‘Clear!’
‘Clear!’
‘Clear!’
Down the end of the hall, like a tubby jack rabbit, Fraser—in pyjama pants and singlet—ran barefoot across the kitchen. Caulfield saw him move.
‘He’s heading for the back door!’
At pace, Fraser stumble-ripped through the flywire screen but managed to keep his balance on the backyard path. Ignoring barking orders, he raised a .22. Drake stepped from the cover of his tree, Fraser in his sights. Fraser let a round go. The zinger bit into Drake’s left bicep.
‘Duck’s down! Duck’s been hit!’
Caulfield rip-tackled Fraser down into the shaggy grass. Punched him in the face. Turned the shithead over and cuffed him. She looked over to Drake, writhing on the ground. Gooch and Hunter were down with him. Lynch joined Caulfield. Leaned in over Fraser and put his .38 to his temple.
‘You just shot a cop, shithead. It’s a miracle you’re still breathing.’
As Hunter called for an ambulance, Gooch tended to Drake; an entry and exit wound clean through his arm. His shirt-sleeve was stained red. It looked like he’d lost a full bottle.
‘Small calibre, in and out,’ Gooch reassured him. ‘You’ll live, brother, but I think your golf swing’s gunna suffer.’
‘There goes my handicap,’ Drake joked despite the white-hot burn.
Hunter dialled Shepherd as Gooch helped Drake into a backyard chair. The big Italian kept him talking while staunching the flow with his handkerchief.
Inside the red brick, Barlow held the back of his hand up to his nose as he studied the clandestine drug lab in the kitchen. He knew a thing or two about speed labs. He’d come across more than a dozen in his time with the Druggies. He also knew a thing or two about the habits of Jason Michael Fraser. Caulfield stepped in through the back door.
‘Careful,’ Barlow warned her. ‘These things kick out carcinogenic toxins. They’re very volatile. Prone to exploding.’
Caulfield held her arm across her mouth and nose. The only worse smell she’d encountered on the job was the stench emanating from a widower found dead in his kitchen six days after he dropped.
‘I’ll secure this. You wait outside.’
Eyes beginning to sting and water, Caulfield nodded without complaint.
‘Righto, cuz.’
Barlow moved to the adjacent lounge room, containing tatty furniture. A small TV sat propped atop a milk crate; cigarette packets scattered around a cheap coffee table. He began a cursory search, hoping Fraser was a creature of habit.
‘Come on. Don’t let me down.’
Barlow upturned the couch cushions. Nothing. Peered behind the couch pushed against a peeling wall. There was something stuffed down there: a zip-up travel bag. ‘You’re still a dumb fuck, Jason.’
Barlow placed the bag on the table. Unzipped it. Inside was a pile of drug money: a mix of tens, twenties and fifties tied with rubber bands in even denominations. At a guess, the bag contained about ten large. The notes were untraceable and unaccountable. Barlow plucked free a wad of the dirty cash—a thick wad of fifties—and stuffed it down behind his blue Kevlar. Again, just as he had done once before, Jason Michael Fraser had unwittingly donated to the Frank Barlow punting fund.
CHAPTER 32
Hunter placed an unopened can of Coke on the interview table in front of Fraser. Like a conspiracy theorist at a congressmen’s barbecue, the bearded Fraser watched the two detectives sitting before him. He’d been here before. Knew the can of drink was no gratuity, but rather a potential device of persuasion—if the detectives felt it necessary to go that way. He knew damn well he’d just shot a detective so there was a fair chance of some retribution. Gucciardo took a back seat to Hunter.
‘Jason, what we’ve got here is a hamburger with the lot,’ Hunter began, the official recorded interview yet to begin. ‘We found your amphetamine lab, several grams of product and cash proceeds of crime—all in your home. You’re fucked on that. You shot and injured a cop. You’re double-fucked on that one. So, you might as well do yourself a favour and earn some points by putting your hand up for the Watsonia Westpac stick-up. We know you did it. We know you were there casing the joint. We found a Coke can—just like that one there in front of you—with your prints all over it.’
