She picked up the phone. ‘Your brother’s here, doctor. Okay. Right.’ She smiled at Villani. ‘Doctor will see you next.’
Villani sat as far away from the others as possible, hands in his lap. He closed his eyes, tried to think of nothing, failed. He opened his eyes. The child was looking at him. She took off towards him, plodding and uncertain steps.
‘Dadda,’ she said. ‘Dadda.’
‘Shayna, leave the man alone,’ said a young woman in a man’s leather jacket. She had a tattoo around her neck below the Adam’s apple, a strand of blue barbed wire. The child ignored her, eyes fixed on Villani, took another step, held out her dimpled arms.
Villani looked away. How had the budding neurosurgeon ended up in this sad dump?
‘Dadda,’ the child said.
The old man made a popping sound like a failing two-stroke ignition. It might have been a laugh. He pointed at Villani. ‘Nailed yer, mate,’ he said. ‘Nailed yer.’
‘Shut yer fucken mouth,’ said the woman. ‘Stupid old cunt.’
‘Fuck you too,’ said the man. ‘Seed you got two more in the car. Three fucken dads no doubt.’
‘Mr Stewart, kindly be quiet or wait outside,’ said the receptionist. ‘And you’ll wait all day.’
The child took another step towards Villani. ‘Dadda,’ she said.
The woman came out of her chair, wrenched the child away by the arm, sat down holding her tight. The child began to whimper and tears rolled down her fat cheeks. Her eyes never left Villani.
The door opened and a pimpled teenage boy came out, perhaps sixteen, olive-skinned, Elvis hair. He looked straight ahead, walked. Mark Villani stuck his head out. ‘Steve,’ he said.
The consulting room had a temporary look, a chipboard desk, a cheap computer, an examination table covered with a sheet, not sparkling white. The calendar was for 2009.
They sat.
‘Been meaning to call you,’ said Mark. He had grown his hair, grown a little goatee, a ring in an earlobe.
‘Saw you outside,’ said Villani. ‘At the black Holden.’
Mark lifted his chin, blinked twice, looked down at the desk pad, wrote something. ‘Patient left his prescription behind.’
‘I could see you knew him.’
‘Of course, I know him. He’s a patient.’
‘Could have sent the receptionist.’
Mark looked up. ‘You here to tell me how to run my practice?’
‘He’s not a model citizen, your patient. Know that?’
Mark shook his head. ‘Steve,’ he said, ‘I actually don’t ask sick people to present character references. Feeling crook is enough.’
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I also don’t discuss my patients with other people. That’s a principle among doctors. Not heard of it? I suppose you’re in the pub telling the drunks about who murdered who?’
Villani waited, looking at his brother. Mark looked back, tapped a finger.
‘Nice of you to drop by,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got patients waiting. I’ll call you, find a time.’
‘Hellhounds,’ said Villani. ‘You’re associating with Hellhounds.’
Mark raised his upper lip. ‘Steve, don’t come the cop with me. The bloke’s a patient, he rides a Harley, I’ve got a Harley, we talk Harleys.’
‘Go round the clubhouse, do you?’
Mark picked up his ballpoint, clicked it, kept clicking it. ‘As I understand it, it’s just pool tables and beer fridges and a workshop.’
‘Are you fucking naïve or what?’
‘Listen, don’t tell me who I can talk to. Got fuckall to do with you, okay?’
‘No, it’s not okay,’ said Villani. ‘You’ve got something to do with me. I think that.’
‘Can we have this conversation some other time? I’m busy, I don’t have…’
Villani said, ‘So the golden boy’s now giving the wife and kids the arse, got a little beard, little earring and he’s associating with murdering bikie scum?’
Mark placed the ballpoint on the blotter, looked at his hands, opened and closed his fists. He had big hands, wiry hair on the backs. ‘Anybody punched you recently?’ he said.
‘Don’t give me tough, sonny,’ said Villani. ‘I’ll put you on your arse. I’m your brother. I’m telling you what you don’t want to hear.’
‘How’s your happy family?’ said Mark. ‘You still fucking everything in a skirt? You think Laurie doesn’t know? I’ve had enough sanctimonious crap from you.’
‘Fuck you.’ Villani got up. He had handled this badly, he was handling everything badly.
‘Sit down,’ said Mark. ‘Sit down, Steve.’
Villani sat.
‘Jesus, you’re a bully,’ said Mark.
‘People are telling me that,’ said Villani. ‘A boss manner, they say.’
‘Bullied the life out of me and Luke.’
Villani wanted to say, You’re only a doctor because I was a bully, but he said, ‘You’d both still be fast asleep if I hadn’t kicked you out of bed.’
Mark’s eyes were on the desk. ‘You were like a god, y’know? Always in charge, always knew what to do, so fucking cool and calm. I wanted to be like you. I wanted you to like me. You didn’t like me, did you? You don’t now.’
Villani felt unease, looked around. ‘Yeah, well, you’re my brother, like doesn’t come into it. I don’t want to see you fuck up your life. What’s wrong with you? There’s shit, right?’
Mark held his eyes, defiant.
Villani waited, folded his hands and waited, didn’t blink, didn’t shift his gaze.
