‘Not me, mate. Had it with fucken German cars, had it with the Krauts. Holden SV now, mate. Aussie car.’
In the doorway appeared a woman in a cream velvet tracksuit. She was snap-frozen at around sixty, blonded, bee-swollen, decorated in a glowing shade of peach, bright pink plump collagen lips.
‘Guests, Kenny,’ she said. ‘So early.’
‘Give us ten, Suzie, there’s a love,’ Hanlon said.
The woman smiled at Villani, it lingered as though facial muscles had gone into spasm. ‘So lovely to meet you,’ she said. She left, beatific.
Hanlon stood, reached to a counter and picked up cigarettes, Camels. ‘Smoke?’
They didn’t respond. Villani went to the door and closed it, turned the lock. He looked around the room at the commercial coffee machine, the stainless-steel fridges, the stone-topped counter. ‘Our understanding,’ he said, ‘is that you keep hookers jailed in a house in Preston. Confirm that?’
Hanlon pulled a face. ‘Reality check here. Can I go back to planet fucken earth? Rejoin the human race?’
‘Rejoining would require prior membership,’ said Dove.
‘Who’s this smartarse boong?’ said Hanlon. ‘Can’t get white people to join you cunts now? Scrapin the fucken barrel?’
Villani looked away, moved closer, balanced himself, hit Hanlon under his ribs, big right hand punch, gave him a left in the ribs, a heavy right into a flabby pectoral.
Hanlon went to his knees and puked, yellow, projectile.
‘Respect, Kenny,’ said Villani. ‘Even if you don’t respect the man, you have to respect the badge.’
He found a dishcloth on the benchtop, threw it at Hanlon. ‘Clean it up before the Botox witch sees it, Kenny. She might paddle your hairy arse. Or does she do that for you anyway?’
Hanlon wiped his mouth with the cloth, wiped the tiles, stood up. ‘Die for that,’ he said. ‘Fucken die.’
‘Detectives, note that Mr Hanlon threatened me with death,’ said Villani. ‘Kenny, I’m giving you a chance to talk to us. Might save your life.’
Hanlon sighed, Villani heard resignation. ‘How stupid you think I am? How stupid are you? Couldn’t save my fucken cat’s life.’
‘Clears that up,’ said Villani. He smiled at Dove, turned the smile on Hanlon. ‘Enjoyed talking to you. Kenneth.’
‘That’s it?’ said Hanlon. Hands in the air, hairy fingers, two gold rings on each hand, forefinger and pinky.
‘Unless you want to say something.’
Hanlon found a cigarette, lit up with a plastic lighter, lifted his head, blew smoke out of his nostrils. ‘Goodbye. I want to say that. Goodbye.’
‘Those Camels,’ said Villani. ‘Duty paid?’
‘Bloke give me a carton.’
‘Bloke in a pub?’
‘You know him?’
At the kitchen door, Hanlon said to Villani, ‘Occurs to me, you related to Dr Marko?’
‘Never heard of him, sunshine,’ said Villani. ‘Face the wall, close up, hands behind you. You’re under arrest.’
‘Don’t be fucken…’
‘Draw your weapon, Detective Weber,’ said Villani. ‘Mr Hanlon is about to resist arrest. Kenny, I’ll kick your balls off and then we’ll shoot you.’
‘Like you done Greg Quirk?’
Villani took back his right hand. Hanlon looked into his eyes and he turned, put his hands behind his back. Weber cuffed him and told him his rights.
Villani pointed to the mobiles on the table. Dove put them in his inside pocket.
‘Open the door, Detective Dove,’ said Villani. ‘You go first, Mr Hanlon. And tell your prick outside to keep his hands out of his clothes or we’ll kill him and that will be a pleasure and a public service.’
At the car, Weber in the back with Hanlon, Dove’s mobile sang. He plugged it into his ear, talked, put it away, looked at Villani with bright eyes.
