gun-shy. Once, after a chaotic in-progress cock-up and a chase on foot, Colby stared at Dance and said, ‘You practise running on the spot?’
‘Our intelligence focus is on big players,’ said Dance.
‘Like calling the fucking phone book intelligence,’ said Colby.
‘Crucible’s brief is crime networks,’ said Dance.
‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Read drugs. What’s this look like?’
‘Well, Ivan Ribaric only comes on our radar because he did some muscle for Gabby Simon, that’s a few years ago. But he nearly killed a bloke in the Lord Carnarvon in South Melbourne and that was too extreme for Gabby. In public, that is.’
‘So what’s your non-intelligence-based view?’
Dance held up his hands. ‘Could be alternative dispute resolutioninvolving ten million bucks. Could be argument over parking spot. The fuckers kill each other for anything. Nothing.’
‘And the torture?’
‘Torture is like a Playstation game for arseholes awake for three days on ice. I would say payback. By pricks who hate Vern Hudson a bit less than the Ribbos.’
‘At least you didn’t say gang war,’ said Colby. ‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s get back to what I hear are called our silos. Inspector Villani, a word.’
‘I EXPECT to hear first, son,’ said Colby. ‘From you or whoever. Not from God. Gillam rang me, girl’s fucking hysterical. Then it’s Mr Garry O’Barry, the Irish deviant.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Yeah, well, listen, all the makings of a shit sandwich this. I see no joy, suffering all round.’
‘Very early days.’
‘I’m thinking get rid of it, handball it to Dancer. Crucible.’
‘It’s Homicide business.’
‘Sometimes you worry me,’ said Colby. ‘You don’t see the whole picture.’
‘No?’
‘No. All that Singleton justice-for-the-dead shit. Homicide, little island of fucking Boy Scouts. Get over it. Singo’s gone, he’s microscopic dust floating up there, he’s air pollution. Stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result in an hour and you’re a turd.’
‘We could get lucky.’
Colby sneezed, a detonation, another, another. ‘Fucking smoke’s killing me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll say this. Get lucky or have plans B to D ready.’
‘Do that then, boss.’
‘Stay in touch. Close touch. I want to know.’
‘Boss.’
When Villani was at the door, Colby said, ‘Career-defining moment this could be. They come, you know.’
‘Bear that in mind, boss.’
VILLANI SAT in the outer office, mobile off, eyes closed. Barry was on an important call, said the secretary. Villani didn’t mind, enjoyed the peace.
‘Commissioner Barry’s free, inspector,’ said the secretary, some signal given.
Barry’s desk was side-on to the window, the venetian blinds half closed, the vertical lines of the buildings thinly sliced.
‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Sit. Just got the chief off the line.’ He paused. ‘Tell me.’
Villani became aware of the aches in his forearms, across his shoulders. The mowing, the whole body tensed, the gripping of the throttle bar. ‘Ivan Ribaric and his half-brother,’ he said. ‘Croatians.’
Barry found a tissue, napkin-sized. He blew his nose, eyes bulged. ‘Never had a cold in freezing bloody Ireland,’ he said. He inspected the tissue, crushed it. ‘Now is that Australian of Croatian descent or citizen of Croatia?’
‘The first.’
‘I’ve found there’s a bit of sensitivity around this kind of thing.’
‘It’s a family with a wog name. Like me.’
‘What about me?’ Barry said. ‘Is an Irishman a wog?’
‘Mick is a kind of early wog as I understand it.’
Barry laughed, rolling pub laugh, he had hard bird eyes. ‘Moving on. Knowing the dead’s a step, catching the deaders, that’s the trick.’
‘Steep curve I’m on.’
Mouth too quick, always his failing. Villani looked at the view. He thought he liked Barry more than
‘Our intelligence focus is on big players,’ said Dance.
‘Like calling the fucking phone book intelligence,’ said Colby.
‘Crucible’s brief is crime networks,’ said Dance.
‘Yeah, mate, yeah. Read drugs. What’s this look like?’
‘Well, Ivan Ribaric only comes on our radar because he did some muscle for Gabby Simon, that’s a few years ago. But he nearly killed a bloke in the Lord Carnarvon in South Melbourne and that was too extreme for Gabby. In public, that is.’
‘So what’s your non-intelligence-based view?’
Dance held up his hands. ‘Could be alternative dispute resolutioninvolving ten million bucks. Could be argument over parking spot. The fuckers kill each other for anything. Nothing.’
‘And the torture?’
‘Torture is like a Playstation game for arseholes awake for three days on ice. I would say payback. By pricks who hate Vern Hudson a bit less than the Ribbos.’
‘At least you didn’t say gang war,’ said Colby. ‘Okay, gentlemen, let’s get back to what I hear are called our silos. Inspector Villani, a word.’
‘I EXPECT to hear first, son,’ said Colby. ‘From you or whoever. Not from God. Gillam rang me, girl’s fucking hysterical. Then it’s Mr Garry O’Barry, the Irish deviant.’
‘Sorry, boss.’
‘Yeah, well, listen, all the makings of a shit sandwich this. I see no joy, suffering all round.’
‘Very early days.’
‘I’m thinking get rid of it, handball it to Dancer. Crucible.’
‘It’s Homicide business.’
‘Sometimes you worry me,’ said Colby. ‘You don’t see the whole picture.’
‘No?’
‘No. All that Singleton justice-for-the-dead shit. Homicide, little island of fucking Boy Scouts. Get over it. Singo’s gone, he’s microscopic dust floating up there, he’s air pollution. Stuff like this, the media blowies on you, bloody pollies pestering, the ordinary work goes to hell. And then you don’t get a result in an hour and you’re a turd.’
‘We could get lucky.’
Colby sneezed, a detonation, another, another. ‘Fucking smoke’s killing me,’ he said. ‘Anyway, I’ll say this. Get lucky or have plans B to D ready.’
‘Do that then, boss.’
‘Stay in touch. Close touch. I want to know.’
‘Boss.’
When Villani was at the door, Colby said, ‘Career-defining moment this could be. They come, you know.’
‘Bear that in mind, boss.’
VILLANI SAT in the outer office, mobile off, eyes closed. Barry was on an important call, said the secretary. Villani didn’t mind, enjoyed the peace.
‘Commissioner Barry’s free, inspector,’ said the secretary, some signal given.
Barry’s desk was side-on to the window, the venetian blinds half closed, the vertical lines of the buildings thinly sliced.
‘Stephen,’ he said. ‘Sit. Just got the chief off the line.’ He paused. ‘Tell me.’
Villani became aware of the aches in his forearms, across his shoulders. The mowing, the whole body tensed, the gripping of the throttle bar. ‘Ivan Ribaric and his half-brother,’ he said. ‘Croatians.’
Barry found a tissue, napkin-sized. He blew his nose, eyes bulged. ‘Never had a cold in freezing bloody Ireland,’ he said. He inspected the tissue, crushed it. ‘Now is that Australian of Croatian descent or citizen of Croatia?’
‘The first.’
‘I’ve found there’s a bit of sensitivity around this kind of thing.’
‘It’s a family with a wog name. Like me.’
‘What about me?’ Barry said. ‘Is an Irishman a wog?’
‘Mick is a kind of early wog as I understand it.’
Barry laughed, rolling pub laugh, he had hard bird eyes. ‘Moving on. Knowing the dead’s a step, catching the deaders, that’s the trick.’
‘Steep curve I’m on.’
Mouth too quick, always his failing. Villani looked at the view. He thought he liked Barry more than
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