend Ivan is mentioned. That’s last week, six days ago.’
‘Mentioned how?’