‘You right, pal?’
Kelso turned. It was Shepherd, also still in his scruffs.
‘Come on, into my office … Pull up a pew.’
Kelso sat. The boss flicked on a CD. Pulled a bottle of Makers Mark and two tumbler glasses from a filing cabinet. Shepherd poured to the soothing tones of ‘Viens Mallika Sous le Dome’. Tomorrow the music would take a dramatic change, Shepherd planning to unleash ‘Ride of the Valkyries’. Kelso placed down the photo. Shepherd took a glance. ‘We’re all hurting, Shane.’
‘I know, boss.’
Shepherd picked up his mobile. Pushed a speed-dial number. Left a message.
‘Chelsea, it’s your dad. If you get this message, give me a bell. It’d be nice just to hear your voice.’
Kelso took a hit of Makers. Lit a cigarette. Shepherd punched another number. This recipient answered.
‘Malone, it’s Shepherd … Yeah, thanks, pal. We’re all feeling lower than a turd in the shitter at the moment. You know I can’t make any comment as it’s a Homicide job, but we’ve got something for you. It’s a picture of the two boys I think we’d all like to see in the paper.’
Shepherd looked over to Kelso, who gave a thumbs up to the idea while inhaling hard on a dart.
‘Swing over to the office. Kell is with me. Come and have a drink and we’ll hand you the picture.’
CHAPTER 48
A thick vengeful air hung over The Robbers’ Monday morning meeting. On a whiteboard Shepherd designated to each of his crews the names of known serious criminals not currently behind bars. It was time to shake them down. Unearth a lead, guns in mouths if necessary. But there was one condition: they had to stay under radar.
CHAPTER 49
Stan Voss whistled as he worked with a trowel and plaster on a house hallway ceiling in Scoresby. His transistor radio had just broadcast the nine o’clock news bulletin. Update on the Chirnside Park police shooting: investigators baffled. The Athena Taskforce was expecting a long intense slog ahead. The police funerals were to be held at the Police Academy in two days’ time. Voss peered into the bathroom where an electrician mate was doing some wiring.
‘Hey, Kev, who’s on the list, do ya reckon? The top ten most wanted?’
The electrician worked as he thought.
‘Jeez … That Mr Cruel bloke—you know, that kidnapper who had a dungeon …’
‘Yeah, the one that liked Asian schoolgirls.’
‘Yeah, that’s him …’
‘How about whoever just popped those two cops?’
‘Shit yeah. He’d be number one … Cops hate crooks who shoot cops.’
Voss filled over a crack. Stan the Man was toying with the sparky.
‘What were their names—those two dead jacks?’ he asked.
The electrician stopped his work.
‘Umm, shit … I just heard it on the radio. I know one of ’em’s name was Hunter. Can’t remember the other one.’
‘Looks like the hunter became the hunted. Eh? Ya like that one? … I thought that was bloody clever.’
‘You’re a sick man, Stan. They were bloody coppers, mate … Armed Robbery Squad. The hard blokes, they reckon.’
‘Not hard enough apparently.’
‘Yeah, well, you can bet they won’t be taking that lying down. They’ll be bashin’ and crashin’ their way across Melbourne lookin’ for that bloke.’
‘Good luck to ’em,’ Voss offered. ‘Hope they catch the bastard.’
‘It’ll be a bloody big funeral,’ Kev suggested. ‘I remember the day they buried those two young cops who got shot by that old moll’s family … Shit, what were their names?’
‘Can’t remember the coppers,’ Voss said. ‘I remember her name though—Kath Pettingill. She’s that old duck with one eye. Dennis Allen was one of her boys. Crazy cunt they reckon. That Victor Peirce was another one … You know he beat the charges.’
Kev seemed impressed. Looked up to Voss.
‘Sounds like you know a bit about crime.’
‘Listen to a lot of radio. Read the papers. Got a few of the books at home.’
Kev began to screw a power socket to the wall. ‘It’s funny, you know, but people always seem to remember the names of the bad guys.’
Voss trowelled over a wall crack. ‘Only if they get caught, Kev. Only if they get caught mate.’