Fraser knew what the jack was talking about. He’d drunk the can dry and tossed it while doing his homework before robbing the branch—but true to the ethos of all ‘good’ crooks he was going to admit nothing. ‘I was in Watsonia doing my shopping.’
Hunter took a deep breath. ‘Okay,’ he said, a resigned tone in his voice. ‘Your choice. Let’s start the interview.’
Hunter began the audio recording process. ‘This is a recorded interview between Detective Senior Constable Mitchell Hunter and Jason Michael Fraser of 5 Redhill Street, Norlane, conducted at the offices of the Armed Robbery Squad on …’
Hunter confirmed the date on his watch and read it out loud for the recording.
‘Person present is my corroborator, Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo.’
‘Detective Sergeant Gucciardo present.’
Hunter extended his arm to show Fraser his watch. ‘Jason, do you agree the time is now 8.32 a.m.?’
‘No comment.’
‘What is your full name and address?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay. I first intend to interview you in relation to the offence of armed robbery committed at the Watsonia Westpac Bank on 28 April this year. Before continuing, I must inform you that you are not obliged to say or do anything but anything you say or do may be given in evidence. Do you understand that?’
‘No comment.’
‘I must also inform you of the following rights. You may communicate with a friend or relative or a legal practitioner. Do you wish to exercise any of those rights?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay.’
‘Are you of Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander descent?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay. Firstly, I put it to you that evidence has been found to suggest that you were in the vicinity of the Watsonia Westpac Bank on the day or in the days before a male offender committed an armed robbery there. What do you say to that?’
‘No comment.’
‘I put it to you we located a drink can with your fingerprints on it within ten metres of the bank on the day of the armed robbery.’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you drink Coke?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you like Coke?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay. Are you intending to answer every question I put to you with a “no comment” response?’
‘No comment.’
‘Okay. We’re going to suspend this interview pending further inquiries. For the purposes of the tape, do you agree you’ve been provided refreshments?’
‘No comment.’
‘Are you happy with your treatment by the police at this stage?’
‘No comment.’
‘Do you agree the time is now 8.36 a.m.?’
‘No comment.’
Hunter stopped the recording. Looked back across to Gucciardo. ‘What do you reckon, Mr Gucciardo?’
‘Reckon about what, Mr Hunter?’
‘About George. Is it time we introduced Jason to George?’
‘George … Dunno if he’s around.’
‘Yeah, I saw him in the mess room—stuffing his face with bananas … I’ll go get him.’
‘Yeah, righto, Mr Hunter. Go get George. Bring him in.’
Fraser sat back with a nervous, curious gaze as Hunter left the room.
‘Who’s George? The boss?’
Gucciardo looked up from writing something in a Spirex notebook. ‘George is a fuckin’ animal, man.’
Hunter returned with George: a man in a black f
urry ape suit. There were no monkey theatrics. No gorilla impersonations. George simply walked in, an imposing bizarre figure with eyes locked on Fraser. Fraser looked completely confused. He sat back, peering up into the blue eyes of the man behind the mask: a man who unleashed and punched him right off his chair. Sat him back up by the scruff of his windcheater. Locked him in a sleeper strangle hold from behind. Fraser grabbed and clutched at the furry locked arms. He could hear the hidden detective breathing hard under the costume. Fraser tapped out on the desk: his head a purple hue and eyeballs bulging like hot marshmallows. He gagged; his lungs gasped for precious air that wasn’t there. Tiny white dots on his eyes joined as one. The man in the costume released Fraser. Punched him again. Fraser sucked in the air. Held the back of his head. George pulled up a chair next to the prisoner. Sat with rubber fists on the table staring straight into Fraser’s bloodshot eyes. The detective was still breathing hard under the mask. Possibly smiling. Possibly not.
‘Jason, meet George.’
‘All right … all fuckin’ right. I did the bank. I did it. Jesus, you blokes are fuckin’ lunatics.’
‘Good boy, Jason. Goodbye, George.’
The man in the suit stood and left the room. No monkey theatrics. No ape impersonations. Hunter started the audio recording again.