Mark tossed his head and then he misted, blinked, and he put his arms on the desk and lowered his head, said something Villani couldn’t make out.
‘What? What?’
Mark looked up, more blinking. ‘I’m under investigation.’
‘By?’
‘Practitioners Board.’
‘For what?’
‘Prescribing and other stuff. They want me to suspend myself.’
‘Prescribing?’ He noticed for the first time that Mark’s eyes were a soft brown, not the glossy black olives of Bob Villani.
‘The pressure’s huge, you have to be in the game to understand, you…’
‘The game? This’s a game, is it? You’re saying you’ve got a habit, don’t fuck with me.’
‘It’s under control, Steve. Under control. I am coming out of a bad time, but, yes, it’s now under…’
‘What’s the stuff in this prescribing and stuff?’
‘Well, they have some, they have someone saying I treated someone for a wound. Gunshot wound.’
‘And that’s right, is it?’
‘Don’t look at me like that, just don’t look at me like that, okay, it’s not a fucking major offence, it was an accident, blokes buggering around, a gun went off, it’s not like the person was shot by…by someone like you. No.’
A coldness in him, Villani got up. ‘So you’re the Hellhounds’ tame fucking GP,’ he said. ‘You’re the smacked-out medico patches up these cunts, prescribes what they can’t make.’
Mark stood up. ‘Stevie, it’s over. I swear that, I swear it is over, it is under control, I am taking back my life, that is…’
‘You’re a disgrace,’ said Villani. ‘Bob, me, all the fucking effort, we thought we had a thoroughbred in the stable, a surgeon. You blew it, you weak dog, you fucking waste of space.’
He left, passed swiftly through the death-ray eyes in the waiting room, went down the shabby arcade, crossed the parking lot. In the car, he sat for a moment, composed himself.
VILLANI AND Dove sat in the car eating salad rolls bought by Villani on the way back to Preston, he could not trust Dove not to get lost.
A car parked behind them. Birkerts. He got in the back.
‘Coming past,’ he said. ‘Heard you were here. Mr Kiely’s given me Burgess.’
Troy Burgess had been Villani’s first section boss in Homicide. Why Singleton took him from the CIB was an enduring mystery. He was work-shy, a heavy drinker, spent most of his day on his gambling, his domestic problems, two ex-wives, four children, one with time for drugs, one married to a violent crim shot in the back by an associate, a succession of demanding young women met in strip joints and pubs, at the races.
‘Off the piss, Burgo,’ Birkerts said. ‘The punt too, they say. Become a bit of an advisor to Mr Kiely. As an elder of the force. Explaining the history and quaint customs.’
‘God help us,’ said Villani. He had no high ground on the punt, it had come so close to bringing him down.
‘Waiting,’ said Dove. ‘I never realised how much waiting there was.’
‘It’s television,’ said Villani, chewing. ‘These techies now see themselves as the band. We’re just muscle, the roadies.’
‘Can we be told why the boss roadie himself isn’t running Metallic anymore?’ said Birkerts. ‘Or is that impertinent?’
‘Mr Kiely deserves a turn.’
‘Great timing. What’s the charge?’
Villani didn’t want to talk in front of Dove. ‘Men now dead escaped while under surveillance,’ he said. ‘They think there might have been a better way.’
‘What way?’
‘When they tell me, I’ll tell you.’
A hot wind had arrived, moving the ragged, forgotten trees. Two youths in overalls, a tall and a short, came out of the factory next door, stood smoking, looking at them, one said something, they laughed.
‘Only the truly ignorant are truly happy,’ said Birkerts. ‘My dad.’
‘Penetrating,’ said Villani. ‘An old Swedish saying?
‘Don’t know Swedish sayings from fucking Ukrainian,’ said Birkerts, rubbing his face with both hands. His mobile rang. He had a short conversation, put the device away.
‘So what’s on here?’ he said.
‘We have no idea,’ said Villani, chewing, looking at the youths, at the house, waiting for some sign.
Birkerts sighed. ‘Three highly trained operatives in one car. With no idea why.’
A man in overalls in the front door of the house. He raised a gloved hand.
‘Like the fucking Pope,’ said Villani.
‘I’ll be on my way then,’ said Birkerts. ‘See you later, roadies.’
‘Tell you the Ford guns don’t match Oakleigh?’
‘Mr Kiely did.’
‘I want the Oakleigh gun,’ said Villani. ‘I want the satisfaction of the Oakleigh gun.’
‘Do anything to satisfy you, boss.’
Villani and Dove crossed the street, went down the path, filed through the front door, stood in the dim house. A woman was mixing fluids in a pump spray, the sickening smell of peroxide.
‘The big stain,’ she said. ‘And there’s others. Have a look at a bit of the big one. Not to bugger the DNA.’
A man edged around them. ‘Tape it?’ he said.
‘No,’ said the man in charge. ‘Shutters down, Wayne.’
Wayne wound away the light. A torch came on, lit the room.
The leader said, ‘Yeah, dark enough. Gerry.’
Gerry sprayed the carpet.
‘Off.’
Click. They stood in blackness, blind.
A small piece of carpet began to glow, luminous blue.
‘Oh yes,’ said the woman, cheerful. ‘Blood. That’s lots and lots.’