And then, come Monday, it would be his job to see to the whining little shit.
On his desk, a note from Dove about the Preston excavations:
Young female, dead at least three months. Also remains of male, age forty-plus, pictures of rings on little fingers supplied by forensic suggest Hellhound. Armed Crime say strong possibility is Artie Macphillamy, 43, not seen for 18 months since involved in pub fight with Kenny Hanlon and others.
He rang Dance.
‘I hear you’ve left home,’ said Dance.
‘Where’d you hear that?’
‘The most expensive intelligence-gathering operation in police history at my disposal, where do you think I’d hear it? One of my blokes was in a pub.’
‘That’d be right. Question for you, I want a straight answer.’
‘When did you not? Professional? Personal?’
‘Both.’
‘I find the phone so impersonal,’ said Dance. ‘Take a walk down Bromby Street, I’ll come along in, ah, ten minutes. I take it you’re at work.’
Villani went out, sat on Dove’s desk. He was on the phone, finished the call.
‘What was his name? Birdy?’
‘Maggie,’ said Dove. ‘No phones in the name. Got his rego, put out a KALOF.’
‘Thousands of ancients on the road,’ said Villani. ‘Sitting in the caravan park looking at other ancients, the wife’s inside wiping surfaces, ironing, wearing a housecoat and an apron. That’s the reward for a lifetime’s work.’
‘Koenig,’ said Dove. ‘I reckon he wasn’t at Portsea.’
They were alike, their minds worked in the same strange cop way. ‘You reckon, do you? What about Bricknell?’
‘Koenig and Bricknell,’ said Dove. ‘I think we should try to shake Bricknell, boss.’
‘Shaking Koenig was so productive,’ said Villani. ‘Give me something more than phone calls, son.’
He took a smoke off Dove, stole his lighter, went down to the street. The heat pressed on him, it was too hot to smoke. He crossed the avenue and walked down Bromby Street. An Audi pulled up ahead of him, unlawful park. When he reached it, Dance bent his head, looked at him. Villani got in, chilled air, silent engine.
‘Nice car,’ said Villani. He lit the cigarette.
‘So what’s this?’ said Dance.
‘Minter Street, Southbank. A building called Exeter Place. Dogs on it. Yours?’
‘Minter Street,’ said Dance, thoughtful. ‘You have no idea how many people of interest live in Minter Street. They have gathered there, driven by some primitive drug-scum herding instinct.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘Yes. So if you don’t want to be logged entering and leaving Exeter Place, with or without Ms Markham, don’t go there. I’m not doctoring logs for you or anyone else.’
‘How’d fucking Searle see them?’
‘Gillam asked for them. For all I know he passed them around at a Rotary Club lunch, taped them to a hooker’s thigh.’
Villani said, ‘The story is I leaked the Koenig material to Ms Markham. DiPalma’s made it known I’m dead and Quirk’s coming back.’
Down his nose, Dance was watching three girls going by, bare, sweaty brown shoulders, midriffs, legs. They were arguing about something, not serious, extravagant gestures, pulling faces, big made-up eyes. He turned his killer-priest’s face to Villani as if averting his gaze from sin.
‘Well, Stevo,’ he said, ‘I hear that. There’s two possibilities. These tools get back in and try it on. Two, they don’t get back and the other lot does it for them. We have to hope the first doesn’t happen and plan for the second.’
‘Don’t know what hoping can do.’
‘You hope and also give things a shove.’
Dance was looking at Villani in a way that said: Don’t ask.
‘On election night,’ he said, ‘if it’s necessary, someone will tell the squatter’s wife that Quirk is baggage they don’t want, that people in the job will make sure they pay a terrible price for revisiting Greg.’
‘Price like what?’ said Villani. He knew.
‘The crypts will be unsealed, the vaults will be unlocked, the dead will walk. For openers, pictures of party icon shagging fifteen-year-old twink.’
Fifteen-year-old. Lizzie’s age. Villani said, ‘There’s something else. My little girl’s accused…’
Dance raised a hand. ‘Heard about that. Vick’ll get her found, we’ll work something out.’
He took a small player out of his shirt pocket, thumbed it, showed it: grainy picture, two men in evening dress, bow ties. One bent his head to the counter. He lifted his head, put a knuckle to his nose, sniffed. The hidden camera caught an Aren’t-I-a-clever-dog look.
‘When shove comes, Mr Barry will do what’s right or he gets the hot shot.’
It came to Villani that Dance was much, much more dangerous than he had ever thought.
‘Bob’d be in that pub up there now, wouldn’t he?’ said Dance. ‘Wait it out in the beer cellar. Too smart for the defend-your-property shit.’
‘No,’ Villani said ‘He’s got a firetruck and a bulldozer and he’s got Gordie and he’s going nowhere.’
Dance looked at him for a while. ‘Well, you make a stand somewhere, don’t you,’ he said. ‘Choose your friends, choose your fight.’
He opened the box between the seats and took out a mobile.
‘Call you, give you a number.’
Villani took it and went into the day. The wind was in the north now, coming from a burning hot, stone-dry place.
THE PAGE lay on his desk. He looked at it again.
Received 02.49: WHAT?
Sent 02.50: SOON.
Received 03.01:?????
Sent 03.04: GOING IN.
Sent 03.22: OTU BANZAI OK
Kidd and Larter near the house in Oakleigh.
Someone waiting for a message from them. Someone also close by. An impatient person, two messages in ten minutes. Who?
What were the two men waiting for? Had the lights gone out in the house? Did they want to be sure the Ribarics and Vern Hudson were asleep?
Four minutes past three: the decision to move. GOING IN.
Just shadows moving. At the back door. One kick, take the latch and the screws out of the woodwork. They were professionals.
03.22: Job done. Hudson dead, the Ribarics tied to the steel shed pillars with tape, their mouths would be taped too.
Time to call the impatient person waiting. The man with the knife. This wasn’t an ordinary run-through, this wasn’t ordinary payback. It was far, far beyond payback. This was a desire to inflict terrible things on the brothers.
OTU BANZAI OK.
Over to you. Banzai. OK.
Why OK?
Villani closed his eyes, no energy in him. His last Saturday in the job. You could survive a lot of things but not child sex-charges. Crime commissioner. That prospect hadn’t lasted long.
Why OK?
Why hadn’t he been suspended? Why hadn’t Gillam issued the instruction? What were they waiting for? Was it a matter of timing? Did they want him to resign like Koenig?
She says a Father Donald, he came. He’d kissed the Holy Father’s ring, and he asked her a lot of questions and he said she’d be at God’s right hand for telling Father Cusack about the evil. Pretty much a booked seat. Specially blessed. Yeah.
Villani felt a coldness on his face, as if the room had its own weather, a cool change from the south-west, from Singo’s box of junk.
The evil. Telling Father Cusack. Who told Father Donald. What about the confidentiality of confession? Could priests swap confessions with each other? Perhaps in their own confessions they could say things to their confessors, who could in turn…