Villani chewed, tasting nothing.
‘Do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Ring in and get an address.’ He wrote down the name.
Birkerts did it, blank eyes on Villani. Villani read them: what kind of father goes back to work six hours after he finds his daughter dead?
They ate. Birkerts took out his mobile, listened.
‘Tell the inspector,’ he said, gave Villani the phone.
‘Boss, we have Yarraville, that’s 12 Enright Lane.’
Pause.
‘Looking at it, boss…brick, two-storey, industrial, no sign… across the road…Speed Glass. Good business, no shortage of glass breakers. Next door. B & L Shopfitting, less good. From above…a back yard, brick-paved I’d say, pot plants, table chairs, someone lives there, high walls, not easy getting in that way, boss.’
Villani said, ‘Martin Loneregan, SOG boss. At home, anywhere. Get him to ring this phone.’
He gave the phone back to Birkerts. ‘Take a little trip to Yarraville in a while,’ he said.
‘Yarraville,’ said Birkerts. ‘Bought there in the nineties, you’re now in Noosa, on the private jetty, toes in the river, you’re laughing.’
‘So grateful for the real-estate perspective,’ said Villani.
They ate, Villani signalled, the coffees came.
‘You known here already?’ said Birkerts.
‘Second visit. They pay attention.’
Birkerts found his mobile. ‘Birkerts. He’s right here.’ To Villani, he said, ‘Inspector Loneregan.’
Villani said, ‘Mate, need a bit of force in a hurry. Yarraville. Not the full catastrophe.’
‘Sometimes not the full catastrophe is the full catastrophe,’ said Loneregan.
‘One man. Not young.’
‘Amazing what shit one man not young can create.’
‘Point taken,’ said Villani. He told Loneregan who it was.
‘My Lord,’ said Loneregan. ‘Sure you want to do it this way?’
‘I’m sure.’
He saw the Ribarics in the big empty shed, just hanging blood-caked meat, sliced and severed and stuck and burnt.
‘I’ll need an hour,’ said Loneregan. ‘Got a bit on.’
THEY PARKED beyond Enright Lane and sat in silence for a time, heavy traffic passing, a distant backfire.
‘Sure about this?’ said Birkerts.
‘I reckon,’ said Villani. He was regretting the Sons of God. It didn’t matter what the man had done, there was respect due.
It was wrong.
‘I’m going in,’ he said.
Birkerts grabbed his jacket sleeve. ‘Steve, Steve, for fuck’s sake, don’t be, I’m not letting…’
‘Wait here, detective,’ said Villani.
‘Well, I’m not…’
‘You can spell order? The word? Sit. I’ll ring.’
Villani got out and walked under the shivering sky, down the ugly little street, the shuttered doors, the windows barred, the industrial waste bins, the litter of takeaway food. The smell was of tar and chemicals.
He stood before the steel entry to number 12. Sweat stuck his shirt to his chest. He pulled at it.
A button. A bell. He pressed and he heard it ring inside the building, far away. The third time he rang, a voice from the speaker beside the door said, ‘Inspector Villani.’
‘Got a camera, boss?’ said Villani.
‘State of the art, son.’
‘Come in?’
‘About what? Not social, I reckon.’
Villani felt the gaze. He turned and saw Birkerts at the head of the lane. A wind had come up, it was moving his hair. Across the distance, their eyes met. Birkerts shook his head like a father.
‘Think you know, boss,’ said Villani.
‘On your own then, Stephen?’
Far away, the roar and keen and whine of the trucks as they rose up the sweeping curve of the great bridge, their sounds as they fell.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘That’s not very clever.’
‘Can’t say yet, sir.’
Locks clicked.
‘Stairs on the right.’
It had been a workshop, a Land Cruiser stood in the middle, doors to the right and back, a steel staircase up the right-hand wall. He climbed them, another steel door.
After all the years. All the years of fighting fear, all the years he could remember, all the years of trying to be a man.
This man would kill him.
Villani opened the door.
A huge room, bare floorboards, bare brick walls, a kitchen at one end, a desk, two chairs, a wall of books, sound equipment, a television.
A dog lay on a rug. Fully extended. A German Shepherd. It did not stir.
‘Heard you were coming. Sit.’
Villani crossed the space and sat in a chair in front of the desk. He did not know what to do with his hands. ‘How’s that, boss?’ he said.
‘Small world. Come for me?’
The long neck, the crisp curls, the hard sardonic mouth, Villani remembered them.
‘Yes, boss.’
‘Sure you’re by yourself?’
‘As you see me.’
‘Well, that’s pretty contemptuous, isn’t it? You could at least have brought the warriors. Even if it wasn’t the full catastrophe.’
‘They had another job on,’ said Villani. ‘Might come on afterwards.’
A laugh, genuine laugh, amused, shaking his head. ‘Armed, son?’ he said. ‘At least say you’re armed? Give me that.’
‘Yes.’
‘Not going to be much fucking use sitting down.’
‘No, boss.’
‘I’m proud of you, then. Stupid prick. What?’ Villani held his eyes. ‘Ribarics. The offsider.’
‘Guilty.’
Murray’s hands came up, a short sawn shotgun came up from under the desktop, it pointed at Villani’s chest, at his throat.
Lowered.
‘Primitive weapon,’ said Murray. ‘All show except close up.’
‘Kidd and Larter?’
‘Psychos,’ said Murray. ‘Hard to say which one you’d extinguish first. Probably Larter. International killer. Kill his mother, anything.’
Murray looking around the room, looking at Villani.
‘Undesirables,’ he said. ‘But useful. Useful idiots.’
‘The car,’ said Villani. ‘Who did that?’
Murray looked up, waved, a big hand.
‘Don’t worry about it, son,’ he said. ‘Let it lie. Saved the taxpayer millions, keeping the pricks in maximum security for life.’
‘Why?’ said Villani.
‘Why?’
‘The Ribarics.’
‘You know. That’s why you’re here.’
‘I’d like you to tell me, boss.’
‘There’s a video in the machine, that’ll tell you. How’d you get to me?’
‘The old lady’s confession. Father Donald. I remembered a story from the Robbers, the old days.’
Murray’s mouth turned down, he nodded as if agreeing with something. ‘And you’re not stupid,’ he said.
‘You do that?’ said Villani. ‘The torture?’
‘No,’ said Murray. ‘I wanted to. That was the point. But in the end I couldn’t. Kidd and Larter. Larter mostly.’
Villani said, ‘All this for Matt?’
The winter eyes on him. Was that moisture?
Murray raised the shotgun barrel, pointed, extended his arm until he could pull the trigger and take off Villani’s head.
What a stupid way to die.
‘No,’ said Murray. ‘Not for Matt. For myself. Scare you, this shotty?’
‘No,’ said Villani. ‘Go ahead.’
‘That’s not natural.’ Murray sighed. ‘You’re a good cop, son.’
‘Better things to be good at.’
‘You never find that out till it’s too late,’ said Murray. ‘Cheers.’
He brought the barrel back, put it under his chin, pulled the trigger.
The blast disintegrated his face, a red mist.
Villani sat, hands in lap, chin on chest, waited.
Inside a minute, the rammer hit the doors downstairs.
The Sons of God.
He went to the door, walked around the dog, which lay at peace. One bullet for the dog, one for himself.
Villani opened the door and shouted. Then he went to the bookshelf, drawn to it, to the four photographs in silver frames.
The Camerons. Mother, father, the small boy was in Matt Cameron’s arms.