The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  Connie waited for something more specific. It wasn’t forthcoming. ‘Yeah, and what are they?’

  ‘You don’t wanna know.’

  ‘Bullshit. I do …’

  Letts said nothing.

  ‘C’mon, Billy. You’re scaring me. You’re not afraid of anyone.’

  ‘I’ve got two weeks to get him a new Harley. If I don’t, they’re gunna cut my dick off and do things to you.’

  The blood ran from Connie’s head. ‘What sort of things?’

  ‘Sex things.’

  ‘I think I’m gunna be sick. Who are these people?’

  ‘They’re outlaw bikies, that’s who they are.’

  ‘Why did you have to borrow that fuckin’ bike in the first place?’

  Letts turned to her. Went to hold her hand. ‘Look, it’s gunna be okay … as long as I get him another one.’

  She pulled away. ‘And how the fuck are you gunna do that?’

  ‘Buy one.’

  ‘And how the fuck are you gunna do that?’

  ‘I’m gunna rob a bank.’

  Tears ran down Connie’s cheeks.

  ‘There’s no other way. I need quick cash! And we’ll have some play money left over. I’ll take you to Bali like you’ve always wanted.’

  Connie started the car. Nothing had changed.

  CHAPTER 17

  Money van team leader Terry Michaels lugged the cash-laden bags through the depot loading bay and dumped them in the rear of the truck. Fred Young, his escort, had ATM cash tins. Driver Mike Stevens closed the doors and keyed the two separate locks. He tossed the keys to Young who, along with Michaels, signed the running sheet at 8.10 a.m. This was a delivery run.

  Armed with a spade, Billy Letts walked to the dilapidated chicken coop in the corner of his backyard. He moved a pile of hessian and turned the dirt, uncovering a rusted steel toolbox. Inside was his roscoe: a black revolver with the serial numbers drilled out. The gun was in good nick. Revolvers were ever-reliable. He kissed Connie goodbye and snorted a line of speed, leaving with the tools of his old trade: the gun, a can of fuel, gloves and a balaclava. For Letts, this was a collect run.

  The money van, call sign Bravo 615, arrived at the Pakenham ANZ bank at 9.52 a.m. Michaels, riding shotgun, signed the running sheet. Young exited from the rear. Michaels dragged a cash bag clear and carried it in; Young with hand on holstered .38 watched over him. Stevens remained behind the wheel.

  With the two guards inside the bank foyer, Letts made his move with adrenaline up: a fuel-injected suicide machine. Stevens saw the balaclava-clad bandit as a flash of flannel shirt and fuck-you attitude rushing his way inside.

  ‘Bravo six-one-five, cash nick!’ Stevens yelled into his two-way. ‘Cash nick! ANZ Pakenham!’

  Letts had caught the guards off guard.

  ‘Throw me the moneybag, cunts!’

  Customers and staff inside the bank proper heard the demands, turned, screamed and instinctively scurried for cover. On the other side of a pane of glass it appeared bullets were about to fly.

  Money van guards were traditionally older farts not prone to skinning their side arms. It wasn’t their money they were paid peanuts to protect.

  ‘Don’t make me do it!’ Letts warned, revolver up and desperate.

  But Michaels and Young had dash. Taking cover—Michaels behind a pillar and Young at a corner angle—they drew. Letts let one go, the report almost deafening in the enclosed space. Michaels and Young responded in kind. Ricochet. Fire flash. Wasps in the air. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the space. Letts, outgunned, retreated with no cash to show. Defeated, he bolted to his stolen car and hauled arse.

  Marcus Gucciardo took the call. Informed Shepherd.

  ‘Boss, we’ve got a live one. Bank job in Pakenham. Shots fired.’

  ‘Get on it.’

  A suburb away in Pakenham South, Letts pulled up in a car park behind some shops and splattered the fuel around inside his getaway car, sirens way off in the distance. What a fucking mess. He sparked up his balaclava and dropped it in, his thick shirt sleeve now aflame. A fighter plane with wing on fire, Letts ran down a laneway towards a second vehicle, flailing and whacking his arm to kill off his orange tail. Smoke billowed from the burning car behind him; his left arm seared—skin raw and shrivelled. Agony. Crash-and-burn maverick.

