The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  For the next fifteen minutes or so, dead silence ruled inside the vehicle. There were no threats made. No ultimatums. No reminders of debts owed. Petrakis finally spoke.

  ‘Who the fuck are you dogs? What’s this all about?’

  Nothing came from his captors.

  ‘Don’t you know who I am?’

  Still no reply—not even to that old chestnut. The car came to a stop. The men in boiler suits and balaclavas dragged Petrakis from the car. Pulled off his hood. Pushed tape across his mouth. Petrakis realised he was in a secluded playground next to a sporting reserve. In the glow of the headlights the two men proceeded to flog him. There were hits to the head. Bodyblows. Baseball-bat shots to his legs. It was systematic and thorough. Personal, yet not one word was said.

  Before they left the bronzed muscle man unconscious in a sandpit, one of the assailants checked his pulse. Cut away the cable ties and ripped the tape from his mouth. The message had been delivered.

  Two days later Petrakis was released from hospital. Battered and bruised—his nose busted, left hand broken and four ribs cracked—he limped from the casualty doors looking less like an Adonis and more like the Elephant Man. The awaiting media swamped him. Malone got close and personal.

  ‘Harry, can you tell us what happened?’

  ‘Two weak dogs kidnapped me and kicked the shit out of me while me hands were tied behind me back. But I’m still here.’

  The Channel Nine police reporter chipped in. ‘Do you think this has anything to do with your alleged links to Melbourne’s drug scene? Word is there’s a drug war brewing.’

  Petrakis, minus his jewellery, scoffed as he limped, cameras and tape recorders jammed in his face. ‘I’ve got nothin’ to do with that. I’m just an honest citizen who’s watched Pulp Fiction too many times.’

  Channel Seven’s crime man: ‘Have you made an official statement to police?’

  Petrakis brushed past the question. Stopped and made his own statement to the media. ‘I’ll give youse all a tip—don’t ask the Athena Taskforce for a souvlaki. Thanks very much.’

  With that he bent painfully into a waiting WRX being driven by a busty Euro chick. He sat, closed the door and ordered the bejewelled driver on.

  That night, while sitting gnawing on lamb chops at the dinner table, Voss watched the news report: Petrakis being hounded by the media on the hospital steps.

  ‘Look at this stupid wog,’ he said to Doris, eyes glued to the TV across the couch.

  ‘Stan, please … not in front of Christian.’

  ‘Well look at this clown. He reckons he’s some big tough Mafia bloke.’

  ‘The Mafia are Italian. His name’s Petrakis so that would suggest he’s Greek.’

  ‘Ha! You know about the Greeks, don’t ya?’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Their women love to take it up the pooper.’

  ‘That’s vulgar.’

  Christian’s ears pricked. ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘What do I mean? I mean Greek men love punching Greek ladies’ doughnuts.’

  ‘Hey?’

  Doris poured water on the disgusting conversation. ‘Don’t worry about it. Your father’s confused with something else. They like eating doughnuts—that’s what he means.’

  Voss responded. ‘Ha!’

  Channel Seven’s crime reporter, Kent Hammond, came up on screen. ‘After making that somewhat bizarre statement about souvlaki and the Athena Taskforce, Mr Petrakis was whisked away. According to sources, police are investigating whether the assault on Mr Petrakis is related to a brewing gangland drug war. Kent Hammond, Seven News.’

  Voss returned his gaze to his dinner. Shook his head. ‘Jesus, Doris, the world’s going mad.’ He turned to Christian, pointing with his fork. ‘If I ever hear you’ve touched those drugs, I’ll put my foot so far up your arse you’ll taste leather. Understand me, boy?’

  ‘Yeah, righto.’

  ‘Good boy. They’re no good for you, those designer drugs. Jesus, in my day it was a bit of choof. Now it’s pills and bloody powders.’ Voss gestured towards the TV with his fork. ‘These bloody drug-dealing wankers … they’re giving decent parents like us more to worry about.’

  Doris smiled at her young teenage son. Brushed down the kid’s hair as he ate his tea. ‘Christian’s smart enough not to touch that stuff, aren’t you, Chris?’

