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dead seen.
    Villani thought about the dead he had seen. He remembered them all. Bodies in Housing Commission flats, in low brown brick-veneer units, in puked alleys, stained driveways, car boots, the dead stuffed into culverts, drains, sunk in dams, rivers, creeks, canals, buried under houses, thrown down mineshafts, entombed in walls, embalmed in concrete, people shot, stabbed, strangled, brained, crushed, poisoned, drowned, electrocuted, asphyxiated, starved, skewered, hacked, pushed from buildings, tossed from bridges. There could be no unstaining, no uninstalling, he was marked by seeing these dead as his father was marked by the killing he had done, the killing he had seen.
    Villani said, ‘Tell Mr Searle we want her on all channels tonight, hair up, hair down, a women found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building in Docklands.’
    ‘Is that like being murdered?’ said Dove. ‘Is murdered a word that can be used?’
    ‘That’s it, Detective Weber. Detective Dove, a minute.’
    Weber left. Villani gazed at Dove, blinked, gazed, didn’t move his head, his hands were in his lap. Dove blinked, moved his head back and forth, wouldn’t look away, blinked, touched an ear.
    ‘Understand that I don’t like a smartarse,’ said Villani. ‘You’re only here because when they offered you around trying to get rid of you, I took you on. Now all you’ve got going for you is you got shot. The sympathy vote.’
    ‘Haven’t exactly had much of a chance,’ said Dove.
    ‘This is your chance,’ said Villani. ‘Don’t stuff it up. Tell Manton we don’t get everything today, staff names, CVs, whocame and went, we will say some very nasty things about the Prosilio building. And we want that Orion guest list too.’
    He did paperwork, read the case notes, wrote instructions, gave instructions, spoke to squad leaders. Things were in hand, the day ticked by. At 5.40pm, he left, bought Chinese on the way, reached the empty house in time for the television news. They showed her face. The resemblance to Lizzie was strong, he hadn’t imagined it. Even in death, she was lovely, serious, but she looked no more dead than if it were her passport photograph.
    No mention that she was found broken-necked. No mention of the Prosilio building. Just an unidentified young woman. He changed channels, caught the item on Ten. The same.
    He rang four numbers, he could not find Searle or anyone else to rage at, left a short message for Dove.
    He was watching the 7pm ABC news when Dove rang.
    ‘Before you say anything,’ said Villani, ‘who decided no broken neck, not found at any particular place?’
    ‘Not us, boss. I used your words. A young woman found dead in an apartment in the Prosilio building.’
    The woman on screen. Hair down.
    …police are appealing for information about the identity of this young woman. She is Caucasian, brown hair, in her late teens and would not have been seen for several days…
    New image. Her hair was up.
    …please contact Crime Stoppers on…
    ‘Searle will turn in the wind for this,’ said Villani. ‘Anything comes in, let me know.’
    ‘Is that any time, night and day?’ said Dove.
    ‘When you make a bad call, I’ll tell you. It’s a sudden-death thing.’
    Saturday night. Once high point of the week. He showered, found crumpled shorts, opened a beer, went shirtless into the hot night. He took a piss on the former vegetable strip along the fence, dead hard-baked soil, heard voices, laughter from two sides. A splash, splashes. How had he missed a pool going in next door?
    He sat in a deckchair on the back terrace, drank another beer,ate cold Chinese. It wasn’t bad, possibly better cold than hot, hot was less than wonderful. He registered the rough brick paving underfoot, laid by another him and another Joe Cashin in another age. It took a weekend.
    Sudden craving for red wine. He found a bottle, the second last one in the case.
    In the kitchen, the corkscrew in hand, his mobile on the