‘It comes, son, only the good Lord can save the trees.’
‘First mention of him I’ve heard from you.’
‘Figure of speech. Make it Father Christmas.’
‘I’ll ring,’ said Villani. ‘Answer the bloody phone, will you?’
‘Yes, boss.’
His mobile rang.
‘I came home,’ said Corin, no breath. ‘Lizzie comes out with this creature, he’s old, filthy, dreadlocks, tatts on his face, between his eyes and she’s got a bag, and…Dad, all my money’s gone, four hundred and fifty bucks and my iPod and my pearl pendant and my silver bracelets, she’s been through Mum’s things, I don’t know what she’s taken and…’
‘Stop,’ said Villani. ‘Stop.’
He heard her quick, ragged breathing.
‘Now we will take a few deep breaths,’ he said.
‘Right…yes.’
‘So. Slowly in, slowly out. Let’s do that. In…’
They did four, he heard the calm come to her.
‘Right,’ she said. ‘Over that now. I’ll kill the little bitch.’
She was part her mother and she was part Villani. Bob would be proud, he would like the kill part, he knew when it was time to put something down, he took the old dog away and shot it, buried it, they never found out where.
‘Darling, I want you to wait there,’ he said. ‘Someone’ll ring soon. Give them descriptions of Lizzie, her clothes, the bloke, anything that’ll help pick them in the street, in a crowd. The bag she’s carrying, don’t forget the bag.’
‘Okay,’ said Corin, brisk, composure regained. ‘Fine. Should I ring Mum?’
‘We’ll reel Lizzie in first, no point making your mum sweat in Darwin. Wherever she is.’
‘Cairns, Dad, Cairns.’
‘I’ll write that down. You shouldn’t keep that much money in cash, that’s not smart.’
‘Gee, thanks, Dad. I’ll write that down.’
‘Tried ringing Lizzie?’ He realised he didn’t have her mobile number.
‘It’s never on,’ said Corin. ‘Anyway I don’t want to talk to her. You ring her.’
‘Give me the number.’
‘Don’t you have it?’
‘Somewhere. Give it to me.’
Villani wrote it on a card, put it in his wallet. ‘Wait for the call, love,’ he said. He tapped Lizzie’s number. Not switched on.
Sitting for a few moments. You could not do this like a civilian, you needed the brothers. He calculated the price, punched the numbers, identified himself.
Vickery came on, the harsh cigarette voice, ‘Stevo. What can you do for me, son?’
Villani told the story.
‘Touches everyone this shit,’ said Vickery. ‘I’ll get the word out there. Someone will ring your girl shortly. Number?’
‘In your debt,’ said Villani when he had given Corin’s mobile number.
‘Mate, we’re all in debt to each other,’ said Vickery. ‘Brothers, good times and bad. Know that, don’t you?’
He was talking about their meeting, about Greg Quirk.
‘Indeed I do. Call me direct?’
‘Give me the number.’
Villani gave it.
‘Get together for a gargle, you and me and other old comrades,’ said Vickery.
‘We will,’ said Villani.
The phone, Tomasic, another hoarse voice.
‘Boss, the window reflection, the techs got the first two numbers off the Prado.’
‘I’m switching you,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t go anywhere.’
He pressed buttons. ‘Ange, take Tomasic off me for Tracy.’
Pause.
‘Trace, Tommo’s got two rego digits from the Oakleigh Prado. A little chance here.’
‘On it, boss,’ she said, a lilt of joy in her voice.
Sitting back, the adrenalin surge, he felt for a moment that he belonged in Singo’s chair: Stephen Villani, the boss of Homicide. Someone who deserved to be the boss of Homicide.
A moment.
TRACY IN the door, alight.
‘Boss, the numbers, a Prado on the tollway, the time’s right. We match a James Heath Kidd, 197 Cloke Street, Essendon.’
Tracy was clever, overworked, not a sworn person. At any time, she could tell them she was going elsewhere. He feared that. She had been in love with Cashin, everyone knew it, Cashin knew it and it scared Cashin.
‘A likely person,’ said Villani. ‘Let’s look at his abode.’
‘Ordinary house with garage, shed, that kind of thing.’
‘Can I get a chance to initiate something?’ said Villani. ‘Feel like I’m the brains of the outfit?’
She smiled her downturned smile, left. Birkerts appeared.
‘Cloke Street from on high, detective,’ said Villani. ‘High and well away, going somewhere else. Spook the cunt, they will patrol the Hume until they retire.’
Birkerts inclined his head.
‘And have the Salvos take a walk around there,’ said Villani. ‘In minutes, no buggering around.’
He sat for a time, got to work reading the currents. It did no good to create more urgency than was useful. Save a level of excitement for the Second Coming. Singleton. The master’s voice.
Then he went to Tracy’s desk, stood behind her. She was looking at her monitor, wrists up, hands dangling over her keyboard. She had long fingers. He had never noticed her fingers. She looked at him, the light caught the down on her upper lip.
‘What?’ she said.
‘Running him through the lot?’
‘Of course. Inspector.’
Villani went back, eyed the big room-the hung-up jackets, desks lost beneath files, boxes, stacked in-trays, mugs standing on walls of folders, cropped domes facing monitors. As if from a grave, a hand came up and drew down a speckled mug.
Ten years, how many hours here, sixteen-hour days? Would your daughter be on the streets with scum if you’d lived some other life, ordinary civilian kind of life? Home around six, check the homework, watch the news, join in the cooking, eat together, talk about things, what’s happening at school. Next weekend, get your backsides out of bed, I’ll teach you to ride a board, taught by an expert, now an expert will pass it on to you.
He became aware of eyes on him, aware of the dead air, of the humming, of a running-water sound-perhaps a failed lavatory cistern seal, a ruptured air-conditioner, fire sprinklers soaking empty offices above them.
He went back and rang Kiely.
‘Inspector,’ he said, ‘prepare to bring down the full weight of the surveillance state on this Kidd-family, friends, dogs, the lot.’
‘Inspector.’
‘But with delicacy. The prick gets a sniff…’
‘I’ve run this sort of thing before.’
‘In New Zealand,’ said Villani. ‘We’re not talking mystery sheep killings here.’ Too far-much too far, regret. ‘A bad joke. No more sheep jokes. I promise.’
‘Not a problem,’ said Kiely. ‘Runs off you. You know it’s only shitheads keep making them.’
‘Wow,’ said Villani. ‘That’s a throat punch. Take out a big woolly ram with that punch.’
He called Barry.
‘WE THINK we’ve got a vehicle at Oakleigh, boss.’
Barry said, ‘Boyo, tell me it’s much more than you think.’
‘We got the last two digits of a white Prado’s number off a security camera. We have a white Prado match on the tollway forty minutes on. The timing is right.’
‘And you have the owner’s name?’
‘Yes, sir. Doesn’t mean he’s the driver.’
Barry spoke to someone in the room with him. Villani couldn’t hear what he said.
‘What’s his name?’ said Barry.
‘Kidd. James Heath Kidd.’
‘James Heath Kidd. Now that’s promising,’ said Barry. ‘Told Mr Colby?’
‘About to, boss.’
‘Why don’t you wait a few minutes, Stephen? Ten. That’s a good wait.’
‘We may need a Section 27 from him in minutes. Emergency authorisation.’
‘Right. Do that then.’ Barry made a gargling sound. ‘You’ll be taking proper care here, Stephen? To avoid stuffing this thing up.’
‘My word, boss.’
‘But you won’t be taking too long?’