The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘A bribe?’ he said to the lobsters in the tank. ‘I never thought I’d say this about other men—but they’re more anal than I am.’

  Inside the confines of Barwon Prison, a Security and Emergency Services Group officer walked Rogers and Kelso across a lawn path towards the visits section. Inside they walked a corridor, past a couple of prisoners in green tracksuit pants and windcheaters: box visits over. The inmates eyeballed the detectives.

  ‘Fucking pigs! I’ll fuck your mother.’

  ‘I’ll fuck yours first,’ Kelso replied.

  The guard showed the two detectives into a room where Barrett sat waiting at a table.

  ‘Here they are. The state’s finest.’

  ‘Pat. How’s the accommodation?’

  ‘It ain’t the Hilton …’

  Rogers and Kelso sat across from the man now facing two counts of police murder. It was not often they found themselves proactively working to clear a criminal’s name.

  ‘After that magistrate gave you permission to come see me, I decided to draw you this map.’

  Barrett took a folded sheet of paper from his tracksuit pants pocket. Opened it and pushed it across to the investigators. ‘You two are going against the popular view on this one.’

  Kelso was upfront. ‘We believe your story.’

  Rogers was also quick to clarify things. ‘While many others don’t.’

  Barrett pushed the sketch closer to the Ds. ‘You know it was that two-man crew you’ve been chasing, don’t you?’

  Rogers wasn’t about to give anything away. ‘Just tell us what’s on this map.’

  Barrett pointed out his position and that of Gilmore and Hunter. Where, roughly, they all were in relation to the restaurant.

  Rogers took the lead. ‘So how far away from you was the driver—Detective Hunter—when he was first shot?’

  ‘He was about … here.’

  Barrett nominated a stick figure on the drawing. ‘What’s that—about ten metres?’

  ‘And the passenger—Detective Gilmore—that’s him there, is it?’

  ‘The last time I saw him, he was about … here. But I never saw him get shot. I saw the shooters’ car cruise towards the cop car. Someone fired a shot. The jack standing closest to me—the driver—he copped it in the back. That was the first hit. The other copper—the passenger—he’d come around to the driver’s side and was a bit further away from me. He had his gun trained on me from about … here. After the first shot was fired, he turned his head to see where the fuck the shot had come from … . which was from behind him. That’s when I took off, through here. Heard more gunshots behind me.’

  Rogers turned to Kelso, studying the rudimentary—but seemingly very helpful—diagram.

  ‘Just write approximate distances on everything you’ve nominated in that sketch.’

  Barrett did his best.

  ‘Now sign it down the bottom.’

  ‘Remember,’ Barrett said, as he applied his signature to his artwork, ‘I’m counting on you two. You’re my guardian angels.’

  Rogers placed the sketch map in a clear plastic sleeve and slipped it in his daybook.

  ‘Don’t get confused about this,’ Roy told the prisoner. ‘We’re not doing this for you.’

  CHAPTER 72

  As Nathan Voss sat drinking bourbon and watching naked young women press flesh against flesh, he was overwhelmed with a recurring feeling: that his life had somehow already passed him by. It was a deep and disturbing thought for a young married man of twenty-five; a young married man with a home he helped build and a baby of his making on the way. To some blokes that scenario equalled living the dream. But to Nathan Voss, it sat like a troop of monkeys on his back. Where was the fun in the sun? The chicks who sucked the dicks? There were only rules and regulations and responsibilities. At the end of the fucking day, where was the hero worship? The rock-star status? The fast car? The big money? The power? The porn-star girlfriend? The cocaine? The parties? Life? Surely Johnny Maggs had it all, the lucky cunt: he’d be pulling in a packet dealing drugs while surrounded by hot chicks with no inhibitions. Nathan wasn’t sure if he loved or loathed Maggs.

  ‘You must be living the dream here,’ he suggested, he and Maggs standing in their usual corner of the Wet Velvet club.

  Maggs took a tiny sip of Johnny Blue. ‘It’s no goldmine, amigo. There’s insurance, liquor licensing, the hassles of making sure some of these bitches don’t scratch each other’s eyes out. It’s not all tits and pussy.’