  Chalk-faced and hurting, a sweat-soaked Letts made it home. His left arm smelled cooked. It was the colour of the red sands of Mars; the skin ruptured and blistered. He staggered through the back door, Connie immediately to his aid.

  ‘Oh my God!’

  ‘Just get me some fuckin’ wet towels!’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘No good. It was no good. I got nothing.’

  ‘What happened to your arm?’

  ‘It’s burnt!’

  Connie gingerly removed the shirt; flannelette sticking to the flesh. Letts grimaced. ‘The guards pulled their shooters … They fucking pulled their guns!’

  Rummaging through a kitchen cupboard, Letts found the Panadol and guzzled down a handful with a beer from the fridge. Connie wet a tea towel under the sink tap and wrapped the arm.

  ‘We’ve got to get you to a hospital.’

  ‘No hospitals. No doctors. The jacks will be on the lookout.’

  ‘But this looks bad, Billy … Jesus. All this over a fucking motorcycle.’

  ‘It’ll be all right. I just need to lay low for a couple of days. Hit a softer target.’

  CHAPTER 18

  The bank foyer was riddled with holes. Like a blue spiderman, a ballistics expert had lines of bright string criss-crossing the space: a web of trajectory lines.

  ‘As far as I can tell, nine shots in total. Your offender was standing here.’

  Holding an imaginary gun, the spiderman stood with arm raised. ‘The two guards were there, and there, firing back this way. Two shots from one and three from the other.’

  Gooch pointed to a bullet hole centimetres from the window frame. Spiderman raised his eyebrows. Nodded. ‘Yep. You’re very lucky no-one on the footpath got caught up in this.’

  ‘Welcome to the wild west,’ said Gucciardo.

  Hunter was more pragmatic. ‘I’ll put out an APB for the outlaw Jesse James.’

  McCrann knelt by the black shell of the getaway car, burned out from its guts. A police photographer documented the secondary crime scene. Barlow approached. Gilmore was still canvassing the car park for eyewitnesses.

  ‘An old duck with her shopping bags saw the offender run down that sidestreet. Weapon in hand. Arm on fire.’

  McCrann stood. The scene was offering avenues.

  ‘So, the goose got his wing fried.’

  Crews 403 and 401 returned to the office. Gucciardo briefed the boss.

  ‘Ballistics—nine shots fired. Four by the offender—armed with .38 revolver. Five in total by the guards. Primary getaway vehicle, a Ford Falcon, dumped and torched in a Pakenham South car park. Eyewitnesses eyeballed the offender decamping with an arm on fire. Screaming, apparently. No balaclava on by this stage.’

  ‘Photofits?’

  ‘In the process … The Falcon was stolen from Dandenong train station yesterday. Secondary vehicle was a black Commodore, rego November Tango Juliette 462—also stolen from the train station, same day. It hasn’t been recovered, but Triple Zero has received calls about a black Commodore, November Tango Juliette, driving erratically at high speed along the Bass Highway and through San Remo—heading to the island.’

  Shepherd seemed content. ‘Righto. Wherever our boy’s holed up, he’ll be licking his wounds by the sounds of things. Visit all GPs and pharmacies in that area. You’re on a trip to Phillip Island.’

  ‘On it.’

  ‘Before you go, media liaison wants a talking head. You’re all over it.’

  Big Gooch baulked at the prospect. ‘Boss, you know I hate the cameras.’

  ‘Tell ’em to put Vaseline on the lenses.’

  ‘Hey?’

/>   ‘Never mind … Just keep it brief. Include a plea for info about the Commodore and ask for pharmacies to be on the lookout.’

  Night manager at the Cowes billiards hall, Connie Letts cried herself all the way to work. This wasn’t the way her life was supposed to have panned out. She had a shit job, an amphetamine habit and no prospects or aspirations. Choices. One different choice earlier on and her whole existence would have taken a different route. Would it have been a brighter route? Brought her a better, happier life? Maybe. At least she’d never shot heroin up her arm. And she had no criminal record. And she couldn’t help who she loved. Billy Letts was her man, for better or for worse. All she wanted with him was a kid and a peaceful life.

  It was nearing midnight. In the verdant glow of the felt tables, Connie walked with a tray, balancing empty glasses and beer bottles. There were a few players still potting; one young bloke walked from side to end to the other end playing against himself.

  ‘Hi Robbie. How ya doin?’

  ‘Just passin’ time till something happens.’