CHAPTER 50
The lone piper’s funeral dirge hung on the morning mist. It sent a chill up Malone’s spine as he stood with the rest of the media pack off to one side of the Corpus Christi chapel at the Police Academy. Malone detailed some of the colour—giant marble pillars supporting an indoor dome flanked by stained glass windows; New Testament and Old. Underneath the dome, embedded in marble, was the chapel centrepiece: a three-metre tall mahogany cross—Christus Altare Nostrum. Detectives and uniform officers of all ranks sat and stood shoulder to shoulder. The brass sat behind the grieving families. Dignitaries—Premier Chambers and Police Minister Kavanagh—were in next to the pips and crowns. The Robbers took up an entire row on one side of the church. It was an austere chapel. Stoic. The home of St Michael: the patron saint of all cops. The coffins of David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter took pride of place before the marble altar, each adorned with white roses, a police hat and a smiling photograph of the fallen. The police chaplain began.
‘God stands with us in trauma but is not necessarily a God who intervenes,’ he offered.
Rex Hunter delivered his son’s eulogy. ‘Mitchell had two families. His family at home and his family at work. He was proud of both, and both were proud of him. Ever since he was a boy Mitchell wanted to be a policeman. He was well read and well versed in movies and music. Some of you probably know that his favourite movie was The Magnificent Seven. He grew up watching that film over and over as a boy. It captivated him. I remember asking him why he liked it so much and he said: “Because they’re supposed to be bad guys but they do good things.” His favourite character was Yul Brynner’s Chris Adams: a man of principle and a man of his word. That was my son: a man of principle and a man of his word.’
A police officer in uniform delivered Gilmore’s eulogy. ‘David was my best mate. We went through the academy together. Worked the van together. He was over the moon when he was accepted into the Armed Robbery Squad, and while he was proud of catching crooks, his proudest achievement was his son. He will always be a hero to Timothy.’
Timmy Gilmore sat sobbing next to his mum, in black. His daddy was gone, she had told him. Gone to heaven to play with their old dog Marv.
With his haunting dirge the lone piper escorted the pallbearers and families outside, The Robbers forming their own guard of honour inside the academy gates. The rest of the cops lined the main street—the brass joined by politicians at the top end. As the hearses passed, led by six officers on steeds, The Robbers saluted as one. Held their emotions. Internalised. From inside the second car, Tim tried to look as brave as his uncles. He waved to them through the tinted window as he passed. Outside the gates the long guard saluted as the hearses continued on to the cemetery. It was a sombre farewell with full honours.
After the official wake, The Robbers travelled en masse to the Royal for a private farewell. Vic White joined them. Only one outsider was present. Malone had filed his copy and was now off the clock—but still working towards his other cause. The publican lined up the jugs of beer as Malone made a beeline for Kelso. He grabbed him on the shoulder. There was no spark or charge on contact. Kelso sat like a dead car battery.
‘Hello, pal, grab a beer,’ the detective said, shaking Malone’s hand in arm-wrestle grip.
Malone saw that Kelso was putting on a brave face while most likely lying curled and pained inside. The smokers in the group lit up. All began to drink.
‘I still can’t fucking believe it, you know …’ Lynch said, staring at his pot glass.
The young detective wiped something from his cheek, look
ed at his fingers then rubbed at an invisible nothing with his other hand. Malone had been told that it was Lynch who’d performed CPR on Gilmore and copped a face full of Happy’s blood. Malone realised that Lynch, in a different way from Kelso, was haunted too.
‘I was right there with Happy when he died,’ the young detective continued. ‘Me and Gooch just couldn’t bring him back.’
Gucciardo consoled him. ‘We did everything we could.’
Lynch went on. ‘I can still hear those last words. See that desperate look for help in his eyes.’
Caulfield puzzled, ‘What did he mean when he talked about parrots?’
‘He must have been in shock,’ McCrann said.
‘No way,’ Kelso snapped. ‘He was trying to tell us something. He mentioned “two guns”. He was talking about Schwarzenegger and Rambo for sure.’
