No.
The evil. What story of evil could Valerie Crossley tell Father Cusack? A story she’d waited to tell until she saw her own death.
The thought came to him. He dismissed it. It came back. He got up, the thrumming in his body, he went to find Birkerts. He was half-hidden behind folders.
‘A moment of your precious time,’ said Villani. ‘Where were the Ribarics in 1994?’
‘Thought I heard someone say we didn’t need any more Ribaric family history?’
‘My mood’s changed. Experiencing mood swings.’
Birkerts sighed. ‘I’ll ask the custodian of the Rib family history. Like you, he forgets nothing. I think it’s an illness.’
Villani went back to his desk, couldn’t resume drowsing, stood up, saw the file Burgess had brought: the girl on the snow road. He went out. Dove was on the phone, put his hand over the mouthpiece.
‘Read this,’ said Villani. ‘My eyes hurt.’
The weekend switch operator’s hand up, the phone sign.
‘Boss,’ said Tomasic, ‘in 1994, the Ribs were in Geelong.’
Relief. Not losing it yet.
‘How do you know?’
‘Six months suspended in the Geelong Magistrates’ Court in March 1994. Assault.’
‘Dig it out, Tom, the details. Matter of urgency.’
‘System’s giving lots of shit, boss. Just goes blank.’
‘We all just go blank. Talk to the cops there, must be some cunt remembers. And Father Donald. I want Father Donald. If you have to ask the Pope.’
He went to Birkerts. ‘Little excursion to Geelong. Pass the time.’
Birkerts didn’t look up. ‘Rather pass razorblades. In connection with what urgent matter, inspector?’
‘Metallic. Oakleigh.’
‘Irresistible. Saddle up and ride.’
IT TOOK almost an hour to find anyone connected with St Anselm’s Parish and then it was done only by ringing Tomasic.
‘There’s Annette Hogan,’ he said. ‘She wrote to Mrs Crossley. See what I can do, boss. Call you back.’
Tomasic rang when they were sitting in the heat, drinking bad coffee at a place on the waterfront. The whole area had been worked on by architects, every place he went back to had been tricked out.
‘Spoke to the friend, she’ll be home in fifteen,’ Tomasic said. ‘Newtown. Know where that is, boss?’
‘Can you find your dick, son? Address?’
Annette Hogan came to the door, a tall, desiccated woman in her sixties, beaky nose, led them into a sitting room. One of the chairs still had its plastic wrapping.
Birkerts asked the question.
‘Father Cusack died about six months ago,’ she said. ‘He’d had a few heart attacks.’
‘He had a parishioner called Valerie Crossley,’ said Birkerts.
‘Mrs Crossley, yes. She’s dead too. A month ago, thereabouts.’
‘This is delicate, Mrs Hogan,’ said Birkerts, ‘but it’s very important. Do you know anything about the last confession Mrs Crossley made to Father Cusack?’
Annette Hogan’s eyes widened. ‘You’re not thinking Father Cusack would tell anyone about a confession, are you? Don’t you know about the sanctity of the confessional? Not Catholic, are you?’
‘No,’ said Birkerts. ‘Proddy dog. Lapsed.’
‘Well, he’d be excommunicated, wouldn’t he? In the confessional you’re facing the power of God. The priest can never speak of what he hears. He’d be sinning. Good heavens.’
‘Sorry,’ said Birkerts.
Silence. In the passage, a board creaked. Villani thought that would be the friend.
‘There’s a Father Donald,’ said Villani. ‘I don’t know if that’s the first name or the surname.’
She was still offended at the heathen inquiry. ‘Father Donald? Not in this town. Never heard of a Father Donald.’
Villani stood, Birkerts followed.
‘Well, thank you, Mrs Hogan. Did you know Mrs Crossley?’
‘Not really, no.’
Villani said, ‘The place where she died? Where’s that.’
Annette Hogan gave them directions. She walked them to her front gate and waited for them to drive away.
‘I don’t think we’re on a winner here,’ said Birkerts.
‘We may not even be on a horse,’ said Villani. ‘Look for somewhere to buy smokes.’
They stopped at a fish and chips shop. Villani went in, hunger took him, he had trouble remembering breakfast. He went back to the car with cigarettes and six dollars worth of chips, hacked with a cleaver, six to a big spud. They ate them on the spot, the oily parcel steaming sharp vinegar on the armrest between them.
‘This’s how the cars get their smell,’ said Birkerts, taking the last chip, chewing, thoughtful. ‘Egg farts, Whoppers, vinegar, chip fat, cigarette smoke, Old Spice, four-day socks.’
‘Put it in an aerosol, subdue the violent with a spray in the face,’ said Villani.
‘Then shoot them a few times to be on the safe side. Why are we going to this gerry place? I’m not making connections.’
‘In time, you may see the utility,’ said Villani.
‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ said Birkerts. ‘Just being with you.’
‘I’ll come around to your house inspections. Shitfaced. Tell everyone I’m the neighbour. Break stuff. Jump in the pool.’
Birkerts turned the key. ‘Navigate me,’ he said.
IT WAS a T-shape of yellow brick, a tarmac parking area, a dozen splintering E. nicholi in a long strip of dead grass.
They went up a concrete ramp with handrails. In a waiting room with brown vinyl tiles, Birkerts pressed a bell five or six times.
A door opened and a sad red-faced balding woman in blue came out.
‘Not visiting hours,’ she said.
Birkerts showed her the badge, said who they were. She went redder.
‘I’ll get matron,’ she said. ‘Have to wake her.’
They went outside, leant against the rails, smoked.
‘What happens on a free Saturday night?’ Villani said.
‘Thought you’d never ask,’ said Birkerts. ‘Used to take my wife to dinner. Then I took this other person to dinner. Now I get a pizza in. Have to be careful you don’t order a Coke with it. Costs a hundred bucks and you don’t even get a straw.’
Knocks on the glass door.
They went in, the receptionist showed them to an office. The woman behind the chipboard desk had blood in her eyes, bleached hair, the face of a barmaid turned wardress.
‘Shirley Conroy, matron,’ she said. ‘Police, I gather.’
‘Introduce you to Inspector Stephen Villani,’ said Birkerts. ‘Head of the Victoria Police Homicide Squad.’
‘Meetcha,’ the matron said, not impressed. ‘Sit if you want.’
‘Mrs Valerie Crossley,’ said Villani.
‘What about her?’
‘She died recently.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Someone came to see her a few months before. A priest. Is that right?
‘What’s it about, this?’
‘We’re the police, matron,’ said Villani. ‘We ask the questions. Ever had any benefit from a patient’s will?’
Lockdown. Tight mouth, eyes.
‘Moving on then,’ said Villani. ‘Someone other than Father Cusack visit Mrs Crossley not long before she died? Easy question that. I have others. They get harder.’
No hesitation. ‘Yeah, a man said he was a relly.’
‘Keep a record of visitors?’
‘Properly run, this place,’ she said. ‘Inspected twice a year.’
‘I’d be profoundly shocked if it wasn’t. See the book?’
Matron pressed a button on her phone, they could hear the shrill sound from the next room. The blue woman opened the door.
‘Visitors’ register, Judith.’
Judith took seconds. Matron found the page with ease, turned the book to face Villani, pointed at a line.
Name: K. D. Donald
Relationship: Nephew.