Laurie washed a clean plate, shrugged, he could see the shoulder blades shift. ‘It’s her that’s important,’ she said. ‘Not you.’
He could have punched her in the head, so fiercely did the unfairness burn in him. He gathered himself. ‘You know what this is, don’t you?’ he said. ‘It’s this scum she’s hanging out with. They want money out of her.’
Laurie dried her hands on the dishcloth, dragging it out, rubbing fingers. ‘Have to see,’ she said.
‘Where is she?’
‘They say she was in care but she’s taken off again.’
‘So they lost her?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You know where she is, don’t you? Don’t you?’
‘I don’t. I don’t.’
‘Well I’ll fucking find her.’
Laurie turned, face set, folded her arms. Deep lines bracketed her mouth. He had never seen them before. ‘Stephen, stay out of it. You can only do harm.’
Villani looked at the floor, took two measured breaths. ‘Just cop it, will I?’ he said. ‘She tells the welfare pricks these lies about me, I just shrug it off?’
‘Leave it, Stephen.’
He wanted to scream his rage, bang her head against the fridge. He took deep breaths. ‘Where’s Corin?’ he said. ‘She’ll tell you this is crap. She knows her sister. She knows me. She’ll tell you.’
‘She’s gone away for the weekend. I’m not telling her now.’
‘I want Lizzie to say it to my face,’ Villani said. ‘I want her to look me in the eye in the presence of witnesses and say I made her suck me off.’
Laurie said nothing, tried to walk around him, Villani held out his right arm. She stopped.
‘Just say you believe me,’ he said. ‘Just say that.’
‘I don’t know what to believe. She’s my darling baby. What else can I say?’
‘Goodbye, you can say goodbye. You and your fucking slut daughter can both say goodbye to me.’
Laurie pushed back her hair with fingertips, quick, he saw grey at her temples, not seen before either.
‘Can I go?’ she said.
Villani saw how big and ungainly his hand was, he let his arm fall. ‘Say goodbye to me.’
‘Goodbye, Stephen,’ she said. ‘Go away.’
And then he said it.
‘She’s not my kid anyway. Why don’t you send the fucking father out looking for her?’
‘Get out,’ she said. ‘I can believe anything of you.’
DRIVING IN the heat, air-con battling, for a few disoriented moments, he didn’t know where to go, what to do, he went through red lights, long hooting.
The rage went suddenly, now he felt sick, dry-mouthed, an ache in the back of his neck.
How did you handle stuff like this? You couldn’t carry on in the job if your daughter accused you of sexual abuse. Everyone you knew would look at you in a new way. With contempt. You were a sicko, you were a disgusting pervert, you couldn’t be in command, no woman would ever come near you. Anna would draw a shuddering line through his name.
Why would the welfare leak this? If she’d made the allegation, they were obliged to call in the Sexual Crimes Squad. Had they? Called in the SCS and leaked the story to the Age?
He was in Rathdowne Street. He turned left at the park, found a space, sat for a time watching mothers watching their small children socialise in the sandpit. One child force-fed another a handful of sand, the victim didn’t object but its minder snatched it away, inserted a finger in the gritty, gummy mouth.
Two women, sweaty flesh, big legs, toddlers in all-terrain vehicles, combat pushers. They looked at him, not glances, full-on challenges, women who would ring the police and report a man in a car watching children in a park.
Alleged sex offender watching children in park. Oh, Jesus, this was what Lizzie had done to him, brought him to.
He got out, leant against the car, that was a better look. Not afraid to show his face. What he needed was a smoke.
The newsagent in the next block.
He locked the car without looking, the dull click, walked, turned the corner. He hadn’t walked down Rathdowne Street for a long time, since he and Laurie rented in Station Street. Was the pizza place still going? They’d eaten there at least once a week in the old days, just the two of them, then with baby Corin, then with Corin and the baby boy, Cashin often ate with them. By the time of Lizzie, they didn’t do that kind of thing anymore.
Plead with Laurie to talk sense into Lizzie. Go on your knees and ask her to save you. How could she take the feral little bitch’s word against his?
She could. She had.
He’d lied to her, yes. But she didn’t know all of that. Some lies she knew about, he’d told stupid lies, he’d confessed to some lies. You lied because you didn’t want people to be hurt. Something that was over, what was the point in admitting it? Soon to be over.
He didn’t deserve Laurie, he’d never doubted that. She was a good person, she didn’t know how to lie. He had never considered leaving her, not even after the day he opened her mobile phone bill by accident, he was putting it back in the envelope when he saw the amount: $668.45. How did she do that? He turned to the itemised calls. She made long and expensive ones. Most of them to the same numbers.
He wrote down the numbers. At work, he gave them to an analyst. ‘Run these for me, will you?’
She came back in minutes with a sheet of paper.
David Joliffe, cinematographer, 22/74 St Crispin’s Place, King Street, East Melbourne. Home phone number and mobile.
The pizza place was still there, so was the picture framer who had framed the wedding photograph. Where was that now? He hadn’t seen it in years, probably put on top of a cupboard the day Laurie took off the engagement and wedding rings and went bare-fingered.
That was Clem, the interior designer. She appeared to be happy with the odd screw at her place, then when he said stumps, not in an insensitive way, she took to ringing. Christ knew where she got the number, she left messages for him at home.
That was also the end of Mrs Lauren Villani. She took back her family name.
He walked, smoking, rang Searle. The thing was to be icy calm.
‘Stevo mate. Item’s pulled. For the moment. Had to mortgage the job, sell kids into slavery.’
‘I won’t say it.’
‘No, no, don’t. Divided we are rooted.’
‘Listen,’ said Villani. ‘The paper get this from the welfaries or Sex Crimes?’
‘Never going to tell me that.’
‘But she’s made a statement?’
‘Not sure. Sit tight, I would say. I’ll hear before it goes anywhere, get straight to you.’
‘Good on you.’
‘The worry for us,’ said Searle, ‘is if Moorcroft’s got the drum. The twat’s tight with the welfare lesbo Rotties, he would be their first cab.’
Gary Moorcroft, Anna’s little friend, TV crime reporter, who asked whether they were an item.
Unnaturally curious.
‘Well, see what happens,’ Villani said.
‘Not a wait-and-see man, myself,’ said Searle. ‘Offer a suggestion?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ms Markham. You’ve got credit there.’
‘Credit?’
‘Mate, mate, your car’s outside the person’s residence at 4am last count, you’d have credit, wouldn’t you?’
Searle made a laugh-like sound.
Icy calm.
‘I’m surveilled, am I?’ said Villani.
‘Nothing personal, just the building, the street. The prime minister shows up, he’s logged.’
‘Who’s doing that?’
‘Steve, have a word with your friend. She’s got clout, she can snuff the little cunt, she’s done this stuff before.’
‘What stuff?’
‘Been helpful. She’s a pro. She knows about give and take.’ ‘She covers politics. How is she helpful?’