Kelso squeezed his pot glass. It shattered in his hand.
‘Argh … Fuck!’
Rogers grabbed Kelso’s blood-wet hand. Turned to the woman behind the bar.
‘Katie, can we get a tea towel over here please?’
Katie tossed one over. McCrann turned to Malone. ‘What are you hearing, scoop? Anything coming out of Athena yet?’
‘Nothing mate. That taskforce is running as tight as a drum, thanks to Shaw.’
Kelso fumed quietly. ‘We should bloody well be a part of it.’
‘McFarlane didn’t sound keen on that,’ offered Malone.
Shepherd spelt it out. ‘That’s because he wants the focus on Shaw and his Homicide prefects. He didn’t even acknowledge us at the scene, the weak prick.’
Lynch seemed to brighten like a firecracker. ‘Gooch yelled at him to stop interfering with evidence and to get out of the crime scene.’ He imitated his large sergeant. ‘You’re standing right in the middle of possible evidence you goombah! Get out of there!’
The group laughed at that. Poured more beer.
Gucciardo relived the scene. ‘It was like he was out for a stroll in the park. Pompinara!’
O’Shea shook his head. ‘Un-fucking-believable.’
A wave of gloom rolled in again.
McCrann tried to brighten the mood, explaining to Malone, ‘We’ve started a slush fund for young Timothy.’
‘The little bloke will be well looked after,’ added Shepherd.
O’Shea joined in, ‘He won’t forget his dad. We won’t let that happen.’
Kelso took his pot glass out into the beer garden. Malone followed.
‘How you travelling, mate?’
Kelso lit a dart. ‘Just hanging in there, pal … I tell ya, I’ll never forget Whiskers’ broadcast when it came over the radio. I just knew he was gunna say it, but I kept telling myself the boys can’t be down. Two of the Robbers can’t be down.’
‘I sort of know how you feel.’
Kelso nodded. Kindred spirits. Malone went on.
‘You’ll get back on the horse … for Dave and Mitch.’
‘I won’t rest, pal … Shepherd’s already given the green light for a Robbers campaign to hit every possible shithead hard for information. We’re gunna smash every cunt we can for a lead.’
Kelso took a mighty drag, exhaled the grey through his nose. Skolled his entire beer.
‘I’m gunna jump on the bourbs. You want one?’
‘Yeah, I’ll get on it with ya.’
‘Good man.’
Caulfield, in trademark blouse and suit pants, walked out into the beer garden with vodka, lime and soda in hand. Despite make-up on and hair down she still had a hard edge about her. She was a bit of an enigma to Malone. Indifferent but not obstinate. Civil yet alluring. In Malone’s eyes she seemed to have the disposition of a Catholic nun and the constitution of a woman who—as a young girl—might have lost a mother or father to cancer. She hadn’t spoken much to him since her arrival at the squad. Not that she was obliged to, of course. Kelso gave Caulfield a consolatory high five as he re-entered the pub. Caulfield sat opposite Malone. Up close he could see that she’d re-applied some make-up where tear lines had run.
‘You got a spare smoke?’
Malone was more than a little surprised. ‘Yeah, sure. Didn’t know you—’
‘Gave ’em up but what the fuck.’
Malone extended his packet. Caulfield pulled a dart. Used the journo’s lighter and lit it herself.
‘How you coping?’
Caulfield appeared to consider whether to engage. ‘Like the rest of ’em,’ she said. ‘Shell-shocked.’
‘Where were you when you heard the broadcast?’
Caulfield ignored the question.
‘I need you to come home with me tonight,’ she said with deadpan purpose.
‘Home … to your place …’
‘Yeah. I’d like some company … but with someone not in the job. Someone separate from all this … Look, I’m no bunny cooker. I just need to take my mind of this shit for a night.’
Malone tried to act all cool, like these sorts of propositions were commonplace: like he was an obvious choice as a confidant. Like he understood what the hell was going on in Caulfield’s mind at that moment.
‘Sure. I’ll go home with you.’
Caulfield finished her drink. Took another drag and butted out.
