‘The matter of Patrick Barrett.’
The OPP prosecutor stood. Pulled the pin and lobbed the grenade. ‘Your Honour, this morning we are withdrawing the two murder charges against Mr Barrett.’
‘New charges against Mr Barrett have been filed with the court.’
The chief magistrate sat with one eyebrow cocked. ‘Yes. And what are they?’
‘Extortion, armed robbery and being a prohibited person in possession of an unlicensed handgun. Your Honour, the charges relate to an extortion campaign Mr Barrett was running on a Melbourne restaurateur. Mr Barrett has made full admissions.’
The magistrate removed his glasses. ‘So let me get this straight—Mr Barrett no longer sits charged with the two police murders?’
‘That’s correct, Your Honour.’
On the front steps next to Lady Justice, Shaw held a quick-fire yet strategic press conference. It was chaos outside the court, journalists and cameramen clambering and jostling for a spot.
‘I have a short statement,’ Shaw began.
Voss was sitting eating his dinner while watching the six o’clock news report. Shaw was on screen out the front of the court.
‘The Athena Taskforce followed a trail of evidence that led to an initial belief that Patrick Barrett was the person responsible for the shooting deaths of detectives David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter. Due to new evidence pointing to two male suspects, our initial belief about Mr Barrett has proved incorrect. As you’ve just heard in court, we’ve dropped the murder charges against Mr Barrett. He now faces separate, unrelated charges. The Athena Taskforce is now working full steam ahead to apprehend the killers. We believe two men—a father-and-son combination linked to a string of armed robberies—were responsible for the police murders.’
Voss dropped his fork to his plate. The father–son angle hadn’t been mentioned in the paper that morning.
Nathan Voss, eating dinner at his kitchen bench, sat dumbstruck.
‘I have a message for the killers,’ Shaw continued on screen. ‘You can run but you can’t hide. We will catch you. It is only a matter of time. We’d encourage you to hand yourselves in now. That’s all I can say at this stage. Thank you.’
From the couch, Brenda turned back to Nathan. Saw him sitting frozen, a panicked expression on his milk-white face.
‘Please say that isn’t you he’s talking about … Please tell me you and Stan didn’t shoot those two cops …’
Nathan said nothing. Brenda rushed her half-full plate into the kitchen and spat up her dinner in the sink. Nathan watched her yack up her tea. He wasn’t sure what he felt, other than a sense of dread. Trembling, he grabbed the house phone and dialled.
Voss’ home phone rang. Doris left her plate to answer it. ‘Oh hi, darling. Yes, he’s here … Stan! It’s Nathan! Says it’s urgent!’
‘Of course it bloody is.’
Voss took the phone. ