Searle made an impatient noise, he was running this. ‘Mate, now everything’s politics, that’s the way it is. Just ask her. Put it on the line. If she takes your word it’s bullshit, why wouldn’t she do it?’
The years, the things endured, the drudgery, the fear, and now to be patronised, instructed, by this weak dog who knew the job only by the talk of his rotten father and uncles, holders of the slope franchise, said to own much of sea-level Saturn Bay, the working man’s paradise. The only justice was that now, at every king tide, the ice-swollen sea enfiladed the ninety-mile dune, soon it would flow beneath the Searle’s Hardy Plank palaces, float their boats, their barbecues, the place would be returned to the mosquitoes, the feral cats, dune rats, the gulls, all oblivious to the wind, the ceaseless, sad, sawing wind.
‘Get back to you,’ said Villani.
Ask Anna to take his word that he had not molested his daughter? The Anna who implicated him in Koenig’s downfall. Searle had no idea what it would cost him to do that. Things like pride and dignity, the man knew nothing of them.
Anyway, what was the point in buying time? Stand down now.
Bugger that. He hadn’t done anything except be a mediocre father, since when was that a crime? Standing room only in the jails.
Dad, you only sleep here, you pass over this house like a cloud shadow.
Villani looked at his messages.
Clinton Hulme. Max Hendry’s chief of staff.
Stephen. Just to say we’d appreciate an answer today, tomorrow at the latest. Look forward to hearing from you.
Birkerts.
Flashboxed that bit of roadkill you picked up. Unbelievable. It’s the aunty’s phone. Got some texts. We need to talk.
Yes. Yes. Something going right.
Matt Cameron.
For what it’s worth, my advice’s make the change, son. Talk to you later. Expand.
Dove.
Boss, can you come in, we’ve got something.
BLACK-AND-WHITE image, a near-empty city street, car approaching. The digital line said: 0.2.22.
‘La Trobe,’ said Weber. ‘Looking south-west. Flagstaff Gardens to right.’
‘Possibly up Dudley, right into King, left into La Trobe,’ said Dove. ‘Here it is.’
Second car in view, black, closing on first.
‘Honda’s going to run lights, changes his mind,’ said Weber.
Front vehicle brakes hard, twists.
‘Bang,’ said Weber. ‘Beemer’s hit him.’
The driver and passenger of the Honda get out.
‘Beemer front-seat passenger,’ said Dove.
Big man in black, hair pulled back into ponytail.
‘Kenny Hanlon,’ said Villani.
‘Jesus,’ said Dove, looked at Villani.
Hanlon is gesticulating, he is shouting, threatening the driver of the Honda.
‘Behind him, boss,’ said Weber.
A slight figure is out of the BMW, the back door, chalk face, black hair, black dress, bare shoulders, she does not hesitate, she is running, behind her a bus shelter, she is on the pavement.
‘Loses a shoe, kicks the other one off, she’s into the gardens,’ said Dove.
The camera caught the spike-heeled shoe in the air.
Hanlon cuffs the Honda driver, an open-hand swing of his right hand, the Honda passenger is trying to grab Hanlon, the BMW driver is out of the car, mouth open, he is shouting.
‘Got the vision in the gardens,’ said Weber, eyes on the console.
The girl running towards a camera, veering right, no vision.
‘That’s camera six,’ said Weber, ‘middle of park.’ Figure coming towards camera, the girl.
‘Camera nine,’ said Weber. ‘Heading for corner of Dudley and William.’
She came into clear focus, wide-eyed, mouth open, breathless.
Lizzie. Oh God.
No, not Lizzie.
‘Checked Peel Street?’ said Villani. ‘Might’ve gone that way. Must be cameras around the Vic Market. Friday morning, they work early.’
Dove said, ‘Three people around there now.’
Villani looked at the men. ‘Good work,’ he said.
The men looked at him, waited.
‘Twins,’ said Dove. ‘She’s the one at Koenig’s.’
‘The appendix scar,’ said Villani. ‘Oh Jesus.’
Silence.
‘Kenny Hanlon,’ Villani said. ‘Now.’
‘ELECTRONIC gates, cameras, motion detectors, steel shutters downstairs,’ said Finucane, the driver. ‘They own all of them and the ones behind. Hellhound compound. Gorillas on guard fulltime.’
‘Beats the old cement factory in Northcote,’ said Villani. He chewed the last of the salad sandwich. He crumpled the bag, put it in the cup-holder, pushed it back into the housing.
Four doors down, a big man in a windbreaker appeared, looked hard at them.
‘Gorilla at work,’ said Finucane. ‘Hellhound apprentice.’
Villani and Dove and Weber got out. The man put his head down and spoke to the sheet-steel gate of the second of four townhouses, two storeys, set well back from a three-metre wall. Upstairs, fake windows looked out at useless balconies.
As they approached, Weber said, ‘Tell Mr Hanlon the police would like to see him. Homicide.’
The man lifted his upper lip. ‘Let’s see ID,’ he said.
Weber showed the badge. ‘That coat. You carrying or just got a dodgy thermostat?’
‘Fuck you too,’ said the man. He spoke into the grille, an inaudible reply. Bolts clicked. He opened the gate, went in first.
An unshaven man in tracksuit pants and a black T-shirt was in the front door. Big, forties, fleshy, face pocked like a sweet melon, dark greasy hair pulled into a tail.
‘What the fuck’s this?’ said Hanlon, recognised Villani. ‘Jeez, Sergeant Villani, you fucken following me around all my fucken life?’
‘Have a talk,’ said Villani.
‘Yeah. About fucken what?’
‘I’ll come back with the Soggies,’ said Villani. ‘Knock your fucking house down and kill you. Accidentally.’
Hanlon said to the guard, ‘Okay, buddy, back on station.’
Hanlon turned. They followed him across a tile-floored foyer into a room that was a kitchen and an eating place. He sat at a table of polished granite, two mobiles on it.
‘So what?’ he said.
‘Sure one fuckbrain is enough to look after you?’ said Villani.
‘Fuckall to do with you, buddy. Area’s crawlin with druggies. Did your job, I wouldn’t need security. Fucken poodle be enough.’
‘Intelligent dog, the poodle,’ said Villani. ‘It might not want to protect you. Used to live in your batcave, all of you, so shit-scared of the Angels. Still, crapping yourselves kept you warm.’
‘Just fuck off,’ said Hanlon.
Villani stood at the island bench. ‘It’s about a woman,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’
‘The one you took to the Prosilio building.’
Hanlon smoothed his hair with both hands, looked at his palms. There was a sheen on them. ‘Mate,’ he said, ‘where do you come by shit like this? What’s your problem?’
‘Dead girl, that’s our problem,’ said Villani. ‘Account for all your movements on Thursday night a week ago, Kenny?’
Hanlon put a hand into his collar, rubbed himself. ‘Every last second. I’m home fast asleep by eleven any night, every night.’
‘Someone can confirm that?’
‘No. Only about twenty people. And my wife. And my mother-in-law. Good enough? Do you?’
‘Live-in mother-in-law, is it?’
‘Better lookin than your wife, mate, she cooks like, I dunno, that Pommy poof. Better.’
‘So you now transport hookers,’ Villani said. ‘How can that be profitable?’
Hanlon tapped his forehead with two fingertips. ‘I’m in hospitality, buddy. You pricks been over me like slime for years. Want to go again? Go for your fucken life.’
A silence. Dove, face blank, was looking at his clipboard.
‘Your car,’ he said. ‘That’s the black Beemer. Involved in a collision in La Trobe Street Friday morning before last, 2.23am.’