The Camerons. Lying on a beach, she was in a bikini, lovely, the boy, older now, lying between them.
Donald Keith Murray and Matt Cameron. Walking towards the camera. Tall, lean men, long muscles, flat pectorals, holding the boy Dave’s hands. He was off the ground, his little face pure joy.
Three men in uniform posing. Graduation day. The boy, a man now, standing between Deke Murray and Matt Cameron. Even height, three handsome men.
‘Jesus,’ said Loneregan from the door. ‘Jesus, that was fucking silly.’
Birkerts came up beside Villani, studied the photograph.
‘Strong family resemblance,’ he said.
‘Between?’
Birkerts pointed.
‘No,’ Villani said. ‘That’s not Matt. That’s Deke.’
Dave Cameron wasn’t Matt Cameron’s son. He was Deke Murray’s son, Father Donald’s son.
No, Oakleigh was not a run-through, not crims ripping off and killing other crims. It was a terrible revenge for the murder of a son and the woman bearing someone’s grandson.
Deke Muray, Matt Cameron’s brother in arms. His great friend. Matt Cameron knew who had fathered the boy he called his son.
‘Video in this machine,’ said Birkerts.
‘I know,’ said Villani. ‘Play it.’
Birkerts pressed buttons. The screen flickered, jumped.
Hand-held camera, all over the place, a room, unmade bed, cans, bottles, plates.
Face close up, unshaven, big teeth.
The young Ivan Ribaric, shirtless, Jim Beam bottle in his left hand, he staggered, slack-jawed, drunk, off his face.
A policeman’s cap on his head, the back of his head. He pulled it over his eyes, drank from the bottle.
He raised his right hand, he had a pistol, he pointed it at the cameraman, his mouth made bang noises.
‘Service pistol,’ said Loneregan.
Dave Cameron’s cap.
Dave Cameron’s gun.
Ivan Ribaric turned his back to the camera, put the bottle and the pistol on a dressing-table. He picked up something, turned.
He had a short sword in both hands, a cutlass. He made martial-arts movements, slashing movements, hacking movements. Hacking Dave Cameron.
Ivan Ribaric laughing.
…he said she’d be at God’s right hand for telling Father Cusack about the evil.
‘Off,’ said Villani. ‘Put it off.’
Outside, Loneregan said, ‘Listen, I heard about your girl. What can I say? Strength, mate.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And thanks about my dad.’
Deke Muray was in his mind, it took a moment for Villani to focus. ‘Bob speaks highly of him,’ he said. ‘Brave man who loved his little boy.’
‘Means a lot to me that. Your dad saying that.’
IN THE car, going over the Westgate, how long it seemed since the call to Prosilio.
Villani’s phone rang.
‘Dove, boss. Boss, sorry, I don’t want to…’
‘Speak.’
‘Boss, just leaving a house in Niddrie. With Tomasic. I got this bloke Maggie in Mallacoota. Talked to him, got the name of the bloke who fetched the girl from the market. The Romanian?’
‘I’m with you.’
‘Tommo’s been talking Romanian to them. Took a while to convince them we hadn’t come to kill her.’
Nothing for so long and then everything at once.
‘She’s there?’ said Villani.
‘No, boss. She’s out Heathcote way. She’s been staying with the bloke’s daughter. But she’s going home today. Flight from Tulla in two hours. Austrian Airlines. To Vienna.’
‘Who’s taking her?’
‘The bloke’s son-in-law and his brother.’
‘Niddrie,’ said Villani. ‘On your bike. Tulla. Meet you in Depot Drive. That’s between Centre and Service. Under the trees, facing west. We want to pick her up without fuss.’
To Birkerts, he said, ‘Tullamarine. The Prosilio girl.’
All the way, he thought about Lizzie.
In the seconds when he decided he would not fetch her, he killed her. When he committed her to the cells, he killed her.
THEY DROVE up Departure Drive, Villani and Birkerts in front, parked beyond international departures. Two security men arrived in seconds.
Villani showed them the badge. ‘Inspector Villani, Homicide.’
The guards left.
‘Tell Tommo to check the departure time,’ said Villani. ‘Get Dove here.’
Birkerts got out, went back and spoke to Dove and Tomasic. Tomasic got out, adjusted his clothing, and walked down the broad pavement.
Dove and Birkerts got in. Dove in the back.
‘They’ll drive up and drop her or what?’ said Villani.
‘Don’t know,’ said Dove. ‘I’d say they’ll park and come with her. She’s got no English, she’s scared.’
Villani thought about what to do. It didn’t matter much how they arrived.
‘What we’ll do is,’ he said, ‘Birk, you and Tommo wait inside the first door. We’ll be inside the second one. Warn these security dorks. Tell them to stay out of sight.’
‘Boss,’ said Birkerts.
‘She arrives alone or with the brothers, the door she comes in, we intercept her just inside,’ said Villani. ‘All badges out, we don’t want to scare her, anyone. Say police as caringly as possible. Like a blessing.’
‘Jeez, that’s a big ask,’ said Birkerts.
They got out, immediate sweat, Tomasic was coming out of the building. ‘Leaves one-thirty,’ he said. ‘She’s got to check in inside the next forty minutes.’
‘Follow me, son,’ said Birkerts.
The departure hall was cool, crowded, long lines, two big groups of Japanese men, lean women in sports gear, a hockey team perhaps.
Villani was looking through the glass wall in the direction of the open-air parking lot, they would come from there if she was escorted by the brothers. He had the fear, the tightness in the solar plexus. This was happening too quickly, they should be here in numbers. They shouldn’t be here at all. The Sons should be here.
All this in one day.
‘Boss,’ said Dove, urgent. ‘There.’
He was pointing at the multi-storey parking garage across the road.
Two big men, young, T-shirts, cargo pants, dark glasses, one wore thongs. Standing well back from the crossing.
Lizzie.
She was between them, the girl, she barely reached their shoulders, her hair was inside a baseball cap, she was in jeans and a white collarless shirt, a child wearing big dark glasses, carrying a bag, a blue sports bag with the swipe on the side.
The lights changed, they stepped off.
Villani was looking to their left, across the road, through the undercover bus stop. A black car was behind a bus with a luggage trailer, it was nosing out, twenty, thirty metres from the crossing.
A motorbike was beside it, on the far side, the driver’s side, two up, full-face helmets, the passenger had his left hand on the car.
In the moment, Villani knew. Oh, Jesus, no.
‘Car, the bike!’ Villani went between two women coming in the door, freeing the weapon as he ran.
The girl was looking at the bike, the car, her mouth was open, the light caught her teeth.
She knew she was going to die.
Villani was halfway across the road, the nose of the black car, an Audi, the tinted windscreen, the biker, he saw the pistol, he did not hear the sounds.
The girl dropped. The man next to her dropped.
Running, he fired, the helmets turned, the bike passenger swung his pistol across the rider’s head.
Villani stumbled.
Dove beside him, Dove had his gun in both hands, he fired once, twice, holes in the windscreen, the man on the pillion standing now.
Villani steadied, shot the rider, he knew he had hit him, you knew. He fired again. Dove beside him fired, again, the pillion shooter’s helmet jerked, the collar of his leather jacket lifted, he fell sideways.
The black Audi turning left, mounting the median strip, coming slowly.
Screaming, many people screaming, a child screaming.