Truth by Peter Temple Read Free Book Online Page B

his head was a rough semi-circle of empty stubbies.
    On the main road, Villani switched on the radio.
    … firefighters arrive from West Australia today to support the weary teams battling to save three towns now under threat in the high country…
    When the mobile rang, the towers were in sight, he was in the early Monday commuter traffic, all slit-eyed men, close-shaven, dreaming of Friday afternoon so far.
    ‘Villani,’ he said.
    Birkerts said, ‘Three dead, it’s a shed in Oakleigh.’
    ‘Three?’
    ‘Yeah. Pretty fucking rough.’

 
    THE SMELL was of a slaughterhouse, of excrement and piss and blood and fear.
    Breathing shallowly, Villani stepped over the black creek and stood just inside the tin cavern. Light from the doorway lay across a man near them, on his front, his fluids had formed a clover shape before they ran out under the door.
    Ten metres away, against a side wall, two men sagged from steel roof pillars, hands tied above their heads with gaffer tape. They were naked, covered in caked blood, feet in black ponds.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Villani. ‘Jesus H. Christ.’
    He took the long route to the first upright man, kept close to the wall, stopped well short.
    The man was tanned, muscular, big-calved legs, small paunch, tracks on his arms. His hair appeared to have been burnt off, his genitals cut off, a thing of flesh lay on the concrete, head like a kicked cabbage dipped in blood, glint of teeth. Skeins of viscous material, gobbets of flesh, stuck to the tin wall behind him.
    Villani went to the second man. He was paler, bigger beer gut, semi-circle of scar tissue under his left nipple. The same damage had been inflicted upon his face and genitals.
    He looked around. The shed was a vehicle tip—carcasses of cars, doors, bonnets, windscreens, wheel rims, pistons, seats,dashboards, steering wheels, engine parts, they lay as if dropped from the sky.
    Behind him, Birkerts cleared his throat. ‘Forensics two minutes away. Ditto coroner.’
    ‘We’re out of here, then.’
    At the door, it was dead quiet, Villani heard something, looked up and saw a starling in ragged flight beneath the silver ceiling it had bounced off.
    They passed through the door, the uniforms parted for them, and they went outside and stood on the concrete apron and sucked the dirty city air, so clean now. Birkerts offered, they lit.
    Gawkers lined the side fence, workers from the car repair shop next door.
    ‘Shit,’ said Birkerts. ‘This is a step up.’
    ‘Who found them?’
    ‘Security bloke. Walking along that fence, he saw the blood, went around to the front of the house, door open, no one home, he came through and had a look. He’s in shock.’
    A warm wind from the north-east now. Villani looked at the sky, thin streaks of high cloud the colour of tongue fur, heard the sound of a train, the rip and flap of a loose truck tarp in the nearest yard.
    ‘Well, three,’ he said. ‘Three is just one times three.’
    ‘Simple as that,’ said Birkerts, he was looking over Villani’s shoulder. ‘The scientists.’
    People in blue overalls were coming down the side of the house, the crime-scene team, blood, ballistics, fingerprints, photography, they carried bags, not in a hurry. They walked across the concrete yard, chatting side-on, could be tradies coming on site.
    Two of Birkerts’ crew came around the corner, in black, scratching, yawning, Finucane in front, work needed on his shave, as much hair on face as scalp, the pitbull Tomasic behind him.
    Next was the forensic pathologist, Moxley, a balding ginger Scot. Villani raised a hand.
    ‘Doctor Death,’ he said.
    Moxley grounded his bag. ‘The head of Homicide. Isn’t this early for someone so important?’
    ‘Never sleep. Three deceased here, two with no clothes on. May I request an extreme hurry-on?’
    ‘ASAP is always the aim,’ said Moxley.
    ‘Of course,’ said Villani. ‘Must be painful always to fall short.’
    ‘Well, it takes more than your nine