‘This is a recommencement of a recorded interview between Detective Senior Constable Mitchell Hunter and Jason Michael Fraser of 5 Redhill Street, Norlane, conducted at the offices of the Armed Robbery Squad.’ Hunter read aloud the date. ‘Person present is my corroborator, Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo.’
‘Detective Sergeant Gucciardo present.’
Hunter extended his arm to show Fraser his watch. ‘Jason, do you agree that the time is now 8.49 a.m.?’
‘Yes … Yes, I agree.’
CHAPTER 33
Kelso collected Malone from the St Kilda Road foyer and walked him past the Protective Services Officers at the counter without signing him in for a visitor’s pass.
‘He’s right,’ Kelso winked. ‘His Freddy’s upstairs.’
Only three of the Robbers were left in the office, the rest, keen for a drink, having already peeled off to the Royal. It was Friday. Good news day. Drake was heading home from hospital three days after surgery. He’d have a mean scar and some possible nerve damage but was on the road to recovery. McCrann stood writing details about an unsolved investigation on a whiteboard. Malone noticed that McCrann felt no need to attempt to hide what were sensitive operation details. Trapper was a trusting man.
‘Here his is,’ McCrann announced. ‘The bar-room brawler … Hello, son!’
‘G’day, Trapper.’
Rogers was packing up for the day. ‘I’m heading home. See ya, boys.’
Kelso and Malone cracked open a can and lit up cigarettes.
‘Ash in this,’ Kelso told Malone, pushing an empty VB can between them on the desk.
‘So, how’s Rebecca Caulfield fitting in?’
Kelso tapped the top of his can and cracked it open. ‘I reckon she fits in real well.’
‘I saw her on the TV and in the papers, but what’s she like in person?’
‘She’s a good scout.’
McCrann pulled his suit jacket on. He’d finished on the whiteboard and was pulling up stumps. ‘See you blokes at the Royal.’
Half an hour on and Malone had chewed down his last dart. Kelso tossed him his Freddy and yellow ID card, and told him the office entry code.
‘Shoot over the road. Get me a pack as well.’
‘You sure?’
‘You’ll be right to get back in. You know how we walk and talk by now. You might as well have your own Freddy. You’re up here often enough.’
Malone took the credentials. Kelso was a trusting man—even more so than McCrann.
Malone and Kelso hit the Royal at about half past seven. The mood in The Robbers’ corner was high, talk about Caulfield’s efforts in the field dominating discussion while she’d gone to the dunny. Lynch was in full flight to McCrann, ‘I’m telling you—she took Fraser down with some wrestling-style tackle. He’s a pretty big bloke … and he was tooled up at the time.’
‘What, like a footy tackle?’
‘Nah. Better. It was quick. And slick. Like some sort of martial arts move.’
Caulfield returned. Gucciardo slid her what Malone guessed was a vodka, lime and soda. Kelso did the introduction. ‘Hey Caulfield, meet our friendly neighbourhood journalist and pub fighter—Ian Malone from The Age. Malone, this is the new guy—Rebecca Caulfield.’
‘G’day,’ Malone offered.
Caulfield shook hands in civil fashion and gestured hello, not bothering to inquire about his blackened eyes. He sensed distrust in the woman detective. The last thing he wanted—or needed—at this point was an air of suspicion about him. Kelso provided a beer. Malone drank, sussing Caulfield out and making mental notes. Blonde hair, tied up. Green eyes. Semi-hardened features. No make-up. Tidy figure. Tomboy nature. If he had to pick a likeness, through a hazy window on a stormy day she could have been mistaken for Cameron Diaz. Malone tuned back in to the group’s banter. McCrann was on Caulfield’s hammer.
‘Hey Caulfield, there’s a rumour going around you know karate.’
‘It’s actually Brazilian … get your minds out of my undies, boys. It’s Brazilian jiujitsu. Really good submission holds.’
McCrann put down his beer and made a playful karate chop. ‘Righto, so if I—’
In an instant Caulfield had his hand bent awkwardly behind his back; his face eating the top of the bar. The others laughed. McCrann submitted. Caulfield released him. Immediately McCrann tried another playful chop.
