‘One budgie says Ivan’s got something to sell. He coughs. That means precursor. He says he’ll get back but we don’t have that. He didn’t talk on the same line again.’
The other phone rang. Tracy Holmes, the senior analyst.
‘Oakleigh,’ she said. ‘The name is Metallic.’
‘Another stroke of genius. Thank you.’
‘How many people you talking to there?’ said Dance.
‘No more than I have to,’ said Villani. ‘As the bullfighter said, these boys are robbers. What’s with selling cough medicine?’
‘The bullfighter is such a turkey, mate. It’s not like it was. When we were young. Younger. No division of labour any more. Drugs, whores, robbers, it’s all one fucking moshpit.’
Villani thought, a few seconds, he said, ‘So this is likely some drug shit gone bad?’
‘I would say so.’
‘Do anything?’
‘Mate, this shit we hear all the time. It’s like air-traffic control for the whole world here. We passed it on to our drug comrades, whatever they’re called now. Could be Illegal Substances Enjoyment Group.’
‘Who’s talking?’
‘The first one we don’t know,’ said Dance. ‘The second one is Mick Archer, he’s a former Hellhound, been tight with Gabby Simon, club scumbag, that may be why he knows who Ivan is. I mentioned him and the Lord Carnarvon business. But Mick’s also close to many other dangerous arseholes. Only mildly of interest to us.’
‘Didn’t know there was such a thing as a former Hellhound. Thought it was Hellhound or dead.’
‘Mick walked and lived. There may be an explanation.’
‘He’d do this if the Ribbos fucked him over?’
‘Capable of anything. But Mick wasn’t there. Nor his offsider. In Malaysia for sure.’
‘How’d you get this?’
‘The ether.’
‘Well thanks, ether. What the fuck do I do with it?’
‘We pass on intelligence.’
‘The phone book.’
‘Hurtful,’ said Dance. ‘You don’t want to join the Colby gang. Like joining the Kellys. They are few. We are many.’
‘Meaning?’
Silence.
‘Steve, wake up. Collo’s the last of the big land animals.’
‘Brood on that. So much to brood on. You can buy me a drink when you’ve got a moment off television.’
‘And fuck you too,’ said Dancer. ‘Our genius has sent you the audio.’
GAVAN KIELY in the door, putty slab of face.
‘Welcome,’ said Villani. ‘Chance to do a haka over there?’
‘Two things,’ said Kiely, rat teeth showing. ‘I’ve had Cathy Wynn from media. They’re keen for forward planning on Metallic.’
Villani said, ‘Tell her we’re still planning backwards. We’ll let them know how it works out.’
Kiely found a focus above Villani’s head. ‘Also, I think I should be playing a more upfront role,’ he said. ‘As the number two.’
‘Never a good number, two. Upfront how?’
‘Well, representing the squad.’
‘You want to be the spokesman?’
‘Rather than lower ranks, yes.’
‘It’s horses for courses,’ said Villani.
‘Excuse me?’
‘The practice has been to let squad leaders speak. Birk’ll keep you briefed.’
‘Actually, I don’t expect to be briefed by juniors,’ said Kiely.
Villani gave him the stare, let the time pass. Kiely couldn’t bear it.
‘Here’s an offer,’ said Villani. ‘You don’t get hissy and I promise to be more inclusive. Is that the word?’
Kiely went from pink to something deeper.
The clock above the door: 11.40. ‘That said, let’s see if we can find the Ribs’ mates Wales and Jansen.’
A HELICOPTER, glass buildings, silent explosions, people fleeing some unseen terror, a black-haired woman with a feline air said:
…homicide police were today called to the scene of a triple murder, three men found dead in a shed behind a house in Oakleigh in the city’s south-east…
Helicopter vision, the red-tiled roof, at odds with the huge tin factories, workshops and warehouses surrounding it, the street full of vehicles, the workers and media along the side fence. Villani saw the clump of Homicide cops, thought he saw himself. Then ground-level footage of the yard and the shed. He was walking towards the door.
…a security patrol discovered the grisly scene just before 6am today. Homicide detectives and forensic experts are still at the premises. The people who live in the house have only been glimpsed say workers at the electrical equipment factory next door…
Then it was Birkerts, the long, pale Scandinavian face.
…we don’t have any identification at this time but we hope to establish all identities shortly.
Can you tell us how they died?
All shot.
Can you confirm they were tortured?
The experts will tell us about injuries and cause of deaths. In due course.
Is this drug-related?
We can’t rule out anything at this stage…
Next: wind-shift reprieve for Morpeth and Stanton, protests over train delays, a new political poll had Labor in trouble, four hurt in a crane accident in the city, a dog saved from a drain, a Jack Russell. It appeared to want to go back.
Villani pressed mute, dropped his chin. Why would anyone want the job? Trapped in a dream that shifted from one ugly scene to another, all seen through a veil of tiredness. The full stupidity of his life overwhelmed him and he closed his eyes.
When he opened them, he was looking at the cardboard box in the corner, Singleton’s trophies and photographs, waiting to go somewhere. The silver boxer stuck out, crouching, throwing a left.
He saw it on his first day in the Homicide office, fresh from Armed Robbery, carrying a gruesome farewell-party hangover, keen to start anew, save his marriage.
‘Should’ve got that Dance decision,’ said Singleton.
‘He caught me a few good ones,’ said Villani. ‘Boss.’
‘Caught him a few more. Anyway, new life’s begun. No more bash and crash. What’s your wife say about this?’
‘She’ll cope, boss.’
Laurie was just about done with coping by then. Laurie had her own life, share of a business.
‘My condolences to her,’ said Singleton. ‘Kiddies, I see.’
‘Yes, boss.’
‘They just lost their dad.’
Homicide ate you, your family got the tooth-scarred bone. Singo told them not to obsess but he judged them by how much they obsessed, how little time they spent at home. No one survived who didn’t pass the HCF test: Homicide Comes First.
Villani thought, I’m another Singleton, have to know everything, don’t trust anyone to do the job properly, interfere, try to manage everything.
Unlearn Singo. The man should have died in a jail and not a nursing home.
But the truth was that, once you got used to it, working for Singo was comforting. He was hard on people, handed out cold, vicious reprimands, blood on the floor. But he looked out for you, never stole your credit, covered for you, even covered terrible shit like Shane Diab, dead because he thought Joe Cashin was the second coming, would have followed him down a snake hole.
Villani looked at nothing. Singo and his father. The same hardness, the air of bad things seen, of the right to sit in judgment on lesser, weaker people.
Phone. Birkerts. Villani said, ‘Had no time to miss you.’
‘On our way back,’ said Birkerts. ‘Been to three old addresses for Jansen, two for Wales, one is so old, the house’s history, four units on the site. Tomasic tells me they’ve done the first sweep at Oakleigh. He’s sent for an MD and the X-ray.’
Villani could see Dove at his desk, stretching. He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, looked around, blinking. Tired, thought Villani, he’s tired. What right does he have to be tired?