  ‘What about the product? Surely that’s bringing in the coin.’

  ‘That was going okay until my new supplier went and got himself knocked.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘A bloke named Harry Petrakis … that guy they found tortured to death.’

  Nathan sniffed an opening. ‘Yeah, saw that on the news. So who’s supplying you now?’

  ‘A bloke I used to deal with before he went to jail. He’s out now and back on the scene.’

  ‘Who is he? Is he a tough cunt?’

  ‘His name’s Vincent McCain. There’s not much of him. His gear’s weak and costs me more than big Petrakis charged.’

  ‘You got any room for a partner?’

  ‘What about the armed robbery game? You still doing that shit?’

  ‘We haven’t pulled one for a while. Anyway, me missus reckons it’s a risky game. Says I can’t rely on Dad for the rest of me life. There’s big money in drugs … and there’s parties and women. I’m keen, man.’

  ‘You serious? How much you reckon you could move?’

  ‘A shit load.’

  Maggs surveyed his flesh-filled room.

  ‘I dunno …’

  ‘Listen, Johnny, I’ve got a new house that I owe on. I’ve got a wife up the duff who wants all the fuckin’ trimmings.’

  ‘Nothing but the best for the missus, hey?’

  ‘Yeah, and I don’t get as much as a kiss on the dick in return.’

  Maggs pondered. Would risk equal reward?

  ‘All right … McCain’s been forcing his shit on me. I’ve got more powder and pills than I can move by myself at the moment. I’ll give you fifty gram bags—twenty-five crystal meth and twenty-five basic speed. And I’ll give you a hundred pills. That’s three hundred and twenty bucks per gram of ice, a hundred and eighty bucks per gram of speed, and fifty bucks a pill. You move all that in a couple of weeks as a test run and bring me back nineteen large. If you can do that then we’ll get something going.’

  ‘And what’s my cut?’

  ‘We’ll work that out if you can get it done.’

  ‘But if I—’

  ‘That’s the deal, amigo. It’s called initiation. You show me you can do it and I’ll pull you on. Okay?’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  Maggs put his powerful arm around Nathan’s neck. Squeezed with his bicep. Nathan felt like he was in the grip of a boa constrictor.

  ‘A word of warning,’ Maggs whispered. ‘Never use your own product. It just burns profit. Got that?’

  ‘Yep. Got it.’

  Maggs released his mate. ‘Okay, be out the back in five and I’ll have it all packaged for you.’

  ‘Thanks man.’

  In a laneway behind Wet Velvet, a bouncer tossed the package in through the open passenger window of Nathan’s Commodore. Nathan Voss had just been thrown a lifeline.

  CHAPTER 73

  Armed with the hand-drawn map provided the day before, Rogers and Kelso arrived at the Lucky Dragon just before noon. This was where they’d wanted to start from the very beginning—before being shunted sideways by Shaw and his four king’s men. And with them they had the treasure map, of sorts.

  ‘Two for lunch menu, gentlemen?’

  They pulled their Freddies. Rogers spoke. ‘Detectives Rogers and Kelso, Armed Robbery Squad. Is Henry Wu here?’

  The waitress nodded. ‘Could we have a word with him please?’

  She disappeared through the swivelling doors,
leaving the detectives by the big lobster aquarium; a filter pumped air bubbles through the water. The lobsters, crawling and clambering all over each other in liquid space, seemed oblivious to their inevitable fate. Rogers tapped on the glass.

  ‘Word to the wise,’ he said to the large crustaceans. ‘Doesn’t matter who’s sleeping with who in there. You’re all fucked.’

  Wu appeared; his usual flighty, camp self.

  ‘More handsome detectives. To what do I owe this pleasure today?’

  Kelso had to stifle a snigger at the effeminate dumpling on legs. If this bloke wasn’t for real, he could have been a parody. Rogers played point man.

  ‘Detectives Rogers and Kelso, Mr Wu. We’re investigating the murder of the two detectives.’

  ‘Aaah. Two detectives on the same investigation were here yesterday asking me questions about a Mr Barrett and my relationship with him. I told them I serve him food. He was not extorting me.’

