Villani saw the faces in the car, the head and arm and the pumpgun sticking out of the passenger side.
Run back.
Too late.
‘Oh shit,’ he said, saw the flame in the shotgun barrel, felt his shirt and his jacket plucked, fired at the shooter, him and Dove, standing side by side, they emptied their weapons.
The Audi stopped a metre away. A hole in the windscreen on the driver’s side. Dove had shot the driver. Someone once shot him and now he had shot someone. Not gun-shy, Dove.
Silence.
Birkerts and Tomasic arrived.
They walked to the girl, seeing the slumped men in the Audi, seeing the bikers where they lay, hearing the bike ticking. Villani smelled cordite and hot gunmetal and petrol fumes.
The girl was clenched like a baby with colic. One of her escorts was on his side, losing blood, blood everywhere. His brother was holding the man’s head.
She would be dead, dying.
‘Police,’ Villani said, not loudly.
She raised her head and looked at him, dark eyes.
Not dead.
He knelt by her, Dove knelt too, they turned her gently, she did not resist, she was limp.
Not dying.
Not shot.
‘Safe now,’ he said. ‘Safe now.’
She blinked, she was crying, she smiled a wan little smile.
Not dead. Not Lizzie. Saved.
‘Medics,’ Villani said. ‘Tell them five down. Gunshot.’
THEY SAT in the big interview room, Villani and Dove and two interpreters, a fat sallow man who was also a justice of the peace and a stern young woman who was a court interpreter in four Slavonic languages.
And the girl. Her name was Marica.
The girl did not need to be told her rights. She was not charged with anything. She was giving her testimony willingly. She was a witness to at least one crime.
Dove asked the questions, it was his right.
He was quiet and friendly, smiling, Villani had not seen this side of Dove. He took Marica through her story, from the time in Tandarei when her uncle brought the man to see her and her twin sister and told them they could go to Australia and be trained as hairdressers and beauticians, the Australian girls did not want to do the work, they were also ugly and had big hands and could not do delicate things. His reward would be a small percentage of their earnings when they were qualified, that was only fair.
It took a long time, breaks taken, there was a need to ask for detail. Marica knew some names, just first names, not many.
At length, they came to the night at Prosilio, to the drive from Preston, to the garbage exit, to the stairs and the lift and the rooms in the sky, the bathroom with the glass bath, the champagne and the cocaine.
And the men.
Two men.
The tiny camera. There was a camera.
The things they did. The pain.
Marica cried, tears of shame and humiliation at having to tell strangers, men, these things. The stern female interpreter did not comfort her. She silenced the fat man with a look when he seemed to make an attempt.
And then it was time for the photographs. Dove had assembled them.
It was a delicate matter. Dove told the interpreters how it would be done, what Marica should do if she recognised any of the people in the photographs. But the interpreters could not see the photographs.
The woman explained the procedure to the girl. Dove asked the man if he was happy with the explanation. He said he was.
Dove gave Marica the red pen.
He showed the first print to Villani, A4.
Stuart Koenig.
He slid it face down to the girl. They watched her face.
Marica turned it over, looked, blinked, spoke to the woman.
‘She says she was taken to a house,’ said the interpreter. ‘She had sex with him but did not see him again.’
Dove showed Villani another picture, their eyes met. He put the print on the table, face down.
Mervyn Brody, car dealer, racehorse owner.
She looked, turned it face down.
So it went. Picture shown to Villani, slid to the girl.
Brian Curlew, criminal barrister.
Face down.
Chris Jourdan, restaurants and bars.
Face down.
Daniel Bricknell, art dealer.
Face down.
Dennis Combanis, property developer.
Face down.
Mark Simons, insolvency expert. Face down.
Hugh Hendry.
Face down.
Martin Orong, minister of the crown.
Softly, Dove said to Villani, face close to him, ‘The girl on the snow road.’
He slid the picture to Marica. She looked at it, blinked, blinked.
Face down.
Dove said to the interpreters, ‘I want to show her some photographs of groups now. We haven’t had time to isolate the people in them. If she recognises anyone, she should ring the face. Okay? We have enlarged the pictures, but she must examine them very carefully.’
The man explained, Marica nodded.
Dove showed Villani the pictures, A5, six of them. Photographs taken at the casino party, the party at Prosilio to launch Orion. Villani looked at them.
Black ties, little black dresses, champagne flutes, facelifts, hair transplants, Botox, collagen, coke smiles, rich people, clever people, talented people, untalented people, freeloaders, charlatans, tax cheats, unjailed criminals, kept women, kept men, toyboys, walkers, a drug dealer, trophy brides.
He gave them back to Dove.
Dove gave the girl the first picture. She studied it. She was tired, she rubbed an eye. She looked like Lizzie, Lizzie when she was alive.
Face down, pushed aside.
Next picture.
Marica was rubbing the other eye, looking at the photograph. She stopped rubbing. She looked at Dove, her eyes were red, her mouth was open.
She took the fat red pen and drew on the picture.
One circle.
Two circles.
She turned the print face down. She pushed the picture back to Dove. He picked it up. Looked. He gave it to Villani.
A smiling man, glass in hand.
A man making a point to a woman, half-serious, his eyebrows were raised.
To the interpreters, Villani said, no moisture in his mouth, ‘I’m giving the picture back to her. Ask her if she’s absolutely sure. You must impress upon her the seriousness of the matter.’
The woman spoke. The man spoke.
Villani slid the picture.
Marica looked, she nodded fiercely.
Da. Da. Da.
‘She is sure,’ said the woman.
Guy Ulyatt of Marscay. We Own The Building.
Max Hendry.
Villani and Dove went outside. They looked at each other in silence.
‘Well, bugger,’ said Dove. ‘That’s a bit of…didn’t expect that. No. What, ah, what now, boss?’
‘Your case,’ said Villani. ‘You’re the boss here.’
‘Apply for warrants to search their homes and offices,’ said Dove.
‘Go for your life.’
‘Boss.’
Silence.
‘I heard Max Hendry offered you a big job,’ said Dove.
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Needed a certain kind of person. But it wasn’t me.’
SHE RANG when he was in the lift. She was across the boulevard in her car.
Villani had to wait to cross. He looked at his messages.
Love you, Dad. Always. Corin.
He went to her window, it came down.
‘I’m so sorry, Stephen,’ said Anna. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am.’
She reached up to him and he stooped. She kissed him, held his head in both hands, fingertips in his hair, pressing on his skull. Then she pulled away.
Villani wiped his mouth. He felt sadness. ‘Your lipstick,’ he said. ‘It’s smudged.’
He turned and left but he looked back, he could not help himself. The tinted light made her face pale, her mouth grey. He could not see her eyes.
Home. The telephone unplugged, mobiles off, he showered, closed the blinds, lay down on the big bed. So tired. He carried too much freight. And no pity left in him.
When the pity leaves you, son, it’s time to go. You’ve stopped being fully human.