The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  Shepherd turned his back. Barlow buried his head in his drink. Malone felt something in the air. Unrest. Suspicion. He decided to leave.

  Late into the afternoon, after half-a-dozen pots, Shepherd pointed out the window and gave the finger to whoever may have been covertly watching. McCrann stood on a table, unbuckled, pulled down his strides and pushed his arse cheeks hard against the glass.

  ‘Kiss this, you PEC rats!’

  Shepherd cracked a wry smile.

  ‘Guys, those peckerhead rats are the reason why I told Roy and Kell to stay away from us today,’ he told the group. ‘We need them at Athena, not up at the Fraud Squad with a calculator or at EMU logging evidence. They need to make a breakthrough and they need to make it fast, before they’re shanghaied like the rest of us.’

  Barlow joined in. ‘I’m being sent to Gaming and Vice,’ he announced, betting tickets in pot hand.

  ‘Jesus,’ Shepherd said, rolling his eyes. ‘That’s like putting Dracula in charge of the blood bank.’

  The group laughed, Lynch included.

  ‘I’m off to EMU,’ O’Shea said.

  That was a kick in the guts.

  ‘I got a bloody spot at Homicide,’ Caulfield announced.

  McCrann shook his head. ‘Good luck with those squeezers. I got an offer too good to refuse—I’m heading to Organised Crime.’

  Caulfield turned. ‘How about you, Gooch?’

  ‘I’m thinking about pulling the pin and going into private investigation.’

  ‘That sounds bloody good right about now,’ Lynch mumbled.

  Shepherd grabbed the young detective on the shoulder. ‘Come on, pal, chin up.’

  ‘We’re fucked, boss. They’re gunna sting us with assault charges and maybe perjury to boot.’

  McCrann tried to cheer him up. ‘At least you’re suspended with pay. The last time I was forced to take a holiday it was without a wage. Besides, it sounded to me on that footage that you were provoked.’

  Dan Drake was back on the sauce, his shot arm having healed. ‘You guys snapped ’cos Pascoe taunted you about Happy and Mitch.’

  Teasedale saw the merits of the argument. ‘Yeah, you two were suffering emotional stress when you smashed that ferret.’

  Shepherd too seized on the hopeful glimmer. ‘You’ve got good mitigating circumstances. If you’re charged, Lleyton will prop up a provocation defence with a couple of helpful psych reports.’

  ‘How about you boss? Where have you been tossed to?’ O’Shea asked.

  ‘Missing Persons.’

  Sniggers.

  ‘Yeah, yeah I know. Oh the irony.’ He took a drink.

  McCrann went to lift the group again. ‘Hey, boss, you know what your first investigation’s gunna be—the mysterious disappearance of Morris Farley.’

  As the drinking continued, Kelso arrived to join his brothers in arms—despite his boss’ order to stay away. Shepherd saw him enter and herded him from the main group.

  ‘Kell, I told you not be here. It’s important you’re not seen with us at the moment.’

  ‘Boss, I had to be here.’

  ‘You’ve got a bigger mission at the moment, so get the fuck out of here. The PEC could be all over this joint. I don’t want them to be reminded about you.’

  ‘Boss—’

  Shepherd shook his head. ‘Kell, listen to what I’m telling you. It’s fucking important to all of us … and there’s something else you should know.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s about Ian Malone. There’s a whisper going around that he’s the cause of all this. Vic White’s been told by someone on high that Malone’s been feeding the Rat Squad and the PEC information about us. I just thought you should know.’

  ‘What the fuck are you talking about boss?’

  ‘Someone close to the squad has been talking. Giving the peckerheads God knows what about us. Think about it. How the fuck did they get access to the office to plant those fucking cameras? How did they know we had vents in the interview room ceilings? They’d done their homework, Kell. They knew their way around our house when we weren’t home.’