‘Where you suggested, boss,’ he said. ‘Tomasic’s got a bloke, just come on shift a minute ago.’
Villani rang the number. ‘Villani. Got a piece of shit to be taken off my hands. Yeah. Twenty minutes.’
To Dove he said, ‘Charge him with accessory to murder, conspiracy to pervert, deprivation of liberty, any old fucking thing crosses your mind. Then he can wait for Monday, have a little time to think.’
IN THE security office, Villani shook hands with the man. He had a big belly and a beard like faded red moss and should have been retired in Venus Bay.
‘Tell me, Vic,’ said Villani.
‘Well, I seen her comin at the Dudley Street corner,’ said Vic. ‘Light’s not bad there, and she run across the street and I seen she’s got no shoes on. She sees me, she runs up to me, she can’t hardly breathe she’s that tired.’
‘What’s she look like?’ said Villani.
‘Just a kid. Like sixteen maybe? Thin, white skin, black hair.’ He touched his shoulders to show the length. ‘She got on like a party dress, black? Those little straps, y’know.’
‘Shoelaces?’
‘Yeah. Them. Red lipstick.’
‘What did she say?’
‘Got no English. Very little.’
‘So?’
‘So I said, come with me and we come around here. She’s really scared, she’s jabberin on in Romanian and she’s lookin back, down Peel and she’s kinda tryin to hide in front of me. Y’know? Like gettin in my way?’
‘Romanian?’ said Villani.
‘Yeah. Didn’t know what it was. Just wog jabber to me, mate.’
‘And?’
‘I give the other bloke a call. Made tea, she can’t hardly drink it. Anyway, he comes, name’s Maggie, he’s a wog too. He can’t understand her but he says she’s a Romanian, he gets that. So he says, get the police and she knows about police, she goes ballistic, no, no, no, she’s crying.’
‘Common reaction,’ said Dove.
Vic laughed. ‘So, anyway, Maggie says he knows a Romanian, he’ll ring him in the morning. We tell her don’t worry, no police, make a bed for her in the back. She just drops off like that, curls up, she’s dead to the world.’
Villani said, ‘In the morning?’
‘Maggie rung the bloke, puts her on, she talks to him. I knocked off but he come around for her. Maggie stayed on.’
‘How do we get hold of Maggie?’
‘On holiday. With the caravan. By himself. Monday he went.’
‘Went where?’
Vic shrugged. ‘Dunno, mate. Fishin, mad keen. Mad Collingwood, mad fishin. Go anywhere.’
‘Phone number?’
Vic went to a shelf and found a torn folder, put it on the table. It held stapled pages. He ran his finger down one. ‘Jeez, the turnover here, mate, you wouldn’t believe. Here. Name’s Bendiks Vanags. How’s that for a name?’
‘Means hawk,’ said Tomasic. ‘Vanags.’
‘Yeah,’ said Vic. ‘He said that. That’s why they call him Maggie. Got a pen?’
Dove wrote down the number. ‘Mobile?’ he said.
‘No mobile here.’
‘Got a family?’
‘No, mate. All alone. The wife give him the arse, that’s a while ago. Years.’
‘Get the address off you,’ said Dove.
They went outside, the scorching day, hard planes of light off the windscreens in the parking lot, Dove on the phone as they walked.
Lizzie. Did it cross her mind that she would destroy him? He took out his phone.
‘Mate,’ said Vickery, third-pack-of-the-day voice, last drink.
Villani described the man. Dreadlocks, tatts on his face, between his eyes. Dirty did not have to be said.
‘I remember,’ said Vickery. ‘Beat the drums for the cunt now.’ Pause. ‘Constructive conversations important, not so? So everybody faces the rising sun.’
‘Absolutely no question, mate,’ said Villani, the taste of copper in his mouth.
BIRKERTS PUT a page on the desk.
‘Texts,’ he said. ‘In a possible time frame, in the LAI. But no date.’
Villani looked.
Received 02.49: WHAT?
Sent 02.50: SOON.