‘Ten bucks you can’t—’
Caulfield had him down again. More laughter.
‘Trapper, you idiot.’
Hunter put on his best Peter Sellers accent, à la Inspector Clouseau.
‘Not tonight, Cato, my little yellow-skinned friend.’
McCrann was all grin as he stood up straight, rotating his right shoulder a couple of times.
‘That’s the shoulder I did with the Essendon under-nineteens.’
The group groaned.
‘We know,’ O’Shea reminded him.
‘Hey, I’m telling ya. Sheedy had his eye on me.’
Kelso chipped in. ‘Yeah, for the job as the boot studder.’
‘Nah, nah,’ Gilmore interjected. ‘For the job as the orange boy.’
Shepherd and Hunter pulled the pin amid the jocularity. ‘See you, boys.’
Hunter drove Shepherd back to the complex. Swiped the rear car-park door. It slowly opened. He drove the spiral driveway to the next level, where Farley stood at the boot of his car, dumping his briefcase.
‘Pull up here,’ Shepherd suggested to Hunter. ‘Let’s say hello to the chief of detectives.’
Shepherd wound down his window. ‘Hey Morris. Say hello to the future ex-Mrs Farley for me. Keep a leash on her. She might just root one of your mates.’
Without Hunter realising, Shepherd slipped the gear into neutral.
‘Righto, Mitch. Onward and upward.’
Hunter eased down on the accelerator but the sedan failed to move. Hunter pushed down harder; the car revving while starting to roll back down the spiral driveway.
‘What the fuck’s going on?’
Shepherd slipped the car back into drive as Hunter continued to rev. The sedan’s tyres ate into the concrete, squealing and blowing out white acrid smoke. The Robbers car burned rubber right past Farley, Shepherd in a fit of laughter. Hunter too. ‘Sorry about that chief.’
Farley stood amid the dissipating smoke. Waved it from his face. ‘Bloody dickheads.’
Back at the Royal, the Robbers owned the pool table. Gucciardo and McCrann were proving hard to beat. Gilmore and Lynch were up. Barlow was riding home a dishlicker at Cannington Park. He’d been piling up the tickets more so than normal. He seemed unusually flush with folding. He must have recently had a win somewhere.
‘Go! Go!’
His dog got knocked on the home turn, its hind legs taken out from underneath it. Riding a different greyhound, Kelso reacted. ‘Oooh.’
Barlow scrunched up his ticket. ‘Fucking hate getting knocked.’
‘Yeah, that’s what Sonny Corleone told St Peter at the gates.’ The detectives checked the odds for the next. Caulfield joined them.
‘How you blokes faring?’
Barlow lied, ‘Breaking even.’
‘Better than most,’ boasted Kelso.
Permanent fixtures Tony and Mike—the ‘professional’ punters—stood scanning a spread of tickets across their corner of the bar.
Barlow changed the subject, nodding towards the Italian pair. ‘Haven’t heard much from them tonight.’
Kelso scoffed, ‘Their system must be broken.’
Caulfield gestured over to Malone, standing drinking with the blokes playing pool. ‘Hey cuz, what’s the go with the journo hanging around?’
Kelso stood staring at the screens. He didn’t have to look over.
‘He’s a white man. A friendly.’
‘A bit risky isn’t it?’
Kelso turned to Caulfield. ‘Trust me, he’s a good bloke.’
‘Fair enough, cuz. I believe you.’
CHAPTER 34
A proud man in tuxedo and red cummerbund and tie, Stanley Voss stood with microphone in hand at the reception centre: a garish room that could have doubled for Liberace’s dining room. Hours earlier he’d given away his de facto daughter to his eldest son: Brenda’s dress sparkling with a smattering of cubic zirconias; the bridesmaids looking more like exploded cherry puffs on legs in magenta taffeta. The groom and his groomsmen wore hired tuxedos: wannabe Reservoir Dogs trying the polished look. Some blokes could wear suits but these young tradesmen had looked allergic in theirs. Vows and a tongue pash and the wedding was done. Voss, the bloke who’d paid for the day and most of its cheesy opulence, was now enjoying the food and the drink.
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