  CHAPTER 82

  Sleeves up and tie down, Kelso sat hunched at a South Yarra pub ruminating over a pot of beer while stringing recent events together on a mental timeline, retracing his relationship with Malone. The chronology was a perfect fit. Crestfallen and infuriated, he skolled his pot. Ordered another along with a shot of tequila. The publican was a friendly: the drinks were on the house. Kelso blasted the dirty Tijuana juice. Chased it with his beer. Ordered another. Blasted that shot too. How could he have been so fucking stupid as to have allowed a disingenuous rat mother-fucking journalist under his guard? They were all the fucking same, those cunts. Jesus, he’d even considered Malone a friend. Kelso thought back on what Malone had said the night The Robbers were drinking to their own demise at the Royal. What was it he had muttered in the piss-stained confessional? Something about feeling like a dirty cunt for not telling the truth. Kelso took another slug. He was the one who’d sponsored Malone to Shepherd, who then opened the door and invited the cocksucker in. He, more than any of the other Robbers, had embraced Malone as a bloke. Malone must have been on a good promise to betray the fucking Robbers. Kelso snatched up his mobile. Tried to sound his normal self.

  ‘Malone, it’s Kell. I need to catch up over a beer. I’ve got something for you. Where’s your local?’

  Kelso met Malone at the Fleece at about eight o’clock. They drank from the same beer jugs. As he fell further under the grog’s spell, Kelso tried to crack on to Amber. He started roughing it with Malone in playful fashion when all he really wanted to do was punch the living fuck out of him. A dark shadow seemed to descend on Kelso. To Malone it was obvious that Staff Sergeant Barnes had arrived.

  ‘Let’s take some travellers back to your place,’ Kelso suggested just on eleven. ‘Come on. I’ve never seen where you live.’

  He turned to Amber, a dirty look in his eyes. ‘You can come back too, honey.’

  Malone waved off the comment.

  Malone watched Kelso sing his way up the stairs, a six-pack of imported beers under his arm. The journo sniggered as he fumbled with his keys. Kelso was a hoot. Inside his ‘studio apartment’, Malone flipped the tops off two beers. Kelso sat on the couch, surveying the room. He pointed to the framed black-and-white portrait of the young woman on the wall.

  ‘So … that’s the famous Jessica is it, pal?’

  Malone handed him a beer.

  ‘That’s her.’

  Kelso laughed inappropriately. Rocked his head back and took a slug. Malone was taken aback. Slightly angered.

  ‘What’s funny?’

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering if she was real or part of your bullshit story.’ Kelso stared into Malone, an angry grin smeared across his face. Pure hatred in his eyes. For some inexplicable reason Malone realised he had trouble coming—no matter what he said.

  ‘What’s wrong, mate?’

  ‘What could be wrong? Let’s see. A Judas fucking journalist betrays me and the rest of the squad. Helps the fucking PEC end us …’

  Malone had nowhere to go in his shoebox. But he wasn’t going to back down to Kelso’s current bullshit.

  ‘Kell, what the fuck are you on about?’

  Kelso shook his head in warning, smile gone now. ‘Don’t insult me, cunt. You know what I’m talking about. I hope the Rat Squad and the PEC promised you the world, and even that’s not gunna be worth what you’ve fucking done.’

  Kelso launched himself from the couch. Brought Malone to the carpet and landed sweet blows to his face. Malone took it on, smashing his bottle hard against the side of Kelso’s head. Covered in beer and blood, the two men tussled, Kelso landing more punches.

  ‘I fucking sponsored you, you fucking rat!’

  ‘Kell, I didn’t do anything!’

  In a blur Kelso had Malone upright, the two crashing into a cabinet and toppling items from its shelves. They rolled
across the wall, Kelso smashing the back of Malone’s head against Jessica’s portrait. The glass cracked. Malone tried to throw one. Jaw clenched, Kelso pinned him with a forearm across the throat. The aggressor breathed hard through his nose. Malone was stunned. Dazed. Out of his depth in a fight with a Robber; a fight with Shane Kelso.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ he whispered. ‘Kell, please …’

  Kelso threw Malone to the floor, crashing him through his coffee table. Down on one knee the detective produced a small silver revolver from a concealed ankle holster. He turned Malone and, with left hand full of collar, placed the gun to the back of his head.

  ‘How did they know the entry code? The layout of the office?’

  ‘Please Kell,’ Malone pleaded, in tears now. ‘I didn’t do anything!’

  Kelso blinked and shook his head like a rottweiler annoyed by flies. Blood up, his will was to pull the trigger but his conscience was screaming ‘back the fuck down and hold your fire’. Kelso was momentarily torn.

