No mention that she was found broken-necked. No mention of the Prosilio building. Just an unidentified young woman. He changed channels, caught the item on Ten. The same.
He rang four numbers, he could not find Searle or anyone else to rage at, left a short message for Dove.
He was watching the 7pm ABC news when Dove rang.
‘Before you say anything,’ said Villani, ‘who decided no broken neck, not found at any particular place?’
‘Not us, boss. I used your words. A young woman found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building.’
The woman on screen. Hair down.
…police are appealing for information about the identity of this young woman. She is Caucasian, brown hair, in her late teens and would not have been seen for several days…
New image. Her hair was up.
…please contact Crime Stoppers on…
‘Searle will turn in the wind for this,’ said Villani. ‘Anything comes in, let me know.’
‘Is that any time, night and day?’ said Dove.
‘When you make a bad call, I’ll tell you. It’s a sudden-death thing.’
Saturday night. Once high point of the week. He showered, found crumpled shorts, opened a beer, went shirtless into the hot night. He took a piss on the former vegetable strip along the fence, dead hard-baked soil, heard voices, laughter from two sides. A splash, splashes. How had he missed a pool going in next door?
He sat in a deckchair on the back terrace, drank another beer, ate cold Chinese. It wasn’t bad, possibly better cold than hot, hot was less than wonderful. He registered the rough brick paving underfoot, laid by another him and another Joe Cashin in another age. It took a weekend.
Sudden craving for red wine. He found a bottle, the second last one in the case.
In the kitchen, the corkscrew in hand, his mobile on the benchtop sang.
‘Is this a good time?’ said Dove.
‘Speak,’ said Villani.
‘Crime Stoppers call from a woman in Box Hill. I just talked to her.’
‘So?’
‘She’s pretty sure she saw our girl at a truck stop on the Hume about two months ago, sixteenth of December, about 9pm. This side of Wangaratta.’
‘Saw her how?’
‘In the toilets. There was a man waiting outside for her and they spoke in a foreign language. Not Italian, French or Spanish, she reckons, she’s been there. Went to a new Holden SV, black or dark green. Another man was driving. She says there might have been someone else in the back seat.’
‘Rego?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Well, HSV, that’s a muscle car, only driven by men with big balls,’ said Dove. ‘Web’s asking our traffic and New South if they had an offender on the day.’
‘That’s not stupid. I’m off to sleep soon, looking forward to it like a first root. Tomorrow I’m going up country. You don’t get me the first time, keep trying. Reception’s rough up there.’
‘I’ll just keep bombing it to Snake,’ said Dove.
‘Quick learner,’ said Villani. ‘You’re a bright young man.’
He sat outside, drank wine, it seemed to be getting hotter. He showered again, went outside and rang Bob Villani. It rang out.
VILLANI ROSE in the dark and stifling house, stood in the shower, dressed, took his canvas bag and left. The world was spent, only the desperate were on the streets. On the ramp before the exit, a tall black man, head shaven, was walking, behind him a shorter person, hidden in grey garments.
In the mirror, Villani saw she had only a slit through which to see the world.
It took three hours, the country drying out, the last stretch up the long yellow hills, paddocks skun, the livestock skinny, handfed.
…today is a day of total fire ban. Four fires are still burning out of control in the high country around Paxton and the town of Morpeth has been evacuated. Firefighters fear the blazes will join into a sixty-kilometre fire front…
From a cafe called Terroir in the last town before Selborne, Villani bought poached chicken breasts, a loaf of sourdough, a lettuce and a container of mayonnaise. He asked for the bread to be sliced.
‘If you wish,’ said the man, too old for his tipped, gelled hair, silver nostril stud. ‘You realise it won’t keep as well.’
‘I have no long-term plans for it,’ said Villani. ‘I propose to eat it within weeks.’
The man tilted his head, interested. ‘You local?’
Passing through Selborne, he looked for changes, it was his town, any alteration or addition caught his eye. And then the last winding stretch, the gate. Villani got out, did the lift and drag, twice, he drove down the driveway and parked beneath the elm. He had climbed this tree a hundred times, it was not looking good.
Out of the vehicle, he stretched, tested his knees, looked at the house. His father came around the corner, something different about his walk, the way he held himself.
Nodding, nothing said, they shook, soft hands, they were beyond gripping. Having touched like boxers, they could get on with it.
‘Grass’s a bit fucking much,’ said Villani. ‘Serious fire hazard.’
‘Gets this far, you’re buggered anyway,’ said Bob.
‘That’s not what the CFA manual says.’
‘They know fuckall, they start the fires. Lukie’s coming, staying tonight.’
‘Thrilling news. When d’you last see him?’
‘He’s busy.’
‘When?’
‘Haven’t seen your lot for a while. Bloody years.’
‘Kids,’ said Villani. ‘You know.’
‘No, never worked out kids.’
‘Well, lack of effort could be involved.’
His father never asked about Laurie and she never asked about him. From the start, she and Bob behaved like dogs who’d had a bad fight, shifty eyes, didn’t kiss, had nothing to say to each other.
‘Eaten?’
‘Yeah. Brought us lunch.’ ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Might do some mowing first. Get this stuff down.’
‘Can’t mow. Total fire ban day.’
‘Leaving it’s a bigger risk than the mower.’
‘Gordie’ll do it.’
‘Not sure I want to trust my inheritance to Gordie coming around one day.’
‘Who made you the prince? I’ll leave the place to Luke.’
You did not want to take Bob seriously, he could take and give, he could dissolve everything you thought solid.
Villani got the Victa out of the garage, fuelled it, pushed it around to the front. He opened the throttle and tried to pull the cord. It wouldn’t move. He upended the machine, tried to move the blade, brushed his knuckles, quick blood. He went to the woodpile, chose a length, came back and hit the blade, the third blow shifted it.
‘First resort,’ said his father. ‘Brute force.’
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Learned from you.’
He righted the mower, pressed the nipple a few times, it was covered in grease and dirt. He pulled the cord. The motor plopped. He tried again. Again. Again, a wire of pain up his arm, into his shoulder.
‘Not getting juice,’ said his father. ‘More tit.’
‘Filthy, this machine. What happened to never put a tool away dirty, that’s what you always said.’
‘Dust,’ said his father. ‘Whole fucking Mallee’s blowing over here.’
Villani thumbed the plunger until he smelled fuel, stood up and pulled the cord: a piston puff, he tried again, the engine puffed twice, he gave another rip. A roar, dust, lapwings rose from the grass. He trimmed the throttle, pushed the mower down to the northern corner of the house block and began.
On the second tank, he saw Bob Villani wave. They sat on the gap-planked verandah and drank tea. The dog, yellow of hair and eye, lay with his long snout on his master’s boot.