The call-waiting light.
‘Not a second longer than it takes to avoid a stuff-up,’ said Villani. ‘Boss.’
‘Good man.’
The waiting call.
Corin.
‘Dad, this cop rang. I told her everything. I think I should call Mum. She’s never going to forgive us…’
‘Ring her,’ said Villani. ‘She doesn’t return my calls. Tried Lizzie’s mobile?’
‘Yes. Every ten minutes. Off. What about you?’
‘Same. You home tonight?’
‘I’m having dinner with Gareth and his father. At Epigram.’
Gareth. Someone he should know. Someone who had a father, not a dad, a parent taken seriously, who took you to dinner at expensive restaurants.
‘Gareth is?’
‘I’ve told you. His father’s Graham Campbell. Campbell Connaught Bryan?’
His daughter dining with a super-rich corporate lawyer and his son.
‘Ah, that Gareth,’ he said. ‘Listen, you telling me Lizzie’s on drugs?’
‘Jesus, Dad, you a cop or what?’
‘I’d be happier as a what. Just tell me.’ He had set his mind against it.
‘Well, on, what does on mean? She’s hanging out with this shitface, don’t be naïve.’
It came to that.
Villani said, ‘Listen, when they find her, I might call you, spoil your evening, okay?’
Just one second too long. ‘I don’t actually want anything to do with her, Dad.’
‘She’s your sister, Corin.’
‘First she’s your kid.’
‘Okay, forget it,’ he said. ‘Have a good time.’
‘Dad,’ said Corin. ‘I’ll come. Call me and I’ll come.’
His girl. Someone who loved him. What the hell had Laurie been thinking? Lizzie was fifteen, no one at home most of the time, what did her mother think would become of her?
Then, as if looking into a mirror, he saw his stupidity and he looked away from himself, shamed.
Tracy.
‘Boss, Kidd’s ex-force. Special Operations Group for three years, five years’ service in total. Resigned three years ago.’
‘Oh Jesus, what’s his record?’
‘On the beat, second year, cleared of using excessive force on a mental who died. Since quitting, two speeding offences.’
‘Get me the SOG boss, whatever musclebrain that now is.’
It took six minutes. Villani thought about Deke Murray, Matt Cameron’s best mate, the Armed Robber who became SOG boss. He was called The Unforgiver, never forgot, never forgave.
The man’s name was Martin Loneregan.
‘Mate, a James Kidd,’ said Villani. ‘Left three years ago.’
‘What’s this?’
‘Serious stuff.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, he quit.’
‘Why?’
‘People quit, they quit.’
Villani said, ‘I’d appreciate your help here, Martin. Concerns dead people.’
‘Kidd’s involved?’
‘The name’s got our attention.’
‘Well, there’s procedure, privacy. All that.’
‘Martin, Commissioner Barry will ask you the questions, that’ll take a few minutes I’d like to save. This a mate thing?’
Spitting sound.
‘Personality issues,’ said Loneregan. ‘A selection failure, basically.’
‘Took three years to notice?’
‘People comment on how you run Homicide?’
‘Sorry, mate.’
‘Yeah, well, I’ll just say the arsehole pressed the down button three weeks after I took over. Had to send out for Kleenex for the whole squad.’
‘Not lovable then. So some violent drug thing, you’d say that?’
‘Any kind of shit you care to name. The boy’s psycho.’
‘Trouble you for an address?’ said Villani.
‘Hang on.’
He hung, closed his eyes, moved his head.
‘You there?’ said Loneregan.
‘Here,’ said Villani.
‘It’s a unit, 21, Montville, 212 Roma Street, South Melbourne.’
Villani tapped it in, the image of the area appeared, 212 arrowed. ‘Much obliged.’
‘Bob Villani. Relation?’
‘My dad.’
‘Vietnam?’
‘Yeah, he was, yeah.’
‘Still ticking?’ said Loneregan.
‘Last time I looked.’
‘Mate, ask him about a Danny Loneregan. Daniel. My old man. Just got this one photo, it’s three blokes, one’s a Bob Villani.’
Another member of The Team. First in, last out. Ten years, four months, sixteen days, the longest serving unit in any war, just a thousand men in all and four Victoria Crosses, a hundred and ten other decorations.
My dad says your dad’s got war medals.
That was how Villani found out about Bob’s war. He would never have learned anything about Vietnam from Bob.
‘Yes, certainly do that,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Given under duress. We’ll be loaded with this cunt. Not the force, no. It only accepted him. It’ll be member of elite Special Operations Group gone bad, all that shit.’
‘Well, price you pay for fame.’ Villani was looking at the close-up. There was a house over the wall from the parking area, a long narrow swimming pool. ‘Kidd didn’t leave any mates with you did he?’
‘I can say not a single fucking soul.’
‘Buy you a coldie, then.’
‘Got my number,’ said Loneregan. ‘Listen, my old man. Ask, will you? When you see your dad. He might have a picture, y’know…’
In the kickarse voice Villani heard the boy who never had a father, only a photograph, a face, he would look for himself in that face.
‘Didn’t come back?’ said Villani.
‘No,’ said Loneregan.
‘Well. Honoured dead.’
‘Shot outside a bar. Bar, whorehouse.’
‘I’ll ask Bob,’ said Villani. ‘Get back to you.’
He rang Colby.
‘This is as of when?’ said Colby.
‘Just on the radar. We hope to need a Section 27. Mr Kiely will be on to you.’
‘I’ll pass the word. Run anything major by me. Think Cromarty, son. Think never again.’
Would they ever let him forget Cromarty? His crime was to trust senior officers to behave like trained policemen.
‘Yes, boss,’ Villani said.
‘A fucking arrest, that’s the ticket. Show we’re getting somewhere. With me?’
‘Boss.’
Villani looked at the tendon standing proud of his forearm. He relaxed his grip on the handset. Birkerts outside. Villani waved.
‘The Salvos have been there,’ he said. ‘Essendon is Kidd’s aunt’s house. Her name’s Hocking. She says he stayed there long ago, still gets mail, still drops by. Gave her an early Christmas present this year-thousand bucks, cash. Wouldn’t let her open the envelope while he was there.’
‘You could love such a boy,’ said Villani.
Kiely in the door.
‘The chopper says no vehicle visible at Cloke Street. We’ve got a J. H. Kidd off the tenants’ database. Roma Street, South Melbourne.’
‘That’s him,’ said Villani.
‘It’s a block of flats, third-floor flat. The chopper’s looking now.’
Villani waved, they left. He sat, hands in his lap, palms up, the scar ran from little finger to the right thumb pad, his first year in the job, sliced by a cook, the cut went to the bones.
Rose Quirk’s garden.
Jesus. He hadn’t been there since Cup Day, the day he put in the tomatoes.
He dialled. It rang, rang, he knew it was going to ring out, she answered.
‘Ma, Stephen.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Busy. Yeah. Really busy, tied up. You okay?’
‘I’m fine. Just a bit weak.’
‘Taking the tablets?’
She did a bit of her coughing, he knew her coughing, it was a tactical move. ‘Make me feel sick,’ she said.
‘For God’s sake, Ma, take them.’
‘Weeds takin over here.’
‘I’ll fix the weeds. Take the tablets. Tomatoes coming on?’
‘They like the hot. I give them a little drip every night.’
‘Good. I’ll be around soon as I can.’
‘Screen door’s buggered. Something wrong with the pump thing.’