‘Coffee,’ Villani said to Birkerts. ‘Pick me up. I’m not functioning.’
He put the plug in his ear, found the place on the player.
…listen, I’ve had a bloke, he’s offering.
Coughing.
Y’know?
Yeah? Source?
My understanding is accidental discovery, like.
Quantity?
Back up the truck, he says.
Oh yeah? What kind of bloke is this?
You know him. Ivan Ribaric. Bad. Very bad.
No, mate, the word’s not bad, the word is fucking lunatic, don’t want to go there. No.
No argument, the cunt’s mad but this is, this looks okay, it’s just something, y’know, get rid of quick, make a buck. Yeah.
He’s up for something? Jack trading?
No, no, no. What Jack’s going to trade with the Ribarics, mate? Jesus.
Yeah, well I’m not ruling it out, basically, we’d be…you’ve got to be fucking sure. I’d say you be sure of, ah, quality, then we talk. There’s cunts, I mean you do business, you have to kill them.
Okay. Get back to you.
Make it soon. Got a, ah, trip coming up. Holiday.
That’s nice. Soon, mate, soon…
THEY PARKED as close as they could and walked under an open sky, hot smoky afternoon wind, sweating, seeing the sweat on the faces coming at them, moving to the pavement’s edge to skirt a loose pack of tourists, bright garments, bodies all going south, Americans. A fat man fanning himself with a straw hat said, ‘Dart painting? How in hell they do that?’
They ordered, sat at a table in the back corner. Villani said, ‘Need some luck with this shit, fucking Orong’ll be on us next.’
Birkerts said, ‘Pretty basic brief from the Robbers. Not giving much away. How keen are they?’
‘I would say not very.’
‘And Crucible?’
Villani took the tiny player and the earphone out of his top pocket, gave it to Birkerts. ‘Listen,’ he said.
Birkerts plugged in, held the device below the table rim, eyes on it.
Villani flicked the room, stopped at a woman looking at him over a man’s shoulder. Straight black hair, grey eyes, clever eyes. He liked clever, he liked grey, Laurie’s eyes. The first time Laurie looked at him with her grey eyes, he knew she was clever. Clever had always been the sexiest thing. Looks he had never cared much about. Looks were a bonus.
Birkerts unplugged, handed back the player. ‘Cut and dried then,’ he said. ‘Who are these people?’
Villani told him they had half the story. ‘Archer’s got a pretty good out. In Malaysia with his offsider.’
The coffee came. Villani put sugar on the crema, watched it sink, change colour. ‘What shows out there?’ he said.
‘Three possible cameras in the vicinity. Tommo’s looking now, don’t hold your breath, nothing points the right way. Got the ID stash, there’s licences, Medicare, credit cards, you name it. Plastic bag in the freezer, who’d think of looking there? No weapons so far. Half a million prints in the house. There’s traces of a woman.’
‘What traces?’
‘Lipstick on cigarette butts in the sitting room.’
‘Two women,’ said Villani. ‘Different scents in the bedrooms.’
Birkerts raised his eyebrows. ‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Phones?’
‘Not a one, should have said that.’
Birkerts touched his chest, felt for his mobile, went outside.
Villani tasted the coffee, passable, some ashy sweetness. The place was unreliable, baristas came and went, sacked, poached, some did a geographical, moved to the country in the childish hope that a change of scene, the clean air, would help them kick their drug habits. He looked up and met the eyes of the woman, a second, he looked away. Once he had exchanged looks with a handsome, sharp-faced woman here, that was in the days of big shoulders. Her name proved to be Clem, an interior designer, the man on the till gave him her business card when he was paying.
‘She said to give it to you,’ he said.
Birkerts came back, spoke behind fingers. ‘Three vehicles in the street registered to the Ribbos’ dud names. Also two stolens, can’t be stupid enough to park a stolen car in your own street.’
‘You’re not dealing with criminal masterminds here,’ said Villani. ‘You’re dealing with fuckheads. We’ll probably read the full story by Tony fucking Ruskin in the Age tomorrow, he’ll give us all the details, we look like complete twats once again.’
His mobile pulsed. He wasn’t going outside, it was too hot out there.
‘Interrupting anything?’ Cashin.
‘Got a cold?’ said Villani. ‘Like a man with tampons up his nose.’
‘Clearing my throat, first words of the day,’ said Cashin.
‘Of course. Mostly use sign language down there on the blue-balls coast. The two fingers, the kick, the fist. How’s the weather?’
‘We have wind today,’ said Cashin. ‘We have a great deal of wind.’
‘And still the place sustains life. Forms of life. Amazing.’
‘I saw Birk on television. What’s this torture stuff?’
‘Two blokes tied to pillars. Noses gone, teeth smashed, tackle cut off, hair burnt. Also stabbed and shot.’
Silence. ‘Sarris,’ said Cashin.
‘In the style of Sarris, yeah.’
‘It’s him.’
‘Plenty of torturers around, mate. But I’ll send what we’ve got. Might spark something in a fucking obsessive like you. Semi-retired obsessive.’
‘Fax it home if it’s after six.’
‘Be dark down there by then. Keeping warm? Is it true you should never wash your woollen longjohns? Loses the body oils?’
‘It’s summer here,’ said Cashin. ‘We are wearing shortjohns.’
‘I thought you went spring-autumn direct? Well, give the dogs a few kicks for me. Little kicks. Affectionate kicks.’
‘I was thinking about Bob just now. The heat’s getting close.’
‘He says he hasn’t noticed anything unusual,’ said Villani.
‘That’d be right. How’s Dove travelling?’
The grey-eyed woman was still looking at him. Villani gave her the measured blink, he could not stop himself, always the teenager panting for his first screw. Ashamed, he looked away.
‘Made a full recovery,’ he said. ‘Gives cheek. Wants to see my medical records. Check if I’m fit to work. So you’re now the only cripple on staff.’
‘I’m not on staff, Steve.’
‘Son,’ said Villani, ‘you’re on staff till I say you’re not. Currently on loan to police the sheepshaggers. Talk soon.’
Birkerts said, ‘Cashin?’
Villani nodded.
‘Tragic,’ said Birkerts. ‘Sarris is dead or he’s on his arsebone in the Bekaa Valley, snorting Cloud Nine. Rai didn’t invent torture. A bloke in Brissie, he’s a nothing, subsistence dealer, they flog him with barbwire and then they put him on a massive gas barbie. The Supreme Ozzie Partymaster, six turbo wok burners.’
‘Less Queensland information, please,’ said Villani. ‘Brief Kiely, will you? He’s unhappy. Feels neglected.’
On the way out, he avoided looking at the woman. What was the point?
Near the car, his phone rang. Barry.
‘Listen, boyo, I should have said when we were chatting earlier, there’s a little function this evening. I want you to take a break, hour or so, show yourself in public. Good for you.’
‘Not the best time, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Bit on, yeah.’
Silence. ‘Well, you make your own luck in this life, don’t you, inspector?’ said Barry. ‘And a good commander knows when to delegate. I’ll say no more.’
Villani sidestepped two teenagers, a skinny ginger, a bow-legged fat wearing sunnies, neither walking straight, the skinny was moving his hands as if winding something, like wool.