Birkerts held the foil tray over the grill, turned it over, twisted.
Nothing happened. He shook it.
The cake of solid fat fell to the grill, stayed intact.
‘Well bugger me,’ Birkerts said.
‘HOW LONG?’ said Villani.
He saw Kiely come out of his door, cross to Dove’s desk, lean over it, lecture Dove about something.
‘Being redone now,’ said the ballistics man.
‘What’s the first time say?’
‘Can’t say.’
‘Fired recently?’
‘Can’t say that either. Say it hasn’t been cleaned.’
‘Dirty?’
‘Well, just not cleaned. Not dirty, no.’
‘The husband’s defence,’ said Villani. ‘Call Tracy when you’ve got a strong opinion, will you?’
He watched Kiely coming his way, the buttoned suit jacket, where did he think he was?
‘BUL M-5,’ said Kiely. ‘Unusual weapon.’
‘Israeli. Every second Afghan’s got one. Handgun of choice.’
‘They sell arms to Afghans?’
‘Don’t discriminate, your Israeli arms dealers. Sell arms to anyone. Make guns in New Zealand?’
‘No,’ said Kiely.
‘Probably just as well.’
‘The crash people say explosions in Kidd’s Ford.’
‘Brilliant,’ said Villani. ‘Went up like Krakatoa.’
‘Not fuel,’ said Kiely. ‘They say two explosions before that, the second one, the big one, that blew the driver’s legs off. Then the fuel caught.’
Villani felt his scalp itch, he did a circuit on the chair. ‘So not high-speed pursuit crash, driver lost control?’
‘You should talk to them.’
‘My word.’
‘Tanner’s the man’s name. Glen Tanner.’
He had a call made.
‘That’s right, inspector,’ said Tanner. ‘We would say two charges, possibly some mechanism triggers the first, which damages the steering, the driver loses control. Then there’s the impact. And then the main charge goes off and it’s big and the fuel ignites.’
‘No chance it’s just fuel?’
He heard the sniff of contempt.
‘Not unless it was a stunt for a movie, that exploding-car rubbish. Low-pressure fireball is possible when fuel escapes and ignites, yes. But not here.’
‘Obliged to you,’ said Villani. ‘Also if you keep this in-house until we’ve got somewhere.’
He thought about watching Kidd, hearing the call.
Listen, listen, some worries. Serious.
What?
Old girl’s, call you on that in five, okay?
How was that conversation to be explained? How was Kidd not using the Prado to be explained? Where did the Ford come from, a street rod with genuine plates and a missing owner aged seventy-eight?
Tracy.
‘Boss, ballistics rang,’ she said. ‘That’s positive. A match with Metallic.’
The weapon in the slab of dripping had executed the Ribarics. The BUL M-5 had been in the hand of Kidd or Larter.
OAKLEIGH buttoned up. Something to be happy about. Colby would be happy, Barry would be happy, Gillam would be happy. Orong would pat Gillam. Orong would tell the premier.
Villani rang Colby.
‘Got the Oakleigh gun, boss,’ he said. ‘Ballistics match.’
‘Sure?’
‘As science can be.’
‘Where?’
‘Kidd’s place. Under our noses.’
‘Techs find it?’
‘No. Me.’
‘You?’
‘In the barbie fat tray. Kidd’s barbie.’
A moment.
‘It takes a certain kind of sick arsehole to check the barbie fat tray,’ said Colby. ‘You’re an example to your men. Women.’
‘Don’t have any women.’
‘Keep quiet about that,’ said Colby. ‘A fat dyke’ll have your job in a minute. Promoted from ethnic transgender liaison squad.’
‘Sir.’
‘Now Mr Brendan O’Barry, emphasise he’s first cab, be breathless. Pant a lot. Then he can tell the ranga, Gillam can tell Orong. At some point, someone will tell me, I’ll be so stunned. Searle and his new slapper can then feed shit to all and sundry about how wonderful Homicide is.’
‘Sir.’
‘We now want to close the book on Metallic. Gone, finished. With me?’
‘With you. Yes.’
‘You might still have a career,’ said Colby. ‘In spite of your fucking self.’
Villani rang Barry, told him the story.
‘Excellent,’ said Barry. ‘I’ll inform the chief immediately. We have closure on Metallic. Much to be explained but killers identified and, by their own hands, deceased.’
‘That’s it, boss. More or less.’
‘We need to have a little talk soon.’
‘When it suits you, boss,’ said Villani.
DOVE OPENED the folder, gave Villani pages.
‘Calls from Koenig’s Kew house, fixed line, the mobile in his name,’ he said. ‘Taken out his staff, pollies, family. Also now have the Orion guest list by unofficial means. I’d like to put that on record.’
‘You can’t,’ said Villani. ‘Unofficial doesn’t go on record.’
‘I can see the logic. Boss.’
‘You could be approaching take-off speed in this job. Flying a Piper Cub, mind you.’
‘It’s calls in the past two months, ranked by number, from the bottom.’
Twenty-odd names. Villani knew some of them from the newspapers, television.
Mervyn Brody, Brody Prestige, expensive German cars, secondhand, also a racehorse owner. Brian Curlew, criminal barrister, defender of the high-end scum, they said the first consultation was free, the second one cost fifty thousand bucks, some cash, some declared for tax. Chris Jourdan of the Jourdan brothers, owner of restaurants and bars. Daniel Bricknell, art dealer. Dennis Combanis, property developer, Marscay Corporation. Mark Simons, insolvency expert. Hugh Hendry.
‘Mr Hendry junior,’ Villani said.
‘At school together,’ said Dove. ‘St Thomas College. Also Curlew and that Robert Hunter. All in the same year.’
‘That’s important?’
‘I don’t know what’s important, boss.’
‘I like an open mind. Empty mind is what worries me. Who’s Hunter?’
‘Headmaster of St Thomas.’
‘Yes?’
‘Brody and Bricknell and Curlew and Simons and Jourdan are all on the casino party list.’
‘No doubt many people on the chief commissioner’s speed-dial were there too,’ said Villani. ‘A-list people. Saw some of them at Persius the other night. What do you want to make of that?’
Dove touched his chest, under the right pec, a finger, a small, gentle rub, he would do that for the rest of his life.
‘Can we get their phones?’ he said.
‘On what grounds?’
‘Well.’
‘That’s the fed approach,’ said Villani. ‘Any phone, anybody, any time, any reason, no matter how pissweak. No, son. Here the magistracy takes the view that murderers should walk free rather than a single innocent person’s phone records be examined.’
‘What’s your view, boss?’ said Dove.
‘I don’t have a view. Anyone in Homicide misguided enough to use unofficial channels, it’s their marching ticket. Birkerts has been suspected of doing this shit.’
Dove smiled. ‘Is that so?’
‘It is so. I think what we’ve established is that Koenig likes whores,’ Villani said. ‘Mr Phipps saw one who happened to look like our girl. So what we are engaged in is a wide-ranging investigation that goes down some dead-ends. Inevitably. It’s in the nature of wide-ranging investigations.’
‘Yes?’ said Dove.
‘In the course of investigations, information emerges that’s not helpful but can be embarrassing for some people.’
‘Yes?’
‘That information goes in the vault. Is that clear?’
Dove looked at the ceiling, interested, like a man observing the heavens, a student of stars. ‘Could not be clearer, boss,’ he said.
A knock, Weber came in, bunny-eyed, awkward, shifted his feet.