Thunderous applause.
‘This huge project ramifies in all directions. It’s political at every level. So, as we approach the state election and with a federal election less than a year away, we’d like this city’s people to tell their representatives, local, state and federal, that they want the cleanest, greenest, fastest, safest transport option in the world.’
Someone handed Hendry a glass of water. He held it up.
‘What’s this liquid? Desalinated water? Never touch it.’
Laughter.
‘Mr Premier, leader of the Opposition, members of parliament, mayors, councillors, I want to urge you to think about this chance to do something important for your city, your state, and, in a small way, for your country and the planet.’
A camera was on the impassive premier, they cut to Karen Mellish. She wasn’t giving away anything either.
‘I thank you,’ said Hendry. ‘This project’s taken three years of my life, three years of spending my own money, which hurts, I can tell you. I’ve done it because I believe in it with passion. It will be the best thing I do in my life.’
Long and emotional applause. Hendry waited again.
‘The challenge I’m issuing to all of you,’ he said, ‘and particularly those standing for election in a few weeks, is this. Declare yourself for or against this project. In principle. That’s all we ask. Then we’ll let the people of this city and this state speak with their votes.’
The applause lasted minutes. Gillam, Barry and Orong didn’t join in. Clinton Hulme made a lot of noise.
‘That’s about as good as a speech gets,’ he said to Villani. ‘What do you reckon?’
‘Has he done any public speaking before?’ said Villani.
Hulme smiled, patted Villani’s arm. ‘I like dry in a man. Come and meet Max.’
‘I don’t think Max’s hanging out to meet me,’ Villani said.
‘So wrong. He wants to meet you, Vicky wants to meet you.’
VILLANI WAS taken through the crowd, Hulme’s hand in his back. A long-legged woman in black led them.
They followed Max Hendry on a tour, the spruiker Kim Hogarth and two women escorting him, they read name tags, did introductions, Hendry shook hands, he spoke, the guests laughed, he laughed, he went serious, they went serious, nodded, he left them with a few words, another clasp, a touch on the arm, a woman kissed him on his cheek.
The woman in black intervened. Hendry turned.
‘Max, Vicky,’ said Clinton Hulme. ‘I’d like to introduce Stephen Villani, head of the Homicide Squad. He thinks you’re too royal to meet him, Max.’
They shook hands. They were the same height. Hendry had light eyes, disconcerting, the colour of shallow water over clean sand.
‘Meet Vicky,’ said Hendry.
Vicky Hendry wasn’t much older close up, fine lines, high-cheekboned, handsome.
‘Stephen, I have to tell you my family thinks Homicide walks on water,’ she said. ‘After my nephew was murdered, someone rang every day, always saying you’d find them.’
Villani’s scalp itched. Praise, flattery, to deal with them perhaps you had to be praised when you were young, he had very little experience of praise. For Bob, not getting things right was bludging, slackarse behaviour, not paying attention.
Stephen, don’t take your kids’ achievements for granted.
Laurie said that one day when he had found the time to read Tony’s school report and just nodded.
‘I suppose you know how much that means to people who’ve lost someone?’ said Vicky Hendry.
‘We try to understand,’ said Villani.
The fourth of Singo’s Five Commandments: Thou shalt speak to the family as often as possible. As avenging angel, not fucking undertaker.
‘And you got them,’ said Vicky Hendry. ‘Because for them to be out there free, laughing, that was a knife in our hearts.’
Through a gap, he saw the shimmer of black hair, Anna, laughing, just metres away. Their eyes met, she looked away.
‘We were watching television and you came on and my sister said, That’s him, he caught them.’
‘Well, it’s always a team effort,’ said Villani.
‘Not always,’ said someone behind him. ‘Sometimes it’s just one bloke with brains.’
Villani turned and saw Matt Cameron, the first time in years. Sixty-odd, he was still unlined, still whipstick thin, the big shoulders, the tight grey curls.
‘If you say so, boss,’ Villani said.
Max Hendry patted Cameron’s shoulder, Vicky Hendry touched him too, affectionate, they knew one another well.
‘This is about as secure as it gets,’ said Hendry. ‘Whole hierarchy of the police force and Mr Private Security himself. You know each other then?’
Cameron said, the soft voice, ‘Taught the boy everything he knows. Things he shouldn’t know too.’
When Villani joined the Robbers, Cameron was boss, in his early forties then, the hardest man, still boxing, just muscle and sinew, a phenomenal reach. He sparred with him, it was like fighting Inspector Gadget. He left the force after his cop son and his girlfriend were murdered on a farm near Colac, still unsolved. His wife killed herself a month later. Now he was rich, co-founder with Wayne Poland, another cop, of Blackwatch Associates, the country’s biggest security firm.
‘Gentlemen, got to keep moving,’ said Hendry. He put hands on Villani and Cameron. ‘Steve, Vicky’ll arrange something. Do us the honour?’
‘Of course.’
Vicky Hendry offered a hand, she took his in both hands, silken, the extra second of clasp, not flirting, the couple moved on.
‘Interesting bloke, Max,’ said Cameron. ‘I see Colby’s not choosing your suits anymore. Nor ties.’
‘Got a new advisor.’
‘Smart people always take advice. But only from smarter people. How’s the Oakleigh thing going?’
‘Not as fast as you’d like,’ said Villani. ‘Remember Matko Ribaric?’
‘Trying to forget Matko.’
‘It’s his boys. And Vern Hudson.’
Cameron smiled, the rare smile, Villani remembered it was gold. ‘Well, best fucking thing I’ve heard for a while,’ he said. ‘Vermin born of vermin. Be drugs. Everything’s drugs.’
‘Not unlikely.’
‘Handballing to Dancer and the Crucible dancing girls?’
‘No.’
‘Brave. Still, boy’s got worries enough. Machinery for deep-level mining, can’t crack a walnut.’
Cameron drank something pale from a whisky glass. ‘I heard about Lovett. Grace Lovett.’
‘Before me,’ said Villani. ‘I heard ten minutes ago.’
‘Out of the loop. Still, no leaks, media don’t crack a fat, it’ll go away. Working on that, are you? With Searle?’
‘We’re not that close.’
‘Son, a Pom once said England had no permanent alliances, only permanent interests. Look after your permanent interests. With me?’
‘Suck up to the prick?’
Cameron looked at him, Villani saw his father in Cameron’s gaze, you never knew what it meant until it was too late, you had got it wrong.
‘Well, world’s imperfect,’ Cameron said. ‘Don’t be the twat ends up on the cross. Need a hand, I still know a few people.’
Villani knew that he should bow his head and say something, with gratitude. He hadn’t asked for a favour, he didn’t want one.
‘Thanks, boss,’ he said.
A man came up, tall, handsome, floppy fair hair, fleshy mid-thirties. Villani knew who he was.
‘The old man gives a nice party,’ he said. He wore a grey suit, snowy shirt, no tie.
‘Know Steve Villani?’ said Cameron. ‘Steve, Hugh Hendry.’
The handshake was perfect, firm, gentle.
‘Your man Dove’s a bloody Jack Russell,’ said Hendry.
‘Trained to be so,’ said Villani. ‘Paid to be so. Encouraged to be so.’
The perfect smile too, the big teeth, white and even. Rich teeth. ‘Respect that. It’s getting it over to him that we are pleading guilty to a software failure and not guilty to whatever else he has in his mind.’