  Kelso had recovered himself. ‘Is that what you told them?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, we might want to talk about that at another time. Today we just want to have a look around the premises. We’re just retracing a few basic steps.’

  ‘No problem.’

  Outside, Rogers and Kelso—with daybooks open and pens in hand—surveyed the surroundings. This was to be an open brainstorming session between the two: investigator bouncing observations and scenarios off investigator for a common cause.

  ‘Okay,’ Kelso narrated to his partner. ‘Remote restaurant not on a main road. Nestled into an industrial estate. Surrounded by factories. Outlets. Workshops. Obviously the main source of business.’

  ‘And word of mouth … How about advertising?’

  ‘Yep. In the Yellow Pages.’

  ‘That broadens the scope a bit.’

  ‘Yes, but you’d think a regular clientele would come from this immediate area.’

  ‘That means we personally canvas the entire estate. Remember, we’re looking for someone who wears Blundstone boots. We know Schwarzenegger’s and Rambo’s rough builds and ages. They could work together.’

  Kelso looked back at the restaurant.

  ‘What else might have brought them here before the night of the shooting? Mail? Food deliveries?’

  Rogers jotted that down in his daybook.

  ‘Let’s check Wu’s deliveries. Companies he deals with. Cross-reference them with the other Chinese joints that have been hit.’

  They walked along the side of the restaurant towards the rear, peering under hedges and bushes and scouring gardens not for anything in particular, but for anything that might stand out as peculiar: possible clues or evidence. They came to the rear of the building. Behind a wire fence, at the back of the kitchen in an alcove, sat three used tins of paint and two old paint rollers in encrusted paint trays, all partially covered by an old piece of tarpaulin.

  Kelso climbed the fence into the disused area. Studied the items without touching them.

  ‘This place must have been repainted at some stage.’

  A switch flicked for Kelso. ‘That Indian bloke at that restaurant in Blackburn North told me Schwarzenegger said something about painting the place. Chuck my daybook over.’

  Kelso walked back to the fence and caught his daybook. He flicked back through the pages for Ravinder Patel’s statement.

  ‘Here it is. Schwarzenegger called him “bludger” and told him his place could do with a good lick of Dulux. That’s something a painter would say.’

  Rogers was thoughtful. ‘Very specific language. We’d better get crime scene down here. Bag and tag that gear and go for prints, and possible DNA.’

  Back inside the Lucky Dragon, The Robbers pair asked Wu more questions.

  Rogers started. ‘So you’ve been here for close on two months, and haven’t had this place painted?’

  ‘That’s right. The owner before me—his name escape me for the moment—he had the place repainted. He sold up and moved back to China: something about his daughter falling pregnant to a captain of industry who was married with three children. It was quite a salacious scandal apparently … but I digress.’

  ‘We’ll need the name of the agent who acted on behalf of the previous owner. We need that painter’s name.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I can provide you with that.’

  Kelso took his turn. ‘We have secured some possible evidence at the rear of the restaurant. Forensic experts will be arriving soon to gather it.’

  ‘Might it be helpful to your investigation?’

  ‘We hope so.’

  ‘Excellent! Now, you look hungry … Grrr. How about some dim sum and spring rolls?’

  ‘Sure. And, while we’re waiting, could you give us a list of businesses that make deliveries here?’

  Rogers and Kelso returned to their car, snarfing down spring rolls from brown paper bags.

  ‘So what do you reckon?’ Rogers asked.

  ‘I reckon he’s as gay as the Village People.’

  ‘No, dickhead. The painter angle.’

  ‘I like it. I like it a lot. Gives him knowledge of the joint. Good chance a painter wears Blundstone boots. Good chance a painter stuck up that Indian joint in Blackburn … Now all we need to find out is Rembrandt’s real name.’

  ‘We’ll get it—either from the previous owner or from dabs or DNA off that gear. The snowball’s rolling, Kell. It’s about this big—’ Rogers gestured the size of a marble with his fingers. ‘But it’s rolling, pal.’

  Still munching, the duo began a canvass of the businesses and factories. Asked questions. Talked to blokes. An hour or so later they tackled the shooting scene. With their own sedan parked to imitate Gilmore and Hunter’s car, they went about re-creating the crime with the help of Barrett’s drawing.

