a girl.
‘I’ve reassured my leaders on your handling of the media,’ Barry said. ‘A bit of paranoia at the political level. The problem is wanting always to be seen to be on top of the baddies. Now is that not a total misunderstanding of the world?’
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for the invitation. Happy crowd here.’
‘Well, they would be, the oysters, the champers,’ said Barry.
Probably Laurie’s outfit, thought Villani, caterers to the big endof town, minimum hundred-and-fifty bucks a head, feeding the A-list on Cup Day was three hundred.
‘Good to see you out of your silo,’ said Barry. ‘Can’t have you buried like Singleton. Get some perspective. If you’re going up, you need to have a wide view.’
He winked. ‘Mind you, I say that to all the girls.’
Villani made a smile, looked away, into the eyes of a young woman.
‘The minister and the chief commissioner are here, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Would you care to follow me?’
‘Of course,’ said Barry. ‘Lead on, darling.’
She took their glasses, gave them to a waiter. Then, like a safari guide, she led them through the throng.
As they skirted groups, Villani saw faces he knew from television, the newspapers. He saw the premier, Kelvin Yeats, slick brown hair, yellow eyes, he was laughing, bright teeth, looking at a man in his sixties, tanned, close-cropped grey hair: Max Hendry. The premier’s plump, blinking wife was talking to Vicky Hendry, Max’s second, third or fourth wife, a looker, shortish fair hair. As they passed, she met Villani’s eyes, registered him.
Then came infrastructure minister Stuart Koenig talking to Tony Ruskin and Paul Keogh, radio bookends of the working day, some people’s working day, two self-appointed opinion-makers. Sucking up to them before an election would be a priority for both parties.
They came close to a buffed couple, slash-mouthed Opposition leader Karen Mellish, kite-tight face, and her husband, Keith, usually called a farmer, he would have soft Collins Street hands.
From five metres, Villani saw the targets, two men drinking champagne: the police minister, Martin Orong, wolf-faced thirty-year-old, black hair, greasy skin, the latest model of outer-urban party branchstacker, and David Gillam, the chief commissioner.
As they approached, Gillam adjusted his uniform jacket. His features were a size or two too big for his face, as if they had grown ahead in the way of teenage boys’ feet.
Barry got there first, shook hands. ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ he said.
Orong tried some pathetic muscle, Villani didn’t respond.
‘How’s this Oakleigh shit going?’ said Orong, squeaky voice.
‘We’ll get there, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Drugs. Give it to Crucible.’
Villani looked at Barry, at the chief commissioner, read nothing in their faces.
‘Homicide investigates suspicious deaths,’ he said. ‘I’m a traditionalist, minister.’
Gillam sucked his teeth. ‘Tradition, absolutely. Steve, the minister’s just been talking about balance. Informing the public, that’s a given. While not creating undue alarm. Right, minister?’
Orong looked at Barry, at Villani. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Had the premier on the subject this very day. Balance, that’s the theme tune.’
Orong made a beckoning gesture. Gillam and Barry bent towards him.
‘An example is Prosilio,’ he said, eyes on Villani, ‘where you don’t want some hooker bitch thing to tarnish a multi-million dollar project, flagship project, jewel in the crown for the precinct.’
Villani looked away, at the people intent on the expensive morsels, the French champagne. In the old days, Laurie brought experiments and leftovers home, they ate them at the kitchen table, drinking wine. It often led to sex.
‘Find the sluts dead every day, right, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani paid attention.
‘Dogshit on the shoes of society. In fucking alleys.’
The
‘I’ve reassured my leaders on your handling of the media,’ Barry said. ‘A bit of paranoia at the political level. The problem is wanting always to be seen to be on top of the baddies. Now is that not a total misunderstanding of the world?’
‘Yes,’ said Villani. ‘Thanks for the invitation. Happy crowd here.’
‘Well, they would be, the oysters, the champers,’ said Barry.
Probably Laurie’s outfit, thought Villani, caterers to the big endof town, minimum hundred-and-fifty bucks a head, feeding the A-list on Cup Day was three hundred.
‘Good to see you out of your silo,’ said Barry. ‘Can’t have you buried like Singleton. Get some perspective. If you’re going up, you need to have a wide view.’
He winked. ‘Mind you, I say that to all the girls.’
Villani made a smile, looked away, into the eyes of a young woman.
‘The minister and the chief commissioner are here, gentlemen,’ she said. ‘Would you care to follow me?’
‘Of course,’ said Barry. ‘Lead on, darling.’
She took their glasses, gave them to a waiter. Then, like a safari guide, she led them through the throng.
As they skirted groups, Villani saw faces he knew from television, the newspapers. He saw the premier, Kelvin Yeats, slick brown hair, yellow eyes, he was laughing, bright teeth, looking at a man in his sixties, tanned, close-cropped grey hair: Max Hendry. The premier’s plump, blinking wife was talking to Vicky Hendry, Max’s second, third or fourth wife, a looker, shortish fair hair. As they passed, she met Villani’s eyes, registered him.
Then came infrastructure minister Stuart Koenig talking to Tony Ruskin and Paul Keogh, radio bookends of the working day, some people’s working day, two self-appointed opinion-makers. Sucking up to them before an election would be a priority for both parties.
They came close to a buffed couple, slash-mouthed Opposition leader Karen Mellish, kite-tight face, and her husband, Keith, usually called a farmer, he would have soft Collins Street hands.
From five metres, Villani saw the targets, two men drinking champagne: the police minister, Martin Orong, wolf-faced thirty-year-old, black hair, greasy skin, the latest model of outer-urban party branchstacker, and David Gillam, the chief commissioner.
As they approached, Gillam adjusted his uniform jacket. His features were a size or two too big for his face, as if they had grown ahead in the way of teenage boys’ feet.
Barry got there first, shook hands. ‘I’d like to introduce Inspector Stephen Villani, head of Homicide,’ he said.
Orong tried some pathetic muscle, Villani didn’t respond.
‘How’s this Oakleigh shit going?’ said Orong, squeaky voice.
‘We’ll get there, minister,’ said Villani.
‘Drugs. Give it to Crucible.’
Villani looked at Barry, at the chief commissioner, read nothing in their faces.
‘Homicide investigates suspicious deaths,’ he said. ‘I’m a traditionalist, minister.’
Gillam sucked his teeth. ‘Tradition, absolutely. Steve, the minister’s just been talking about balance. Informing the public, that’s a given. While not creating undue alarm. Right, minister?’
Orong looked at Barry, at Villani. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘Had the premier on the subject this very day. Balance, that’s the theme tune.’
Orong made a beckoning gesture. Gillam and Barry bent towards him.
‘An example is Prosilio,’ he said, eyes on Villani, ‘where you don’t want some hooker bitch thing to tarnish a multi-million dollar project, flagship project, jewel in the crown for the precinct.’
Villani looked away, at the people intent on the expensive morsels, the French champagne. In the old days, Laurie brought experiments and leftovers home, they ate them at the kitchen table, drinking wine. It often led to sex.
‘Find the sluts dead every day, right, inspector?’ said Orong.
Villani paid attention.
‘Dogshit on the shoes of society. In fucking alleys.’
The
Similar Books
