The radio:
…day of total fire ban for the state, another scorcher and no sign of a change. Firefighters are pinning their hopes on a wind shift in the early afternoon. Householders in the fire path have been advised to leave but some…
There was no doubt about the identity of one person in the some category. No, two. Gordie would drive straight into the fire with a waterpistol and wearing only a flameproof jockstrap if Bob thought it was a tactic with potential.
At the Swanston Street intersection, a wasted kid, chewed-string hair, weaved between the vehicles, tripped over the kerb, fell forward and lay still. His shirt was pulled up and his birdlike ribcage showed beneath his milky skin. People walked around him, a man kicked him by accident, jumped sideways.
The boy moved his head, got to his knees, levered on stick arms, looked around, big eyes. He stood, unsteady, took three paces to the wall, put his back against it, slid down, legs giving way.
On the station steps and on the pavement, other kids stood, sat, restless, hanging, some out of it. Two young cops were talking to three males. One was talking back, animated, changing feet, pulling at his singlet, tossing his head, sniffing. The one next to him ran fingers through his long hair, ran them over and over again.
Dove coughed. ‘Koenig’s calls, boss.’
‘You want them as a matter of urgency,’ said Villani. ‘On the grounds that he is a person of interest in a murder inquiry.’
‘Try that, then,’ said Dove. ‘That porky.’
‘Only a porky if you believe every word he said. If you act in bad faith. You wouldn’t do that, would you?’
‘Not knowingly, boss.’
‘Good. You’d also want a result today.’
‘Today, certainly, boss.’
‘And then we could have a talk.’
‘Boss.’
This was terrible police work. It was work to be ashamed of.
The lights changed, they turned left, crossed the bridge and drove down the grand avenue. Dove dropped Villani in the street beside the police building. He rose alone in the lift, tried not to breathe the air of synthetic pine and lemon.
Lizzie. Where the hell was she? Not on the streets, cops were looking out for her, someone would see her, see the dreadlocked man. He should have had her taken home, rung Corin, told her to be there. Neglect. He did not see to her. It was his responsibility to see to her. Careless father. Bad husband. Short-term head of Homicide.
In the office, he went to his box, put on the radio, Paul Keogh’s station, a woman’s voice:
…Paul, talk to people in the rural areas, they’ve had enough, I can tell you. They feel betrayed, disenfranchised. This city’s now a city-state, it’s like Venice once was and, dare I say it, just as…no, I won’t say it.
Is that the c-word? Corrupt?
You said it, not me. But the betrayal’s also felt in the outer suburbs. Public transport’s a joke, two-hour wait to see a doctor who doesn’t speak English in one of these medical superpractices, one police officer for every 30,000 people, childcare’s a disgrace, it’s safer to leave your kid with the junkies in a park. This downturn has shown these people up for what they are-political opportunists and hacks.
Please don’t hold back, Ms Mellish. My guest is Karen Mellish, leader of the Opposition. Any other things you admire about this government?
Birkerts was in the door, sad, eyebrows in a pale chevron.
Paul, even before this government took the federal recession-panic money and blew it, they were making spectacularly bad moves. Billion-dollar pipelines that are empty, the world’s most expensive desalination plant, it’s cheaper to bring bottled water from France. They’ve handed bushfire-reconstruction projects to mates, they tolerate public-transport operators who couldn’t run a model railway, the tollways have seen five major tunnel shutdowns in ten months.
The police minister was on earlier talking up policing successes…
I heard him talking rubbish. Didn’t he read the papers this morning? Two ex-policemen involved in the Oakleigh murders. We have his seat squarely in our sights, he’s done his last tawdry little branchstack. What Mr Orong needs to explain to voters is why the so-called police taskforces against organised crime and drugs have achieved nothing, why the CBD is becoming more frightening than Johannesburg, kids everywhere wasting their lives on drugs. Remember the Saturday night shock-and-awe tactics?
The Humvees.
Indeed. And we now apparently need bombproof battle trucks. Overall, this city is now up there with the most violent in the world and it’s not the fault of ordinary stressed police officers. The force is under such duress, it’s no wonder so many are on sick leave…
Villani tapped the Off button.
‘Ordinary stressed police officers,’ said Birkerts. ‘Love that. OSPO.’
‘You’ll love serving out your years under Kiely.’
‘I can serve anyone.’
‘Service, maybe. Mr Kiely thinks your manner is highly disrespectful. I think so too but I don’t care as much.’
‘The X-ray’s at Kidd’s in an hour. Want to take another look?’
‘I thought the techies’d taken a girl look? What else can you offer?’
‘Pitstop at Vic’s. Raisin muffin.’
‘Suddenly a window in my day. Dirty little window.’
THEY SAT in the car, engine running, air-con on, looking at the sluggish sea. Two silver cats on leads drawing a woman came into view on the damp edge of the continent. She wore shorts and a muscle shirt that revealed no trace of what it was meant to display. The cats minced, offended by the moisture beneath their paws.
‘Just a massive sandbox,’ said Birkerts.
Villani finished his coffee. ‘Good, this bloke,’ he said. ‘Reliable.’
‘His ex lives in Tassie,’ said Birkerts. He was eating a banana muffin. ‘She had the kids for a holiday, won’t send them back. He says he might have to move.’
‘Ask the pointyheads to give her a fright,’ said Villani. ‘Can’t lose a decent barista. You the one filled in Tony Ruskin on Kidd and Larter? He knows more than I do.’
‘Don’t look at me. We get the arse from Defence but somebody tells Ruskin about this killing of four Afghan civilians stuff. Since the discharge, Larter’s a ghost. Possibly on a mountain in Tassie eating possums. Live. Popular among your returned killers.’
‘And the guns?’
‘Nothing shows. Bikie imports.’
A group of joggers crossed their vision: old men, creased, humped, silent. Heads down, they shuffled by.
‘In step,’ said Birkerts. ‘How is that?’
‘Got the same tune on their iPods,’ said Villani. ‘Colonel Bogey. Finished at Oakleigh?’
‘Going out after this. Want to come?’
‘Why not? Got all day, all night too since I don’t have anywhere to live.’
‘Live? Why?’
‘Marital dispute.’
Without smiling, Birkerts took on an amused look. ‘This is sudden?’
‘When it happens,’ said Villani, ‘everything is sudden.’
‘Stay at my sister’s place if you like. You met Kirsten.’
‘I did. At your barbie that day. The charcoal went out. Died. Where’s she gone?’
‘Italy. Successful divorce, skinned the bloke. Now she wants to be an artist.’
‘Her place where?’
‘What? Picky?’
‘There are places I won’t live, yes,’ said Villani.
‘Fitzroy. In your zone of acceptability?’
‘I can handle Fitzroy. Parts of Fitzroy. What else about Kidd?’
‘After the SOGs, he went overseas for eighteen months. The suggestion is private security in Iraq. Then a couple of months with GuardSecure, sacked for putting a bloke in hospital, case pending. Since then he’s a ghost too. One bank account, about eight grand in it, there’s cash deposits, like five, six hundred bucks. He’s got two credit cards, not a big spender, ordinary stuff. He pays it in full.’