The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

‘Nothing wrong with a nice bit of snag, but I’ll bring over some steak next time. Along with a bigger basin and a fancy set of taps for your ensuite. I’ll pinch ’em from a housing estate in Wantirna where I’m workin’ at the moment.’

  He winked to Brenda. ‘Tell ya what,’ he continued. ‘I bought a nice bag of weed off a builder mate today. It’s in the car. Why don’t we roll a couple after tea and take the edge off?’

  Slightly stoned, Voss awoke in his son’s spare bedroom. He felt heavy and dry. Looked at his watch. It was just past one o’clock. He could barely remember climbing into the bed for a nap. A bright light shone through the gap under the closed bedroom door. Someone was up. Standing only in his underpants, he opened the door slightly and peeked across the lounge room. The table was a mess of empty beer stubbies, one or two of Brenda’s UDL cans and an ashtray full of dead scoobs. In silk nightgown, Brenda stood barefoot at the fridge: a block of cheese, a jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread on the island bench. She scratched her arse, her nightgown lifting to reveal the backs of her solid smooth brown legs. Brenda closed the fridge door and turned with kitchen knife in hand; her unfettered boobs bulging against the gown. Voss slipped his undies off and walked from the bedroom. Brenda watched him coming, cutting the cheese block as he approached: uneven flab, grey chest hair and testicles hanging like half-empty wine flagons. He’d played this game before. Brenda had played it, too. Stan the Man liked to get her alone at night and show her his big veiny cock.

  ‘Jesus wept,’ Voss muttered, right palm rubbing against a closed eye. ‘That turned into a session and a half.’

  ‘You and Nathan are a couple of dickheads.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Stoned and drunk and snoring like a pig.’

  Voss ran some water into a glass at the sink. Guzzled it down. Stood with bare arse resting against the edge of the kitchen bench, Mr Snuffleupagus on full show.

  ‘So, you interested in those taps and that basin?’

  Brenda slapped some peanut butter on a slice of bread. ‘Yeah, course,’ she said. ‘Wouldn’t mind some wood for a decking too.’

  ‘Could probably arrange that. There’s plenty of stuff lying around this new estate. I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘You want a sandwich?’

  ‘Peanut butter and cheese?’

  ‘Yeah. Fuckin’ beautiful.’

  ‘No thanks,’ Voss said, refilling his glass. ‘Is Bubs kicking tonight?’

  ‘I think so. Mustn’t have liked the G and Ts.’

  ‘You should be drinking beer. Give him the taste nice and early.’

  ‘She’s going to be a champagne drinker.’

  ‘Huh, a piss-head like her mum.’

  Brenda munched on her sandwich, knife still in hand. She smiled at her father-in-law, his dick lolling and moving on its own.

  ‘You gunna crash here?’

  Voss nodded. Finished his water.

  ‘Yeah. Might as well … Does Daddy get a kiss goodnight?’

  Voss grabbed his dick suggestively and flop-wagged it. Brenda smiled.

  ‘Of course.’

  Holding the knife in her right hand by her side, she moved to Voss and pushed her boobs against him. Kissed him on the lips.

  ‘Goodnight, Daddy.’

  He whispered in her ear.

  ‘A word of warning. If you say anything to anyone about Nathan and me robbing places, I’ll cut off your tits and slit your throat with that knife you’re holding.’

  Brenda whispered back, her left hand digging a hidden fork into her father-in-law’s ribs. ‘Just get me my big basin and fancy taps.’

  CHAPTER 78

  Nearly two weeks after taking possession of the Johnny Maggs drug consignment, Nathan had moved the gear and was ready to deliver payment. Most of the product had been onsold to mates entrenched in nightclub world. The club scene with its music—whether mainstream, house, hip-hop, retro, techno or trance—was literally sucking clandestine drug labs dry. There was an unprecedented market for the entire menu—speed, ice, MDMA, ecstasy, GBH and Special K. Despite Maggs’ warning, Nathan had used maybe three grams of speed and crystal meth himself. He’d stooked away more of the ice for future use. In his car in an unlit corner outside Wet Velvet, he sparked a lighter and smoked a hit of ice through a pipe. The stimulant needled his brain. Sent him to the edge of the cliff. On the precipice, he pulled a new gun—a 9 millimetre Norinco—from the glove box. Out of the car he jammed the gun down the back of his jeans. Pulled his leather jacket over the butt, and stuffed a fat envelope into an inside pocket. Cracking his neck, he took two deep breaths and entered the world of excitement and colour: the glorious world of tits and arse. It was a world where a young bloke like him could be king. The soupy atmosphere of smoke and stripper fumes enveloped him. The bouncer acknowledged him. A grinding stripper winked. At last, some goddamned respect.

