‘The Prosilio woman,’ said Villani. ‘She might have been here. Need to know that as a priority. Then we want to run all prints as fast as possible.’
He wrote on the clipboard. ‘Action that.’
Villani’s mobile rang when they were in Flinders Street.
‘Anna,’ she said, the throaty voice. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Are we speaking? As in, do you wish to speak to me?’
‘I think so, yes.’
‘Good. Saw you at Persius with the rich and the famous. Looked right through me.’
‘Dazzled by the light.’
‘Well, I thought I was a bit teenagey the other night. Perhaps less mature than a person like myself should be.’
‘Maturity’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’
Not her big laugh, not the one that made him look across the room that night at the Court House and find her eyes and the switch tripped, the current ran, the crystal moment. He had dropped his gaze and, when he looked again, she was still looking at him.
‘Eyeballing my sexy friend,’ said Tony Ruskin. He was the Age’s crime man, on the cop drip, Villani had known him since he was a junior reporter, the clever son of a clever cop named Eric Ruskin, who chucked it in and stood for parliament, ended up as police minister. They met at Matt Cameron’s Christmas barbie for Robbers and friends, around the pool in Hawthorn on a Sunday, noon to loaded-in-taxi-after-puking-in-rose-garden.
‘I don’t eyeball,’ said Villani. ‘Sometimes I stare.’
Anna Markham left the room, came back, detoured to put a hand on Ruskin’s shoulder. ‘Bit public this, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘I thought you had these meetings in underground carparks.’
‘Hide in plain view,’ said Ruskin. ‘Anna Markham, Stephen Villani.’
‘I know the inspector by sight,’ she said.
‘Ditto,’ said Villani.
She joined them later when they had eaten, drunk a glass of red.
‘My bedtime,’ said Ruskin. ‘Unlike some, I need to think clearly in the morning.’
They all made to go, then Anna said, ‘Actually, I wouldn’t mind another glass. What about you, inspector?’
Ruskin left, he knew. They had another glass, another, laughed a lot. Outside, in their coats, waiting for cabs, breathing out steam, Anna said, ‘You don’t associate the Homicide Squad with laughing.’
‘We laugh a lot. We chuckle all day long.’
He wanted to make the move, but he didn’t, he was in a guilt phase. She wrote her number on a blank card. He never called. Every time he saw her on television he considered it but he was not an initiator. That was what he told himself. That was his defence.
Now, Anna said, ‘Can we pursue this conversation somewhere?’
‘Name a venue.’
‘Cité. In Avoca Street. Know it?’
‘Oh yes, major cop hangout. Pot and a parma, ten bucks, half-price happy hour four to nine. That’s in the a.m.’
‘The place that forgot time. I’ll be there by eight. From eight.’
First there was the Dancer.
ARCHITECTS HAD worked over the old bloodhouse, knocked out walls, exposed bricks, it was now all black wood and smoked glass, a wall of wine bottles. In the big open room, a dozen people were drinking and eating. A flat screen behind the bar was showing news.
Dance was in a corner, needing a hair trim, dark pinstriped suit, no tie, dipping bread into olive oil. A waiter finished pouring red wine into two glasses.
Villani sat.
‘Like this, you and this place,’ he said, showed the crossed fingers. ‘Mine?’
‘I’m not drinking two at a time. Nice little Heathcote shiraz. Nice suit too.’
Villani sipped, he rolled the wine. ‘Definitely wine. When did you move on from Crownies?’
‘Stella, mate, that’s what you drink when you drink beer,’ said Dance. ‘Only you morgue blokes still drink Crown.’
Dance looked around the room, long face of a Crusader, God’s soldier, handsome, growing old, tired, loved the Lord, loved himself, and loved a lot more besides.
‘You know, I wake up,’ he said. ‘Three, four in the morning, it’s like it’s wired in me. Utterly knackered, lie there, think about the old days.’
‘Everybody’s talking about the old days,’ said Villani. ‘What did I miss?’
‘What I miss, it was simple. Us against filth with guns. Outlaws. Taking stuff that wasn’t theirs. Terrorising innocent citizens. You shake the cunts, it’s a public service. Ends justify means, nobody cared. Pest exterminators. You got some respect.’
Two young women came in, sleek, laptop bags. They sat nearby and feigned exhaustion, closed their eyes, rolled their heads, moved their shoulders.
‘Now,’ said Dance, ‘I’m supposed to do something about crime networks. The fucking Rotary Club is a crime network, blokes doing deals, they make stuff, they sell it to middlemen, it gets retailed. It’s called commerce. Exchange of goods between willing sellers and willing buyers.’
‘You learn this at the gym?’ said Villani. ‘Not going to uni parttime, are we?’
‘I’m growing up,’ said Dance. He offered the bread fingers. ‘You dip it in the oil.’
‘Really? That’s so weird.’
‘Fucked up big time last night, you lot.’
‘We’re pretty happy about it.’
‘Pity you didn’t call in the sons to take them out. Been like World War Three.’
‘Why?’
‘Why? Well SOG on SOG, that’s cage-fighting with guns.’
‘Where’d you hear SOG?’ said Villani.
‘The ether, mate.’
‘Ah, the ether. Know them?’
‘Not on our books. Tied them to Metallic?’
‘Just the vehicle,’ said Villani. ‘Got two guns out of the wreck, no match.’
‘Now that’s truly unfortunate. You want the ballistics.’
A waiter slid by, plumpish, thirties, oiled hair, he knew the women, he said, ‘Chill time, guys. Let me guess? Morettis for openers, duck clubs, no capers. And we drink the Oyster Bay.’
‘Fold,’ said the short-haired one, sallow, deslanted eyes. ‘Why are we so predictable, Lucy?’
Lucy was finger-combing her hair. ‘I’m over duck, PJ. Make it the crab cakes.’ She turned her head and looked at them, appraising.
‘Anyway, this little talk,’ said Dance. ‘Lovett.’
‘What am I supposed to do?’ said Villani. ‘I’ve got no clout.’
‘Well, we need to consider,’ said Dance. He looked around the room, drank wine, turned the cold blue eyes on Villani. ‘Saw the tape today. The cunt said this stuff the first time, we’d still be giving blow jobs in Barwon.’
‘What’s he say?’
‘I shot Quirk in cold blood. Executed him. Says Vick brought Quirk’s gun.’
Villani felt the air-conditioned chill on his face. ‘What’s he say about me?’
‘Lied in your teeth.’
Dance closed his eyes, showed his long dark lashes. The day in the shopping-centre carpark, waiting for Matko Ribaric to come back to his car, he told Villani he had put a much older cousin in hospital for calling him a pretty boy.
‘Vickery says the drugs,’ said Villani. ‘Delusions.’
‘Drugs,’ said Dance. ‘Blamed for everything. Personally, I wouldn’t put my balls on that horse.’
‘How’s he on the tape?’
‘Looks like shit, but all the marbles. Made up lots of details.’
‘And Mrs Lovett, what’s she going to say?’
‘The divine Grace,’ said Dance, drinking wine, eye contact with the Asian woman. ‘I was just a boy.’
‘Aged thirty. Sensitive boy cop sexually abused by fifty-year-old colleague’s wife,’ said Villani. ‘You should lay charges, that might help. What’s Grace going to say?’
‘No statement. As I understand it. Not in the pink herself.’
‘What, just sent the DPP the tape?’
‘To Lovett’s brief. The prick tried on a compo for years. Non-smoker forced to endure smoke in confined spaces, et cetera. He never stopped crapping on about smoke, his asthma.’