  ‘You been stayin’ outta trouble?’

  Robbie smiled, chuffed that Connie would even care to ask. ‘Yeah …’

  ‘You wanna get into some trouble?’

  Another bashful smile from the pock-marked kid with blond stubble. ‘Yeah …’

  ‘I’m gunna score some goey when I finish up. Wanna come?’

  ‘Yeah. For sure.’

  Robbie Walters had just made a choice; his already bleak and meandering path was now heading straight into the darkest of forests.

  CHAPTER 19

  Detectives Gucciardo and Hunter rode back to Phillip Island the following day to continue the hunt. Their brief was to visit local pharmacies right across the area, checking for any unusual purchases of medicines, creams, bandages and the like. They were also armed with photofits provided by Pakenham South witnesses.

  Case investigation wasn’t all forced entries and mobile intercepts with gunsdrawn. The majority of the work was done in the trenches; ninety per cent slog meant ten per cent luck. Just before noon, Hunter arrived at his next chemist and showed the pharmacy girl his badge.

  ‘Hi there. Detective Mitchell Hunter. I’m with the Victoria Police Armed Robbery Squad. Could I have a moment?’

  ‘You could have more than a moment, detective.’

  Clean-cut and polished, Hunter smiled. Explained why he was there. The young woman behind the counter seemed a sharp one, both in looks and intelligence. ‘Well,’ she said, through her obvious allure, ‘a lady came in this morning and bought half a shelf of gauze bandage, half-a-dozen bottles of Dettol and she did present a script for, um … penicillin and painkillers.’

  ‘How did she pay?’

  ‘Credit card.’

  ‘Could I see the signed receipt, please?’

  The male pharmacist appeared in white coat.

  ‘Everything okay, Sonya?’

  ‘This is a police detective who’s investigating that bank robbery from yesterday … The one that’s been on the news.’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘He’s asking about any unusual purchases ’cos the robber got burnt.’

  The pharmacy girl found the slip. Handed it over to Hunter.

  ‘Here you go.’

  Hunter handed her a business card, complete with his mobile number. ‘Thanks. If there’s anything else you can remember, here’s my details.’

  Sonya looked at the card. ‘No worries. I’ll be sure to call.’

  Hunter gave her a wink. Back in his squad car, he phoned the office. Barlow answered. ‘Tickets, I need you to run a name.’

  ‘Hang on, I’ll jump on the computer … Okay, shoot.’

  ‘Connie Letts. Lemur. Echo. Double tango. Sierra. More than likely resides somewhere on Phillip Island.’

  Barlow ran the database check. Scanned a few versions of the name.

  ‘Here you go. Constance Janet Letts. DOB would make her … twenty-six. Address: 85 York Parade, Wimbledon Heights.’

  ‘Could you check that address for me? See if anyone else lives there?’

  ‘I’ll get back to you. Hang five.’

  Hunter found a bakery and bought a pie with sauce and a chocolate Big M. He was halfway through his lunch when Barlow returned the call.

  ‘Tickets here, mate. You’ve got a William Wayne Letts coming up at that address. DOB would make him … thirty-two. Priors for armed rob, firearms, burgs and some pissy driving matters.’

  ‘Put me through to Shep.’

  Gucciardo stood at the whiteboard in the Robbers’ ops room. His crew and McCrann’s were present, along with Senior Sergeant Brad Tomlinson of the SOG. Shepherd stood to one side. This was Gooch’s investigation, and a person of interest had hit the radar screen very early on. It was time to formulate a full surveillance plan to see what the POI unwittingly had to offer, if anything. Often persons of interest turned to persons of great uninterest after closer scrutiny. Elimination or confirmation. It was like weeding the manure. Gucciardo apprised all present of the state of play.

  ‘This guy Letts fits the bill. Has form for armed rob and firearms. The dogs are on the address now. Letts and his bird—name: Constance Janet Letts—left the premises for a short time this arvo, giving the techs a chance to install devices. We’ve got eyes on the home and ears inside and we’re surveilling around the clock. Brad, if we want to take him, that job will go to you.’

  Tomlinson, an ultimate alpha male in black paramilitary jumpsuit, nodded silently. Arms crossed.

  At the conclusion of the meeting and back in his office, Shepherd rang Malone. It was time to use the squad’s new asset. With listening devices in place inside the Letts home, The Robbers needed to encourage William Letts to talk about the failed bank job, if he was in fact the perp.

