They had to think about thinning or it would be impossible to walk in some parts of the forest. Dig another dam too, it would rain again, sooner or later.
At 6pm, Stephen Villani took the pins out of the new blue shirt, changed into the new suit, dark grey, put on the tie, red, and the shoes, black with toecaps. He sat for a moment, head back, eyes closed, felt the weight of the day begun far away in the high country, before dawn.
VILLANI TOOK a glass of white wine from a penguin boy’s tray, looked at the crowd, all suits, men and women, walked around the rim of the crowded room. It was in the sky, windows all around, it offered the city, the bay, the hinterland, the meek hills, all gauzed in smoke.
‘Something of a view, is it not, Stephen,’ said Commissioner Barry.
‘Don’t often get this high, sir,’ Villani said.
Barry was drinking champagne. He looked different, shorter, his dark hair gleamed, his cheekbones glowed, there was moisturiser involved. ‘Nice suit,’ he said. ‘Also tie and shirt.’
His eyes went down. ‘Ditto shoes. That’s the way, Stephen.’
Villani felt a flush, he willed it away. He would not forget this moment, he felt like a girl.
‘I’ve reassured my leaders on your handling of the media,’ Barry said. ‘A bit of paranoia at the political level. The problem is wanting always to be seen to be on top of the baddies. Now is that not a total misunderstanding of the world?’
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for the invitation. Happy crowd here.’
‘Well, they would be, the oysters, the champers,’ said Barry.
Probably Laurie’s outfit, thought Villani, caterers to the big end of town, minimum hundred-and-fifty bucks a head, feeding the A-list on Cup Day was three hundred.
‘Good to see you out of your silo,’ said Barry. ‘Can’t have you buried like Singleton. Get some perspective. If you’re going up, you need to have a wide view.’
He winked. ‘Mind you, I say that to all the girls.’
Villani made a smile, looked away, into the eyes of a young woman.
‘The minister and the chief commissioner are here, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Would you care to follow me?’
‘Of course,’ said Barry. ‘Lead on, darling.’
She took their glasses, gave them to a waiter. Then, like a safari guide, she led them through the throng.
As they skirted groups, Villani saw faces he knew from television, the newspapers. He saw the premier, Kelvin Yeats, slick brown hair, yellow eyes, he was laughing, bright teeth, looking at a man in his sixties, tanned, close-cropped grey hair: Max Hendry. The premier’s plump, blinking wife was talking to Vicky Hendry, Max’s second, third or fourth wife, a looker, shortish fair hair. As they passed, she met Villani’s eyes, registered him.
Then came infrastructure minister Stuart Koenig talking to Tony Ruskin and Paul Keogh, radio bookends of the working day, some people’s working day, two self-appointed opinion-makers. Sucking up to them before an election would be a priority for both parties.
They came close to a buffed couple, slash-mouthed Opposition leader Karen Mellish, kite-tight face, and her husband, Keith, usually called a farmer, he would have soft Collins Street hands.
From five metres, Villani saw the targets, two men drinking champagne: the police minister, Martin Orong, wolf-faced thirty-year-old, black hair, greasy skin, the latest model of outer-urban party branchstacker, and David Gillam, the chief commissioner.
As they approached, Gillam adjusted his uniform jacket. His features were a size or two too big for his face, as if they had grown ahead in the way of teenage boys’ feet.
Barry got there first, shook hands. ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ he said.
Orong tried some pathetic muscle, Villani didn’t respond.
‘How’s this Oakleigh shit going?’ said Orong, squeaky voice.
‘We’ll get there, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Drugs. Give it to Crucible.’
Villani looked at Barry, at the chief commissioner, read nothing in their faces.
‘Homicide investigates suspicious deaths,’ he said. ‘I’m a traditionalist, minister.’
Gillam sucked his teeth. ‘Tradition, absolutely. Steve, the minister’s just been talking about balance. Informing the public, that’s a given. While not creating undue alarm. Right, minister?’
Orong looked at Barry, at Villani. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Had the premier on the subject this very day. Balance, that’s the theme tune.’
Orong made a beckoning gesture. Gillam and Barry bent towards him.
‘An example is Prosilio,’ he said, eyes on Villani, ‘where you don’t want some hooker bitch thing to tarnish a multi-million dollar project, flagship project, jewel in the crown for the precinct.’
Villani looked away, at the people intent on the expensive morsels, the French champagne. In the old days, Laurie brought experiments and leftovers home, they ate them at the kitchen table, drinking wine. It often led to sex.
‘Find the sluts dead every day, right, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani paid attention.
‘Dogshit on the shoes of society. In fucking alleys.’
The beautiful child in the bathroom in the sky, her palms open, her neck broken, pulled back and back and back until the man behind her gained the satisfaction he sought.
Lizzie. She looked like Lizzie.
Who was seeing to Lizzie? Not her mother, her mother was feeding a film crew somewhere. Where? What had Corin said? He didn’t listen properly to family things.
‘Certainly find women dead in alleys, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Oh yes,’ said Barry.
‘Druggy sluts,’ said Orong. ‘Good riddance.’
‘Can I tempt you, gentlemen?’ said a girl penguin. She offered a silver tray of tiny puffed pastry balls on toothpicks. ‘Blue swimmer crab with foie gras en croute,’ she said. ‘But if you’ve got seafood issues, I’ll…’
The minister took two. Gillam and Barry did the same. Villani took one. They would be four dollars a pop.
Orong added champagne to the puff in his mouth, chewed, looked around. The penguin was close.
‘More, sir?’ she said.
‘Yeah,’ said Orong.
He put his glass on her tray and popped puffs into his mouth-one, two, three, four, five, he collected toothpicks. Mouth full, he said, ‘So anyway, you’ve acted responsibly over the Prosilio matter. The premier’s pleased, I can tell you that.’
Without looking at the penguin, Orong held up his toothpicks, a delicate fence between thumb and forefinger. She took them impassively, surgically, put them on her salver.
‘French,’ he said, eyes on Villani. ‘Not the local muck. In a clean glass. And bring the steak thingies, the Wagyu.’
‘Sir,’ she said.
‘You following me, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani knew why he was there, what was at stake for him, how he should behave in the presence of this shoddy little arsehole, a nothing, no talents, just a political creature who knew how to slime around, how to get the numbers, how to suck up to those who could advance him, screw those who couldn’t, how to claim credit, duck responsibility.
‘Closely, minister,’ he said. ‘Balance.’
‘Balance is the key,’ said Gillam.
‘Oh, definitely,’ said Barry. ‘Balance.’
‘That’s good,’ said Orong, wiped his lips. ‘The boss’s got a saying. Can’t lead unless you can follow. Can’t give orders unless you can take them.’
Villani thought of the people he’d taken orders from. Bob Villani’s army life, had he taken orders from dickheads and arselickers like this man? Did they have them? Was the army different? Was there another Bob Villani, a servile Bob?
‘Being looked after, minister, gentlemen?’ A big man with dense silver hair combed back, he tugged at his double cuffs, small ruby cufflinks.
Orong gleamed. ‘Clinton, yeah, very nice, great. Listen, you know Dave Gillam, Mike Barry…’