  The dull thud of the music vibrated against the office walls.

  ‘Amigo, what have you got for me?’

  Nathan threw the envelope over to Maggs, sitting at his desk with a tumbler of Johnny Blue. Maggs picked up the envelope and commenced a quick count. ‘Sit down. You’re making me nervous.’

  Nathan felt like a massive hard cock on the verge of ejaculation, the crystal meth fingering his senses.

  ‘It looks a little light on.’

  ‘There’s about seventeen large there.’

  ‘Where’s the missing two?’

  Nathan couldn’t stop his right leg from jittering. He ran a hand through his black hair.

  ‘It went up your fuckin’ nose, didn’t it? What do you think I am, Nathan? The Salvation fuckin’ Army giving handouts to losers?’

  ‘It’s a good start. I’ve proved I can move the stuff—’

  ‘What you’ve proved is that you’re a fuckin’ hoover who can’t be trusted with supply.’

  ‘I only had a taste.’

  ‘Ten grams, or thereabouts? You’re now into me for two large. Granted that ain’t a lot—but it’s the principle of the matter.’

  ‘What’s my cut for what I sold? Take it out of that.’

  ‘Not likely. I told you this was a test run … and you failed. Now piss off, and don’t come back until you’ve got my money.’

  Nathan felt the ejaculate building behind his eyeballs. ‘Don’t do this to me Johnny. Don’t push me around mate.’ He stood. Pulled the gun from his arse crack. Aimed it right on.

  ‘Get the fuck out of here, you try-hard.’

  Nathan let a warning round go, the bass music still rumbling the walls and shaking picture frames. Maggs swivelled slightly in his chair to survey the bullet hole in the plaster behind him. He swivelled back.

  ‘I’m coming back for another package,’ Nathan dictated. ‘I’ll sell more for you next time. Don’t cut me off.’

  Maggs sat back. Rubbed his left hand down his shaved head, now convinced that Nathan had whacked Kelso’s coppers. He smiled. ‘Okay. Okay. You’ve got more dash than I thought. I’ll let you know when the next batch arrives. You can keep thirty per cent of your take. Okay? A regular thing.’

  Flaccid now, Nathan lowered his weapon.

  ‘You won’t be sorry. You’ll see. We’ll make a killing … together. You and me, mate.’

  Nathan jammed his gun back down his pants and opened the office door.

  ‘You and me,’ he repeated, then left.

  Maggs lifted his right hand from his lap and placed his pistol on the desktop. Took a measured sip of Johnny Blue. Stroked his chin. What the hell was he going to do with Nathan Voss? The kid was armed and highly strung. A walking time bomb.

  CHAPTER 79

  Like the veritable odd couple, Rogers—shirt sleeves buttoned and tie done up—sat across from Kelso—shirt sleeves rolled and tie undone—running their secret sideways investigation. To avoid suspicion they’d continued to play dogsbodies for Brennan, collecting relevant statements and driving exhibits here and delivering paperwork there. But that was
all a smokescreen for what they were really doing. Kelso’s mobile rang.

  ‘Shane Kelso.’

  He listened, a grin forming. Cupped his hand over the receiver and whispered to Rogers. ‘It’s forensics …’

  The grin broadened. ‘The slug did not come from Barrett’s .38.’

  Kelso returned his attention to the forensics guy on the other end. ‘Thanks for fast-tracking it … How about the painting gear?’

  Kelso whispered across to Rogers again as the information was relayed to him. ‘No DNA, but prints found on the roller handles and on the paint tray … There was a hit on the database.’

  Kelso moved papers to find a pen. Rogers gestured that he had one in his shirt pocket.

  ‘And what’s the name?’ Kelso asked.

  He clicked the pen into action.

  ‘Stanley Frederick Voss,’ he recited as he wrote.