  ‘Ian, it’s Ken Shepherd. Can you get something in the paper for us tomorrow?’

  CHAPTER 20

  Kelso fizzed open a VB while waiting for Hunter, who appeared from the florist shop cradling yellow roses. Back in the squad car, Kelso handed him a traveller. ‘You in trouble?’

  Hunter twist-topped the stubby. ‘Yeah, she hasn’t seen me for a couple of weeks.’

  Kelso knew the way. He and Hunter, after all, were lifelong mates having grown up in Glen Waverley where they played cowboys and Indians and cops and robbers as kids: Kelso always choosing to be either ‘the Indian’ or ‘the robber’. They both barracked for Collingwood, and had traded the odd girlfriend and played for the same sports teams throughout local high school—before joining the police force together. They’d worked side by side at Fitzroy uniform before Kelso first moved to the crime squads. The Armed Robbery Squad had been a career aspiration for both, Kelso going first after a stint with the Asians, and Hunter following two years later.

  Kelso dropped Hunter outside a neat weatherboard with white picket fence and manicured garden. The place had not deteriorated despite the passing years.

  ‘Say g’day for me,’ Kelso said and drove off.

  Hunter walked to the porch and rang the doorbell. The door opened, revealing a surprised smile and open arms.

  ‘Hi Mum. Any chance for some tea?’

  Vivian Hunter hugged her boy. Visits had been rare in recent times.

  ‘Brought you some flowers.’

  ‘They’re lovely.’

  Rex Hunter sat at the living room couch reading The Age.

  ‘Here he is.’

  ‘Don’t get up, Dad.’

  ‘Rubbish … How are you?’

  A grab on the shoulder: the adult father–son embrace.

  ‘You here for tea? You want a beer? Some wine?’

  ‘I’ll have a beer with dinner. Yeah.’

  Rex headed to the kitchen. Returned with two green bottles. Handed one over. ‘Cheers, mate.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  The two sat at the d
ining table.

  ‘How are the hips?’

  ‘Can still swing the club, mate. Went around in eighty-nine yesterday.’

  ‘Eighty-nine. Sure you counted the lost balls?’

  ‘From tee to green. That new driver you bought me—she’s a ripper.’

  ‘I’ll have to get out and have a hit with you soon … I’ve been playing the odd round with Dan Drake from work. He’s off a handicap of five. Jeez he hits a long ball.’

  ‘Five. Must get out and practise a bit.’

  ‘He gets down to the Albert Park range a lot. Plays every weekend.’

  Viv appeared with a salad bowl and a plate of buttered bread.

  ‘You need a hand, Mum?’

  ‘I’m right, love. Sit at the table and chat with your dad.’

  It was chops and chips for tea by the smell coming from the kitchen.

  ‘I would have put on a roast had I known you were coming,’ Viv called out.

  ‘Next time Mum. You know I love my chops.’

  Rex appeared with a white cardboard tube in hand. He threw it to his son.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Saw it in a shop window the other day. Didn’t think you had it.’

  Hunter pulled a rolled poster from the tube. Rolled it out flat on the dining table.

  ‘Oh Dad …’

  ‘Thought so.’

  ‘Once upon a Time in The West. Hand-painted … Look at the detail. The action.’

  ‘Who’s that guy?’

  ‘That’s Charles Bronson. See those three horses … the lead hired gun says, “Looks like we’re shy one horse,” Bronson says, “No, you brought two too many,” then guns all three of ’em down. It’s the opening scene. Classic stuff.’

  ‘Glad you like it, mate. It’s good to see you.’

  CHAPTER 21

  Stanley Voss sat at the head of his table for the scheduled Tuesday night dinner with his future daughter-in-law. He studied Brenda, the teak-skinned daughter of a long-dead Maori father and a pokies-obsessed Aussie mum on welfare. As far as Voss knew, her dad—a workshop mechanic—collapsed at work with a wrench in hand and a dicky ticker in his chest. Brenda was aged about fifteen and got into some trouble with the police around that time. Doris had heard it was for shoplifting or stealing a car. Brenda and Nathan had fallen in lust at high school; tongue pashing and sticky-finger games no doubt all the rage before they consummated the deal. They’d been together ever since. A dental surgery receptionist, Brenda had plumped up a bit since her schooldays.