  The young teenager nodded. ‘Can I have a doughnut?’

  CHAPTER 55

  Life on remand in Port Phillip Prison was a truly mundane experience for accused drug trafficker Vincent McCain. He’d been inside for two months awaiting his committal hearing, but things were finally looking up on that front. Pascoe—with a bruised right eye—was the new bloke in the unit. Wearing standard prison green T-shirt and fleecy tracksuit pants, he made his way to the dayroom’s central table, dragging a limp left foot for the benefit of the CCTV monitors. His left arm hung limp in a sling. With his right hand he took a meal tray with a bread roll and some salad and sat alone, opening a copy of the Herald Sun. Other inmates sat in groups like troops of baboons, conversing and plotting as they ate. A bloke on remand for murder by the name of Darren Stapleton came and sat next to Pascoe. The two knew each other.

  ‘Hey, Glen, Vinny McCain wants to meet you. Says he’s getting out next week and hears you’re a good chance for bail. Says he could use you for some work on the outside.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah. He wants to have a chat. C’mon. He’s a good bloke … C’mon.’ Stapleton and Pascoe moved across two tables. A group of disciple-like inmates sitting with McCain stood and moved away with their trays. One prisoner, with a claw-like facial scar and a blank false eye, remained.

  McCain slid a Bible across the table to him. ‘Take this, Jase. It will provide reasons for your sins.’

  The one-eyed inmate accepted the book and walked away. McCain turned to Stapleton.

  ‘Okay, Two Dogs, piss off.’

  Stapleton winked at Pascoe and did as he was told. McCain, a renowned religious zealot with a Jesus-like goatee and long hair combed down with Vaseline, trained his focus on Pascoe. ‘G’day, Chops. Read about your arrest the other day. Seems your career as an armed robber has hit the skids.’

  ‘Just unlucky, that’s all.’

  ‘Yeah maybe … Or maybe armed rob’s not your go any more. How’d you like to make some real folding when we both get out? Verstehen?’

  Pascoe nodded. ‘You’re waiting for a committal, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah, but the Drug Squad D who charged me has been done for copping a sling—so the OPP’s gunna pull the charges. I’m outta here. Word is you’re looking good for bail ’cos of your so-called medical condition.’

  ‘My hearing’s slotted for Tuesday.’

  ‘I’m up next Friday.’

  Pascoe took note of McCain’s dark eyes. Realised McCain was younger than he’d imagined: probably early thirties. That was a tender age for an aspiring kingpin, but the underworld word was that Vincent McCain was a disowned former private-school rich kid who also thrived on chaos—and that he had a shit load of drug money stooked away. With money and a savage reputation came power.

  ‘So, what sort of work have you got going?’ Pascoe asked.

  ‘I need a dark angel. Can you ride a horse?’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’

  ‘The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mingled with blood … Listen. I need someone who can help me kill off my problems … You up for that sort of work?’

  ‘If it pays well, yeah, I’m up for it.’

  ‘Good. But I need someone who’s right. Ya know what I mean? What’s really wrong with you? Your arm? Your leg?’

  ‘Don’t worry about me. I reckon I’ll be brand new after I get bail.’<
br />
  McCain smiled. ‘So bail’s looking sweet then?’

  Pascoe nodded. ‘That’s what me solly reckons.’

  ‘Excellent …’

  McCain winked. The true manipulator. ‘By the way—Heil Hitler.’

  That night in his cell, after lockdown, Pascoe started a new ritual. With the smack out of his system he was feeling strong again. His toes down on the edge of his bed, he commenced a set of push-ups. After that he planned to crunch out some sit-ups, and then repeat the exercises. According to his new and powerful friend, there was much work to be done. According to Vinny McCain there was a war to be won.

  CHAPTER 56

  With limp left arm in its sling—and supporting himself with a walking stick—Pascoe hobbled into the dock in Courtroom One. His pace was painfully slow. He appeared to experience some difficulty as he moved along and took his seat. McCrann and Caulfield, sitting behind the prosecutor, could only shake their heads.