  He pushed the written name across to Rogers, who moved to a central computer. Kelso thanked the forensics man. ‘Mate, you guys are fucking legends.’

  Shaw watched from his office as Rogers and Kelso sat glued to the computer screen. Rogers was typing something.

  ‘Stanley Frederick Voss … come on down.’ The LEAP database system threw up the details. Kelso read over Roy’s shoulder.

  ‘According to his DOB, his age is … forty-eight—fits the Schwarzenegger profile. Resides at 17 Haldane Drive, The Basin.’

  ‘Puts him in the eastern corridor.’

  Kelso read on. ‘Priors for common assault and agg burg as a young bloke.’

  ‘He’s been off the radar since.’

  ‘Not mixing with shit men.’

  ‘And we know he has a connection to the Lucky Dragon.’

  Kelso’s blood was up. It was well and truly game on now. ‘I’ll start a file. Then I wanna eyeball this bloke.’

  The Basin, an undulating semi-rural suburb set in the foothills of Mount Dandenong, suited a police sit-off. Voss’ double-storey brick home sat opposite the turn into a winding court, where Rogers and Kelso sat parked about eighty metres from the target premises. It seemed a quiet, placid area. Kelso peered through binoculars. Rogers held a long-lens camera. Usually the dogs would carry out such surveillance, but Roy and Kell wanted this kept unofficial. Off the log books, at this stage. The two Robbers had been watching a young teenage boy in a Collingwood jumper kicking a football to himself in the front yard.

  ‘At least the kid barracks for the right team,’ Kelso suggested.

  It was just after half past four when a painter’s station wagon pulled into the driveway.

  ‘Here’s our man,’ Kelso announced.

  In paint-stained overalls, flannelette shirt and work boots, Voss stepped from the vehicle. The runt in the Collingwood guernsey booted the ball at him. Voss’ hands weren’t fast enough and the Sherrin bounced off his head. Voss kicked the boy up the backside.

  ‘What do you reckon?’ Rogers asked, shooting off frames.

  ‘He’s a big lug. Fits the size description of Schwarzenegger.’

  ‘Yeah, he does … Can you see his boots?’

  ‘Definitely look like Blundstones to me. We’ve gotta go to Shaw with this.’

  Rogers spoke as he waited for a front-on opportunity. ‘Just be patient. Let’s do a bit more homework first. This guy’s not goin’ anywhere.’

  ‘He’s not—but we soon will be.’

  ‘That’s a risk we have to take. We’ve gotta layer this up, like we usually would. This is too important to rush for our own selfish reasons.’

  The Robbers watched on as a weary-looking mare of a woman appeared on the front porch.

  Voss walked back towards her, grabbed her and began to waltz along the garden path as she playfully tried to swat him away. As the garden dance continued, the kid kicked the football square into the side of the station wagon at point-blank range.

  ‘Yep, just your average suburban family,’ Rogers said dryly.

  Kelso lowered the binoculars. ‘They look like the Addams family to me.’

  CHAPTER 80

  Lady Justice. Her image adorned the entrance to the Melbourne Magistrates’ Court where the PEC public hearing was being held. The media had gathered early, the pack having congregated under bleak winter skies to get pictures of all the players as they entered.

  ‘I’ll have something to say afterwards, guys,’ Vic White said on his way up the stairs.

  ‘No comment,’ Shepherd offered.

  Every member of the former Armed Robbery Squad was there. Even Tiny Teasedale, suspended on pay and awaiting his day in court on the drink-drive charge. Malone caught Shepherd inside.

  ‘Have you been called to face this bullshit inquisition?’

  Shepherd ignored the question.

  ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this,’ Malone continued. ‘There’s a rumour about secret footage.’

  Shepherd stared into Malone, the journo recognising the same judicious eyes he’d seen when he’d asked Shepherd about killing a man.

  Shepherd muttered something about thoughts flying and a man being believed; sins being forgiven and crimes reprieved. Malone recognised it. It was cryptic Javert from Les Misérables. What the hell was Shepherd on about?

  ‘Anyway, I’m steering clear of the hearing,’ Malone said, moving on. ‘Our court reporter’s covering it.’

