A lane, another door at the end, open. Twenty strides and he was out onto the pavement.
A leafy street, jammed with parked cars, lamplight in ragged-edged puddles. Left, right? He went right, crossed the road, ran, heard the roar and squeal of a car around the corner, not far away.
He got there. Taillights, brake lights, a vehicle swung right, it was too dark to identify, he heard more tyre complaints, it had turned again.
Someone running. He came around the bend, gun drawn. Tomasic.
‘See it?’ said Villani.
‘Ford,’ said Tomasic. ‘Two men.’
Winter came up behind Villani, gun in one hand, radio in the other.
‘Tell Inspector Kiely we want a chopper,’ said Villani. ‘Highest priority. Two males, armed.’ He gestured to Tomasic.
‘Ford Mark 2,’ said Tomasic. ‘XR6, spoiler, dark colour. Travelling west.’
They walked back, Winter talking to control.
Career-destroying moment, Villani thought. At least he’d gone over the wall after Kidd. They couldn’t say he’d shirked it.
IN THE communications vehicle, they watched the monitors. Grey highway vision from the helicopter: four lanes, Western Ring Road, six or seven vehicles visible.
Target behind two semis, he’s not in a hurry. Skyeye Two falling back now.
The Ford and two early-start truckies travelling together. Receding vision.
The helicopter said:
Pursuit vehicles entering freeway.
Two cars on the entry ramp.
Static. Radio:
Control to CV, support vehicles on Deer Park ramp await instructions, please.
They looked at him.
Villani said, ‘Proceed, stay ahead, do nothing, we are accompanying target to Darwin if necessary.’
The operator repeated his words.
Copy that, Control.
Skyeye Two. Target in sight. He’s coming out…
The Ford pulling out, not fast, just overtaking.
Level with the back truck.
Deer Park exit approx one kilometre, CV, Control.
The Ford level with the front semi.
He’s picking up speed, left lane, could be looking to exit…Jesus, that’s grunt…Jesus…
The Ford seemed to jerk left, right, the driver losing control, it crossed two lanes, came back inside, fishtailing, seemed to be braking…
He’s lost control.
The Ford hit the left guardrail, a massive impact, the bonnet opened.
A puff, grey, like soiled cottonwool.
The semis passing the spot.
Fuck.
A fireball.
Target’s exploded. Like a bomb.
Control to all cars, this is Red, repeat Red, pursuit vehicles cordon freeway scene, we need medics…
The chopper went in low, hovered over the flames. There was no recognisable car. The engine block lay three metres from the drive shaft, the highway was littered with smoking pieces, the steering wheel a ring of flame, the back seat burning by the roadside. Beside it lay the upper half of a body.
In the van, hair wet with sweat, listening to the radio traffic, Villani watched the pursuit cars arrive, block the highway, apply the emergency drills.
Five dead now.
He said to the operator, ‘Tell them weapons in the car, that’s the priority.’
EYES IN sockets of gravel, Villani stood in Kidd’s kitchen. His mobile rang.
‘Stephen, Lizzie, what?’ Laurie.
‘Okay, yeah. Found her.’
‘Where is she?’
Hours ago, how many? His skin felt tight, as if he were expanding.
‘Ah, picked up on Beaconsfield Parade with these streeters, shitfaced. She’s at the station, I’ve been tied up, I was on my way…’
‘Police station?’
‘Where are you?’
‘On my way from the airport. She’s where?’
‘St Kilda. They’re hanging on to her.’
‘Quarter to two, how long’s she been there?’
‘A while, yeah. Hours. Can you collect her? Bad night for me, I’m not quite done.’
‘This is your daughter we’re talking about,’ said Laurie. ‘You miserable fucking bastard.’
End of call.
Colby came in, slit-eyed, slicked hair, hands in windcheater pockets, looked around like a man hired to fumigate the premises.
‘Up early, boss,’ said Villani. ‘Or late.’
‘Complete cock-up here,’ Colby said.
‘Can’t argue.’
‘No. When did this fucking death wish grip you?’
‘I’ll say, I’ll say there’s interesting stuff on the tape.’
Colby stared at him, blood in his eyes, deep lines from his nose. ‘Need a leak,’ he said. ‘Take a piss at your crime scene? Piss in a plastic bag?’
‘Down the passage, second left,’ said Villani.
He waited, dull mind, watching the fingerprint techs. He felt the weight of his body, the ache in his shoulders, his calves, felt the time since waking.
Finucane at his shoulder. ‘Boss, they say ID is going to take time. There’s near nothing left of the blokes. But they’ve got two guns.’
Colby came back. Finucane retreated.
‘Putting it mildly,’ Colby said, ‘you are in damage control big time. Forget about interesting stuff on any fucking tape, that’s in lock down, Fucking can of worms.’
‘Why?’
A Bob Villani look, the Jesus, how often do I have to show you?
‘Consider,’ said Colby, ‘how many people are inside this. The tollway people who told you. Your own holy mob. How many heard the name? Barry’s office. Me. What about me? Maybe I’m your dog.’
‘So?’
‘You tell your people they say a fucking word to anyone about interesting stuff on the tape it’s career over. Okay?’
Colby’s assistant arrived, spoke to him in a whisper.
‘Hyenas are here,’ Colby said. ‘Courtesy of Searle’s meerkats. I’m out the back. Need advice on what to say?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve learned something? Don’t fucking shock me.’
Villani waited a while. Finucane waited, hands in pockets. They went down, crossed the narrow yellow-tiled space to the glass doors, a uniform opened one. The line was a few metres away, three cops, lights, cameras, fat microphones, scruffy techs.
The talent dropped their cigarettes, stepped up, third-string talent, hair stiff with chemical preparations.
Villani went to the pack, blinded for a few seconds.
‘Good morning,’ he said, waited.
The Channel Nine youth raised a hand, said, ‘Inspector, the Oakleigh killings, this is, we’re told, can you confirm…’
‘No,’ said Villani.
‘It’s not the Oakleigh killings?’
‘All I have to say is this is a search of premises in the course of an investigation.’
Silence. This was not the script.
‘Inspector, the shots fired…’
‘It’s an attempt to interview someone of interest who left the scene before that could take place,’ said Villani. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some work to fit in before dawn.’
A woman said, ‘Inspector, don’t you think we deserve…’
Villani wanted to say Channel Seven deserved whatever it got, but he said, ‘I can’t say anything more because there’s nothing to say. Thank you.’
Finucane went ahead, the crowd parted, they walked in the street to the car, halfway down the block. Finucane did a careful U-turn.
‘Home, boss?’ he said.
‘What’s that again exactly?’ said Villani. ‘And where?’
Laurie’s VW was in the drive, the passage light on. In lead shoes, Villani walked down the path, stood before the door, looking for the key.
It opened.
Laurie.
‘Well, hi,’ said Villani. He went to kiss her, a reflex, but she moved back, said nothing.
‘Listen, I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Very bad day for drama. You got her?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘What?’