  ‘This maggot will go to any length,’ McCrann whispered to his colleague.

  The journalists there to cover Pascoe’s second bail application in nearly seven weeks appeared to embrace the colour. Legal Aid solicitor Kelly Hudson addressed the magistrate. ‘Good morning, Your Honour, I appear for Mr Pascoe … who has been diagnosed as suffering a slight stroke.’

  ‘Yes, Ms Hudson.’

  The prosecutor stood and informed the magistrate that the matter was an opposed bail application. ‘Mr Pascoe is currently facing two sets of armed robbery charges, the second—an attempted armed robbery—committed while the accused was on bail over a separate hold-up. We submit that Mr Pascoe is an unacceptable risk to the safety of the community by re-offending and poses a flight risk. They are the exceptional circumstances, Your Honour.’

  The magistrate peered over at the forlorn-looking figure in the dock. ‘He doesn’t look very dangerous or capable of flying anywhere at the moment.’

  ‘Looks can be deceiving, Your Honour.’

  ‘Yes, very well. Call the informant.’

  Caulfield swore herself in. The prosecutor addressed Her Honour. ‘Would Your Honour be assisted by a summary?’

  ‘No, I read the file this morning. I’m more interested in hearing why this man should be kept in custody given his present medical condition.’

  Caulfield began her evidence. ‘Your Honour, we arrested Pascoe after the failed commission of a bank hold-up in Ivanhoe—during which he held a handgun to the head of a female customer. At the time of that offence he was on bail for a bank robbery we say he committed nine weeks ago, during which he held a female hostage, threatened her small child and fired a shot into the ceiling. He is a serial bandit who has continually shown a complete disregard for the safety of the community, and it is our fear he will continue to commit offences of this nature—or worse—if he is granted bail a second time.’

  Hudson stood to cross-examine. ‘Detective Caulfield, you were in fact the officer who attacked my client in an interview room, causing him to hit his head against the wall—is that not so?’

  ‘He pulled down his trousers to expose himself, said something in German that sounded derogatory and proceeded to touch his genitals in front me—I then restrained him.’

  ‘By that you mean you used excessive force to subdue my client, who at the time was suffering a psychotic episode due to depression and drug withdrawal.’

  ‘He was acting in a blatant threatening manner.’

  ‘But he was unarmed at the time …’

  ‘Whatever was in his hands looked small calibre …’

  Sniggers from the public gallery. Obvious disdain from Hudson.

  ‘Your Honour, this is a serious matter.’

  The magistrate shot a glance at Caulfield. ‘Watch your answers, please, Detective.’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour … All I’d say is that I don’t believe he suffered any kind of stroke as a result of being restrained. I believed he was at risk of self harm.’

  ‘I didn’t realise you had medical qualifications, detective.’

  ‘I don’t. But I do have a master’s degree in bullshitology.’

  Hudson reacted again. The magistrate removed her glasses. ‘Detective Caulfield, one more and I’ll hold you in contempt.’

  Hudson continued her cross.

  ‘Detective, have you read this report from prison GP Dr Herschelle Wilson? He suggests Mr Pascoe has in fact suffered bruising on the brain, which can cause a patient to exhibit stroke-like paralysis.’

  ‘I’m sure Pascoe’s had worse in his time.’

  ‘Nevertheless, you can’t dispute the report, can you?’

  ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘Nothing further, Your Honour.’

  Caulfield took her seat back in the gallery. McCrann leaned in with a grin and whispered something. The magistrate took a couple of minutes, tapping on her computer.

  ‘Having read the case file and the medical report and recommendations authored by Dr Wilson, I feel I don’t have any choice other than to grant Mr Pascoe bail. Jail can be onerous at the best of times, and is not a place for a man who is obviously suffering paralysis … Mr Pascoe, do you understand what is happening here?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour.’

  ‘I am granting you bail due to your current medical condition. You will have to abide by the conditions set on your original bail release. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Your Honour. It’s been a difficult time.’

  ‘Well, use your bail to your advantage and get some treatment. As soon as you have signed the relevant paperwork you will be released, pending your next appearance.’