  Kelso led off. ‘Right, so Mitch was about here—with gun up pointing and yelling at Barrett near this tree—when he copped it in the back.’

  He turned to face the oncoming stretch of secluded roadway.

  ‘Which means the bandits could have got as close as here when the driver, or the passenger, let a round go through his open window.’

  Kelso turned back to face an imaginary Barrett and imitated getting shot in the back. Rogers watched on, comparing the re-creation with the drawing.

  ‘Mitch goes down into the gutter.’

  Rogers nodded. ‘That’s how Barrett has it.’

  ‘Okay. Happy turns to face the enemy.’

  Kelso, playing the role of Gilmore now, turned slowly.

  ‘The car could be as close as ten metres. No headlights maybe. The driver, or more likely the passenger, plugs Happy. The round ricochets inside and blows up and out through his shoulder like a firecracker. It’s gotta be around here somewhere … Anyway, Happy—thinking Mitch is dead—heads for cover with his fatal wound.’

  Again, Rogers nodded. The drawing was accurate. Kelso now played the nemesis.

  ‘The bandits stop. The driver, or the passenger, gets out and walks over to Mitch, stands over him, places a foot on his wrist and …’

  Rogers took over the story to help his friend through it. ‘Lets a round go. Happy, meanwhile, is firing away as he staggers into the trees. Random shots. Scattered. Two of his projectiles are located embedded in tree trunks. One in a roller door. The fourth flies off never to be recovered. Happy collapses twenty or so metres in there, and fires off an aimless round.’

  Kelso brought it to an end. ‘Whiskers finds him. Happy tries to say he saw Barrett but there were two gunmen.’

  Rogers was studying the drawing. ‘Barrett, meanwhile, has taken off like a jack rabbit through there. The ballistics and trajectories back Barrett’s version.’

  Making a mental measurement, Kelso pointed from his shoulder up towards tree boughs. Blue latex gloves came from a pocket. After pulling them on, he started climbing a tree.

  ‘Forensics swept the scene with metal detectors,’ Rogers advised him.

  ‘Yeah, but we know where Happy was
standing when he got hit. They didn’t. We can narrow it to one or two trees. And we know the angle … How high up did forensics go?’

  Kelso was up his second tree when he made the magic discovery. Hanging below the underside of a large branch, he came across a projectile embedded in a soft nook where a large bough met the trunk.

  ‘I found it!’

  Kelso hung there happily. ‘If this slug is good for comparison, even money it doesn’t match Barrett’s .38.’

  Rogers gave sloth man the thumbs up and dialled the forensics team. ‘Hey Lewis, it’s Roy. Kell and I are up at the shooting scene. When you’ve finished collecting that painting gear could you scoot up here? We’ve got a projectile for you to pick out of a tree.’

  ‘Hope you’ve got a ladder!’ Kelso yelled, still hanging from the underside about twenty metres up.

  That night, Kelso took a call on his mobile at home. It was Kim with some information. He lit a smoke as he listened.

  ‘I’ve found something for you,’ Kim told him. ‘The owner of the Shanghai Peacock here in Chinatown—who has an interest in a legal brothel—says Wu is a silent partner in at least two illegal parlours. Says it would help him a lot if Wu was taken out of business.’

  ‘Yeah. Sure. I can throw this to a mate at Gaming and Vice. Did this Peacock bloke happen to give you the addresses?’

  ‘Yes. Write these down.’

  CHAPTER 74

  Wearing a grotesque rubber monster mask, Malone had arrived—as nervous as hell—for a scary visit. In a plain tracksuit and wearing latex gloves he stood armed with his black-market revolver—its serial number drilled clean—and knocked on the security door’s thick metal frame.

  ‘Dicko, it’s Raff,’ he called, moving out of view on the darkened concrete porch.

  He wondered if Kelso and the rest of The Robbers felt as anxious pre-raid. His arms felt filled with air; his legs all wet cement. He heard the heavy wooden door open. The security door being unlocked. He wrenched it wide, pointing his .38 at Dicko.

  ‘Move to the kitchen. Move!’

  The house was bare and sparsely furnished, save for a few items. Dicko backed his way down the hall.