  ‘Please Kell, don’t kill me. I didn’t do anything …’

  Defeated by his conscience, Kelso lowered his gun. Slumped into a corner. Spent, he threw his gun down on the carpet. Stared at his shaking hands. It was rage. Malone turned and sat on the floor, his back against the couch. He wiped his eyes clear. Breathed hard. Peered over.

  ‘Mate, I didn’t do whatever it is you think I’ve done.’

  Kelso closed his eyes, the back of his head against the wall. He so wanted to believe that.

  ‘You betrayed me. You betrayed us. You gave those PEC cunts the key.’

  ‘I dunno what you’re fucking talking about.’

  ‘How else did they know the code?’ Kelso repeated. ‘Vic White got the mail about you.’

  ‘Well the fucking mail’s wrong. I’ve got nothing to do with the PEC. That cocksucker Stuart Davis did call me once—after my squad feature ran in the paper. He asked if I’d provide him, or Internal Affairs, with my taped interview and any notes I may have made during my dealings with you guys. He basically asked me to be a spy in return for tip-offs. I told him to get fucked.’

  ‘What was all that shit about at the Royal then—about how you felt like a cunt for lying to me?’

  ‘I was confused. You accepted me as a mate. You trusted me … and in your world trust and loyalty is everything. I felt like I was using you.’

  ‘What do you mean, using me?’ Kelso asked, clenching and unclenching a sore right fist. Malone composed himself.

  ‘It’s all about Paul Michael Abbott.’

  ‘And who the fuck’s Paul Michael Abbott?’

  ‘He’s the cocksucker who stabbed Jessica. He was serving a suspended sentence for bashing his girlfriend at the time. Had form for assault and trafficking. Beat a previous rape charge. He pleaded guilty to intentionally and recklessly injuring Jess, and armed rob. Got away with six and a half years on the bottom. He walked on parole five months ago. I need you to find out where he’s living. I need your help to fix him up. That’s the original reason I wanted to get to know you guys. I thought you were the only detectives in VicPol who might be prepared to help me.’

  ‘What do you mean, fix him up?’

  ‘I want to hurt him. Do some damage … I swear on my dead parents. I swear on Jessica.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘Because I’m fucking haunted, and you’re my fucking friend!’

  Malone broke down. He needed Kelso to believe him: not just in order to help him but to remain his friend.

  Kelso studied Malone. The tears and the emotion were genuine. He’d seen acting before, and this wasn’t it. Over the journey he’d realised that he needed a mate who was not a cog inside the Armed Robbery Squad machine. Malone had proved to be that friend.

  ‘Have you got a plan?’ he asked. ‘Contingencies?’

  Malone laughed to himself. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got to plan your operation.’

  ‘I also need to know where he lives … will you help me?’

  Kelso dabbed the side of his head, checking the blood. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  Malone lifted himself onto the couch and surveyed the aftermath. ‘Jesus, I should have just told you the truth at the Royal that night. It would’ve saved me a lot of trouble.’

  Kelso nodded, eyebrows raised amid the mess. ‘Yep …’

  ‘I’ll give you this,’ Malone continued looking around the room, ‘you give a whole new meaning to the feng shui movement.’

  Kelso winced as he touched his head wound. ‘What the fuck’s feng shui?’

  Yep, Kelso was a hoot.

  CHAPTER 83

  Rogers and Kelso were sure their time was up: convinced their papers had been served and they’d been reposted. Whitney, Sidwell and Hendricks watched on as Shaw summoned the two Robbers into his office.

  ‘Dead men walking,’ Sidwell mocked.

  ‘Shut the door behind you,’ Shaw told the duo.

  They sat.

  ‘Have you two got something to tell me?’

  Rogers played his straight bat. ‘What do you mean boss?’

  ‘Don’t play cute with me. You and Kelso have been buzzing ’round like blue-arsed flies for a couple of weeks now—reviewing old case files and spending time out in the field running your own little investigation, seemingly separate from our common goal here. To what end, may I ask?’

  Kelso turned to Rogers. They’d been busted. Kelso sat rubbing his right-hand knuckles, ruminating over his clash with Malone. He was feeling bad enough, without having to face this grilling.

  ‘We’re actually following another angle at the moment,’ Rogers responded.

  ‘What other angle? In case you two haven’t been working on the same taskforce for the past eight weeks, we’ve charged our shooter.’

  Rogers decided it was time. ‘We’ve uncovered new evidence.’

