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don’t believe they’d met before this.’
     
    Marcellus can’t take his eyes off the screen. ‘So he’s just, what— doing it on spec ? Oh! Another tank-slapper. Oh! They’re down! That’s gotta hurt. That happened to me once and it was very unpleasant. You take a week off work after one of those—what’s he doing now?’
     
    ‘Getting back on the bike.’
     
    ‘He’s getting back on the bike?’ Marcellus is just confused. ‘Why on earth would he do that?’
     
    ‘He’s going after the truck.’
     
    ‘What? But he’s riding a Vespa and they’re driving a big rig. Is he crazy?’
     
    The video image cuts, then picks up another wide angle in black and white. Marcellus watches the screen as the truck and armoured car approach the camera—then the Vespa zips out from a side street and races up beside it.
     
    Marcellus shakes his head, dumfounded as he watches the guy climb onto the truck.
     
    ‘ Why is he doing this?’
     
    ‘He’s trying to catch them.’
     
    ‘Who is this guy?’
     
    ‘He’s an off-duty cop. A Victorian police detective—junior detective.’
     
    Marcellus keeps staring at the video image. ‘Oh! They shot at him—oh Jesus —’ Marcellus winces. ‘He jumped! Where’d he go?’
     
    ‘He landed in a river.’
     
    ‘Did he really?’ The image cuts out and Marcellus sits heavily in his Herman Miller chair, both amazed and exhausted from watching the video. ‘Is he okay?’
     
    Claude nods. ‘Apart from a little road rash.’
     
    The German stares into the distance for a moment, lost in thought. ‘Billlly Hotchkissss. Why is that name familiar?’ He turns to the iMac, works the mouse, accesses Google and types on the keyboard. A list of hits blink onto the screen and his face lights up in recognition. ‘That’s right.’ He clicks on a YouTube link. ‘This was him six years ago.’ The video plays and they watch Billy’s enormous, multi-rollover shunt at Bathurst.
     
    Claude recoils. ‘Oh man, this guy is insane.’
     
    The German nods. ‘He used to be a professional racing car driver. In fact, he was, from what I can remember, a bit of a prospect. Had managers looking to bring him over to race in Europe. Even my friend was interested. Then this happened and he fell off the map. I think he was quite badly injured.’
     
    Marcellus works the keyboard again. This time he accesses the internal Interpol database. It takes a moment, then Billy’s file flips up onto the screen. Marcellus skim-reads it aloud: ‘He was accepted into the Victorian Police Academy, fourth in his class, one of the youngest detectives, yada yada, has been reprimanded on numerous occasions for, well, you just saw it, “reckless endangerment” and—oh.’
     
    ‘What?’
     
    ‘It seems like—yeah, he just resigned. Or was forced to. Looks like that chase was the last straw.’ Marcellus turns and stares out the window, lost in thought once more. ‘Interesting.’
     
    Claude studies his boss warily. ‘What are you up to, old man?’
     
    ‘I’ve had an idea.’
     
    ‘How nice for you. I know how rarely that happens these days.’
     
    Marcellus ignores the comment and turns to the Frenchman. ‘It’s time, Claude.’
     
    ‘Time for what?’
     
    ‘I think you know.’
     
    ‘If I did I wouldn’t have asked.’
     
    ‘You need to get back on the horse.’
     
    ‘The horse is dead.’
     
    ‘I just bought you a new one.’
     
    ‘But I don’t want it.’
     
    ‘Tough, it’s already in the stable —’
     
    ‘Omigod! Enough with the equine metaphors. It’s not going to happen —’
     
    ‘I’m retiring in two months —’
     
    ‘What?’
     
    ‘And I want you to take over as head of this department.’
     
    ‘Really? You want—really?’ Claude is both shocked and delighted by this news.
     
    Marcellus nods. ‘You’re imminently qualified and the only one I trust in this viper pit. But it’s not my call. The director will seriously consider who I