  The hearing kicked off at ten o’clock. There wasn’t a spare seat in the courtroom. Lynch was called to the stand. PEC barrister Les Hamilton, QC, was the man holding the guillotine rope. He cross-examined Lynch, based on his record of interview. On sound legal advice, Lynch’s responses to the questions he’d previously answered now changed to ‘I do not recall’.

  ‘If I told you the PEC was in possession of secretly filmed footage of an assault on prisoner P88 in the Armed Robbery Squad interview room, would that make you change your answers today?’

  ‘No, it would not.’

  ‘Okay, detective, you might like to take a seat …’

  ‘I’ll remain standing.’

  ‘Noble to the end.’

  The Police Union–appointed barrister, Robert Lleyton, rose at the bar table.

  ‘I object to the nature of that remark.’

  The presiding Queen’s Counsel took order.

  ‘No harm done. Continue.’

  Hamilton, a well-paid veteran barrister with the pot-belly to prove it, spoke with an air of inevitability.

  ‘Yes, play the video please.’

  The secret PEC footage of the assault was played to the court in its entirety. Journalists’ pens nearly exploded as they scribbled down what they saw. What they heard. White looked to Shepherd. Shook his head. Shepherd did not drop his chin. The entire squad sat staunch in the face of the ambush. Hamilton had just released the guillotine rope. Lynch appeared composed, when in reality his pulse was up and his pants, in a figurative sense, were down.

  Hamilton had the air of a man certain of victory. ‘Do you agree that that is you and Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo in the interview room with prisoner P88?’

  Lynch: ‘I cannot say one hundred per cent that is me and Sergeant Gucciardo on the footage.’

  Hamilton: ‘But we all heard you announce yourself. Yes?’

  Lynch had nowhere to go. ‘It sounded like my voice—but I cannot say one hundred per cent that is me on the footage.’

  After finishing his examination of Lynch, Hamilton addressed the young detective. ‘Detective Lynch, it is as clear as day that you are depicted on that footage assaulting prisoner P88. I’d suggest you don’t venture too far from home. Sir, we call Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo.’

  In the box, Gucciardo received the same line of examination. His answers echoed those of Lynch.

  After the completion of the hearing, Premier Chambers held a press conference up at Spring Street. ‘I fully support the PEC in their endeavour to uncover police misconduct,’ she told the gathered media.

  Frank Barlow hadn’t been to the museum since he wa
s a kid, and nothing much had changed from what he could remember. The air inside the building still felt musty and dusty. The whole place just felt old. The museum was host to school groups and tourists; the perfect venue for a secret rendezvous. Stuart Davis had requested they meet near Phar Lap. The irony was rich; The Robbers were just as stuffed. Barlow stood in a corner. Davis joined him ten minutes late.

  ‘Frank.’

  ‘Stuart.’

  ‘Can we make this quick? I’ve got to get to the Royal. There’s another bloody drink on.’

  ‘I just wanted to thank you for your efforts. Internal Affairs should be very proud of you.’

  Barlow took a look at his watch. ‘Just doing my job.’

  ‘Yes. And you do it well. No-one suspected you as a sleeper at the Drug Squad, and, boy, did you uncover some corruption there.’

  ‘That office had different issues.’

  ‘And now you’ve been instrumental in the demise of the Armed Robbery Squad.’

  Barlow was keeping a sharp eye. ‘We’ve all received our new office postings. I’ll be submitting for a uniform spot well away from the crime department.’

  ‘Yeah. Get away from that building while you can.’

  ‘No-one suspects me.’

  ‘Why would they? You built a believable reputation with the Druggies … Just sit back now and enjoy the show.’

  Davis shook Barlow’s hand. He truly admired the IA plant.

  ‘Pleasure doing business with you.’

  Barlow walked, again looking at his watch. He still had time to get on for the last at Geelong. He’d been tipped a sure thing.

  CHAPTER 81

  The mood inside the Royal was black. Lynch and Gucciardo had been butt-fucked and guillotined in full public view. Criminal charges were a certainty.

  ‘Where are Kell and Roy?’ Malone asked Shepherd.

  The inspector still seemed cold towards him. Must have been because of the day’s events.

  ‘I told them to stay away,’ Shepherd glared.

  A moment’s silence between the two.

  ‘There’s a rat around and if we catch it, we’ll rip its fucking head off,’ Shepherd continued, watching for Malone’s reaction. There was none.