  Kelso walked from the office to his desk drawer, grabbed two manila folders and returned—shutting the door again to keep the conversation away from prying ears. Kelso tossed one of the folders over. Shaw stared at the two for a good five seconds before perusing.

  ‘We’ve started a file.’

  ‘On whom?’

  Shaw read aloud. ‘Stanley Frederick Voss … house painter by day and gun-slinging bandit by night?’

  ‘Hear us out, boss. Shane found a .38 slug high up in a tree at the scene. It came out of Happy. According to ballistics, it doesn’t match the gun recovered from Barrett’s place.’

  Kelso stepped into the fray. ‘And it’s not from Gilmore’s service revolver.’

  Shaw had a quick scan and sat back, playing with a rubber band. ‘Go on …’

  ‘Wu signed a statement admitting Barrett was extorting him—corroborating what Barrett told Brennan.’

  ‘That’s not what Wu told Whitney and Sidwell.’

  ‘Probably because Whitney and Sidwell didn’t have particulars about his illegal prostitute ventures. We hit Wu with specifics and he folded like a Chinese fan. Barrett’s been telling the truth: he’s not the shooter.’

  Kelso turned to peer at the monkeys through the glass, smiling and waving at the Homicide boys. ‘That file outlines what we’ve got on Voss so far.’

  Rogers did his best. ‘It certainly makes for compelling reading.’

  Outside, Kelso’s desk phone rang. Brewer picked it up. ‘Athena Taskforce. Detective Kelso’s phone.’

  Shaw rubbed his eyes. Tossed the file back, shaking his head. ‘This bloke Voss painted the Lucky Dragon. So what? He wears Blundstone boots. He lives in the pattern corridor and he’s got a few priors … You’re gunna need more than that before I get excited. Jesus, we’ve got Barrett there on the night with motive, fellas. He might’ve used a different gun. Remember? “Two guns”?’

  Brewer knocked on the glass door. Shaw gestured him in. ‘Sorry to interrupt, but there’s a guy on the phone for Kell. I tried to take a message but he says he wants to talk right now.
’

  ‘Who is it?’ Kelso inquired.

  ‘Says his name’s John Maggs.’

  Kelso’s eyes nearly popped from his head. If they had, Rogers was there to catch them. The Robbers men raced back to their desks.

  ‘Shane Kelso.’

  ‘Let’s get this straight,’ Maggs said down the line. ‘I’m not doing this because of your bullshit scare tactics, and I’m not doing this ’cos two cops got shot. Personally I couldn’t give a flying fuck if ten cops went down tomorrow—but there’s a bloke who’s become a problem, and instead of taking care of him myself I’m gunna get you to do it for me.’

  ‘Who are you shopping to us, John?’

  ‘A cocksucker from over this way who reckons he’s a real tough cunt. He’s chicken shit, but he’s got access to a roscoe. Pulled it on me in here just the other night.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A while back, maybe a couple of months—can’t remember exactly when—he tells me he’s doin’ stick-ups with his dad. He said they were doin’ restaurants—Chinese and Indian—and he was taping people up.’

  Kelso gave the thumbs up to Rogers. ‘What’s this cocksucker’s name?’

  ‘Nathan Voss.’

  Kelso made a victory fist.

  ‘Now that’s all I’ve got for ya,’ Maggs said. ‘Just remember who you’re working for.’

  Back in Shaw’s office maybe forty minutes later, after inquiries to VicRoads, Kelso was telling his boss of the latest breakthrough. Rogers began writing details on the chief’s whiteboard. Whitney and Sidwell watched on from their desks.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’ Whitney asked.

  Sidwell didn’t like what he was witnessing either.

  ‘Dunno. But something’s up … They’ve got the boss’ ear.’

  ‘The fuckers are trying to railroad our case.’

  Rogers slapped a licence photo of Voss faxed through from VicRoads onto the board with sticky tape. ‘Stanley Frederick Voss. Age: forty-eight. Address: 17 Haldane Drive, The Basin. Runs his own interior painting business. Racked up priors for a minor assault and an agg burg in his early twenties. He’s been unheard of ever since. Forensics link him to the Lucky Dragon—he painted the place before Wu bought the joint. Real estate agent tells us the previous owner, before Wu, was a bloke named Jimmy Chan.’