‘Don’t go getting a big head. I’m using you—that’s all.’
Without thinking, Malone actually said something half cool—like his character, played by Clooney, might have said in a movie given the same situation.
‘Don’t worry,’ he smiled. ‘It won’t make the papers.’
It was past closing when The Robbers, Vic White and Malone stood gathered around a table in the middle of the pub. They were the only punters left, empty glasses and beer jugs lined up next to full ashtrays. Like everything in life, it had come time to finish up, make the last toast and drink the last drink. Shepherd raised his glass. The rest followed his lead.
‘RIP. David and Mitchell. Brothers gone—but not forgotten.’
The group spoke as one: ‘To David and Mitchell.’
CHAPTER 51
Kelso lay asleep in his chair with feet up on the desk and mouth open like a flytrap. Paradox files sat open. Information reports and statements lay scattered around half a bottle of Makers, a Robbers tie strangling the bottleneck. McCrann took the first shot with a ball of paper. Hit Kelso in the shoulder. O’Shea missed altogether. Rogers had a peg and hit his partner in the head. The detectives managed a laugh. Kelso murmured and opened his eyes against the day.
‘Wakey, wakey,’ Rogers nudged. ‘Shep wants us in his office.’
Despite the late-night wake at the Royal, Rogers looked fresh: hair neatly brushed over and shirt pressed. Sleeves buttoned at the wrists. Tie done up to the neck. A hint of aftershave. Kelso looked like he’d just crawled from an up-ended rubbish bin. Hair spiked at obtuse angles. Jaw shadowed. Creased shirt dappled with brown bourbon stains. The crew mates—often likened to the original Odd Couple—presented in Shepherd’s office as new chalk and old cheese.
‘Jesus H Christ, Kell,’ Shepherd assessed, tossing him a packet of smokes.
Kelso lit one. Tossed the pack back to his boss.
‘News just in,’ Shepherd continued. ‘Shaw wants a Robbers crew to chase the Paradox angle.’
Kelso looked across at Rogers with a look of vindication. They were officially back in the game.
‘Kell, clean yourself up. You’re both expected up there this afternoon. Permanent secondment.’
Kelso, with dart clenched between his teeth, felt for his tie. It wasn’t around his neck. He patted his suit pant pockets. It wasn’t stuffed in there, either.
‘It’s wrapped around the bottle on y
our desk,’ Rogers told him.
Shepherd sent his two men off with a word of advice. ‘Good men thrive in times of adversity. Stick to the Robbers’ methods and do us proud … And watch each other’s backs up there.’
Wearing their crossed pistol ties, Rogers and Kelso entered the taskforce office at high noon: Rogers with his trademark limp and Kelso a ‘hang ’em high’ air. Sidwell leaned across to Whitney. ‘Here come the cowboys.’
Shawwelcomed the two Robbers on deck with a handshake. ‘Max. Shane. Good to have you on board. You probably know the boys who attended the scene—Aidan Brennan, Simon Whitney, Mark Sidwell. This is Adam Hendricks. We brought him on this morning due to the expanding scope of the investigation. And there’s our analyst, Doug Brewer.’
Brewer gave the two Robbers a thumbs up and a smile.
‘Okay, here’s where we are at this early stage—Mark’s about to update us on the McDonald’s footage. Gilmore bought food and coffee there at the start of their stake-out. Aidan’s awaiting DNA and fingerprint analysis on cigarette butts and an empty bottle found at the scene. Doug’s compiling a list of “usual suspects” who might have the propensity for this sort of crime—and who are currently in Victoria and not in custody … Over to you, Mark.’
Sidwell played the McDonald’s closed-circuit TV footage on a large screen. It showed Gilmore standing at the counter purchasing his cheeseburgers and coffees. The footage cut to a different camera angle, showing Gilmore walking from the store.
‘Gilmore leaves the store at 9.13 p.m.,’ Sidwell confirmed. ‘Twenty-four seconds later the footage depicts Harry Petrakis—a known criminal head—walking towards the door.’ Sidwell froze the frame.
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