  Outside the courtroom, McCrann made a phone call. Malone heard him tell Shepherd that Pascoe had been granted bail a second time. Malone turned to Caulfield in the court foyer. Despite having slept together after the wake at the Royal, she was still speaking to him in a clipped, civil tone. Her vagina had proved far more receptive to conversation.

  ‘They played that magistrate like a violin. A prison source reckons Pascoe’s been doing sit-ups and push-ups in his cell of a night-time.’

  Caulfield’s jaw clenched. ‘We should have called you as a bloody witness.’

  Thirty minutes later and Pascoe, in civilian clothes now but still using the walking stick, emerged from under the Custody Centre’s roller door, media cameras swarming over him like big blowflies on shit.

  ‘Fuck off dogs,’ was Pascoe’s only comment as he eased himself into a taxi.

  CHAPTER 57

  Rex Hunter was in his garden shovelling soil from a large mound onto a fresh-looking pile as Malone pulled up in a work car. He’d travelled to the Hunter home straight from court.

  ‘G’day, Mr Hunter, Ian Malone. Hope I’m not too early.’

  Rex heaved another spadeful, removed a glove and shook hands.

  ‘G’day, Ian. Call me Rex.’

  ‘Where’s all the dirt going, Rex? Your garden looks in pretty good nick.’

  ‘Don’t really know. I just felt like shovelling the stuff, so I ordered in this pile from a local garden supply.’

  Inside at the dining table, Malone sat with a cup of tea. Rex sat across from him, pictures of his son during his police career spread across the table. Viv placed down a plate of biscuits and sat next to her husband.

  ‘We weren’t planning on doing any interviews,’ she said, ‘but you come with good recommendation.’

  Rex elaborated. ‘Shane Kelso and Mitchell were close mates. Shane said if we wanted to speak with anyone from the media it should be you.’

  Malone sipped his tea. Ate a biscuit. He well knew that a journalist interviewing grieving relatives was best advised to accept any drinks and snacks on offer. It made everyone feel a little more comfortable and showed that the scribe wasn’t there for a quick ram raid.

  ‘Kell’s a top bloke,’ Malone said, not lying. ‘From what I knew of Mitchell, so was he.’

  And so the interview began about Mitchell Hunter the man, Mitchell Hunter the copper and h
ow his parents were coping nearly three weeks into the investigation. A plea was made for information about the killer, or killers. That was the Hunters’ main thrust. Malone asked Rex on the record about the piles of soil and his digging.

  ‘I think it’s a form of self-therapy. I’m working out my anger and frustration while subconsciously digging for answers. At least that’s what I reckon a psychiatrist would say.’

  ‘Is it working for you?’

  ‘Come back and ask me when I’ve moved that dirt pile two or three times, and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘Have you heard anything from the Athena Taskforce?’

  ‘No, and we don’t expect to. Andrew Shaw warned us it was going to be a long slog and that we had to remain patient.’

  Viv ventured a comment. ‘He did say to stay positive and have faith.’

  ‘And do you—have faith?’

  ‘What have we got if we don’t have faith?’ the stoic mother said softly. ‘We have to believe they will catch the man or men who killed our son, and David Gilmore.’

  Rex finished his tea.

  ‘In the meantime,’ he said, ‘I’ll just keep digging.’

  CHAPTER 58

  Aidan Brennan took the call. A breakthrough? Maybe. He relayed the information straight to Shaw. ‘Boss, we’ve got a DNA match from the cigarette butts picked from the scene. You’re never gunna guess whose it is.’

  In the kitchen of his commission unit, career criminal Pat Barrett stood at the bench in his tradesman’s gear and Blundstone boots. He wrapped peanut butter sandwiches. With lunchbox and flask he left for work. Barrett had taken only two or three steps onto the footpath when a SOG team burst from the back of a white van. Without flinching, or missing a beat, Barrett calmly placed his lunchbox and flask down and stood with hands raised. ‘Thanks for not kicking me front door in this time.’

  Brennan and Hendricks sat across from Barrett in the Athena interview room, the greying outlaw with a salt-and-pepper goatee sitting minus his workboots.