Colby put his hands behind his neck, rolled his head on the thick trunk, eyes on the ceiling. ‘Right, well, there’s Homicide’s saintly business and then there’s your career,’ he said. ‘Mr Barry this morning, 6.45am, I’m just back from my twenty-k run, you understand. Feeling perky. He says Gillam rang him and expressed his happiness about Homicide. And guess who rang fucking Gillam?’
‘Yes?’
‘To be clear here,’ said Colby, ‘your thinking was, we’ll just sit and watch, the whole thing will open like a flower?’
Villani said, ‘You know what my thinking is, boss. They should worry about who gave up Kidd and his mate. That’s what they have to worry about.’
‘It’s you I’m worrying about,’ said Colby. ‘Sucked in by this high-tech crap, Crucible bullshit. Ten million hours of fucking phone taps, you can sit there watching exciting vision of arseholes in cars, scratching their balls, doesn’t matter that it adds up to a pint of warm piss.’
Villani had nothing to say because to some extent it was true. The new world of surveillance was intoxicating, seeing the city from on high, zooming in on alleys and back yards, following pursuits as they happened.
‘And at the end of it,’ said Colby, ‘we say fuck to the high-tech, we go jumping over walls and running after a certified ex-SOG psycho who’s quite happy to shoot cops. Fucking pig-stupid or what?’
Eyes locked.
Villani said, ‘I’m sorry. Had some really bad examples to follow. Dumb turkeys jumped on moving cars.’
Colby’s phone murmured. He agreed with the caller five or six times, deferential, hard gaze always on Villani, marbles expressed more meaning. He said goodbye, put the receiver down.
‘There’s a feeling you should be less visible on Oakleigh, Metallic, for a while,’ he said.
‘Whose feeling is that?’
‘Just accept it.’
‘I’m guilty of something, am I? Fuck that.’
Colby pulled an ear, a dried apricot. ‘Think, son. Strategise. We are in a delicate phase. The present lot are now dying fish, Orong’s eyes are glassing over. But they’re still hoping, still paranoid about bad news. On the other side, Mrs Rottweiler Mellish’s got her whole kennel out sniffing for damaging shit.’
He gazed at Villani. ‘You, for example, are damaging shit.’
‘Damaged,’ said Villani.
‘Yes. Both. Second, Gillam’s going to the feds, heaven help the fuckwits, average IQ drops even lower. Mr Barry steps up, acting chief commissioner. I hear that. But not until after the election. So the mick’s got to suck both sides of the street.’
‘I’m slower than usual,’ said Villani.
‘Why’s Barry holding your dick, taking you to meet the glitterati?’
‘Tell me, boss,’ he said.
Colby held up his hands, meshed fingers short and blunt, set like a cactus. In the squad offices, Villani once saw him pick up an armed robber and throw him across a desk into the wall. An old calendar fell down, draped itself over the man’s head.
‘The farmer’s wife wants O’Barry for Pope,’ Colby said. ‘Cleanskin, untainted by the culture. But the boyo himself, he knows it’s a moon landing. The twat’s walking around in the big boots, fucking fishbowl on his head. Knows zero plus buggerall about the place he’s in. At. On. Whatever.’
‘Yes?’ said Villani.
‘So he wants a mate,’ said Colby. ‘He badly needs a mate. Smart person done the shit from the street up, done all the work, fired upon by the scum, a brave and loyal member, no one has a bad word.’
‘Heard about Quirk?’ said Villani.
‘Hear everything,’ said Colby. ‘Anyway, Barry’s the fat kid sucks up to the tough boy. Buys him the Mars Bars.’
‘Me?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘He’s got a tough boy. He’s got you.’
‘No, no, mate, he can’t trust me.’
Villani shook his head, he had no idea how this worked, he didn’t care much either, partly lack of sleep, partly the stupidity of going to the gym. He could feel every punch Les had landed.
‘I’m slow here,’ he said.
‘Well, you, it worked, you’d go straight to crime commissioner,’ said Colby.
‘Me?’ This could not be right.
‘You.’
‘No. Anybody ever done a jump like that before?’
‘Look around, son. Just traffic deadshits, long-lasting legacy of our lady Fatima. You now stick out like a hardie in the convent showers. Proper cop.’
‘And you?’
‘Well, roll the dice,’ said Colby. ‘I’m happy to take a package. Anyway, the mick wants you below the parapet for a while. Racing with cover.’
‘And Kidd?’
‘I’ve heard the tape. There’s nothing there.’
‘He was going nowhere before he got that call,’ said Villani. ‘Then he takes another one on his auntie’s mobile and they’re off. And not in the Prado.’
‘Pure fucking supposition. Anyway, assuming he was dropped, there’s no way we can find the dog. Yes?’
‘We can try.’
Colby blew like a horse. ‘Mate, mate, don’t dial-a-turd here, the job leaks from the minister to the fucking typists. Who’d you give the name to first? Mr Barry?’
‘My recollection, yes,’ said Villani.
‘In that case, my advice is forget it. What we want is ballistics matching Oakleigh to the dead blokes. Then we can close the door on this shit. Be grateful people are looking out for you.’
Villani did not feel grateful. ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.
‘Yeah. Searle’s the worry here, he’d like to see me buried. Whole Searle family’d have a wakey. My distinction is, I punched out two Searles in one fight, this cunt’s old man and his uncle, two weaker dogs you never saw. Know that?’
‘Yes, boss.’
Everyone in the job knew it, it was legend. From never speaking of it, Colby had now told the story five or six times in the last year. Not a good sign.
‘Collingwood, of course,’ said Colby. ‘Fucking over the slopes, that was the Searle speciality. Kings of Richmond, lords of Saturn Bay, there even the mozzies obey them and the tradies build their houses out of stuff stolen off building sites.’ He coughed. ‘I gather you’ve carried on Singleton’s policy of treating Searle like dogshit.’
‘He is dogshit.’
‘No argument on facts, your honour. The point is I hear the squatter’s wife’s told the vermin he’s her pick for media boss. Subject to performance. You with me?’
‘Boss.’
Pointing. ‘What’s that red?’
‘Old bloke hit me,’ said Villani.
Colby blinked at him. ‘Not still doing that shit?’
Villani shrugged.
‘Why don’t you go for a fucking walk in King Street? People will hit you for nothing.’
HE TOOK his seat, clear desk, looked at the big room outside. It was more than two years since he’d taken charge, the day of Singo’s stroke. Even if you thought you didn’t deserve to be the boss, it grew on you. After a while you didn’t think anyone else could do it better.
Kiely came out, touched his oiled hair, walked around the room, people ignored him, came to Villani’s door.
‘Instructions?’ he said.
Villani said, ‘Found out who sold Kidd yet?’
‘I’d like to say,’ said Kiely, a little liplick. ‘I want it on record that I think this squad should be managed in a professional manner. Not like a bad restaurant where the manager also wants to do the cooking.’
He would have to die. Villani felt the pressure in his head, considered letting go, saying, Take over, I’ve got flu coming on, going home, the old couch in the back room, sleep, sleep.
The old couch was long gone. And it wasn’t his home anymore.
‘Is that walking away from your fuck-ups?’ he said.
Kiely’s eyes wide. ‘Excuse me, nothing last night was my responsibility.’
‘I mentioned the full weight of the surveillance state, didn’t I? No laser, no tags, we let the prick run out of his back door, fire at me and Winter and then bloody vanish. Want more?’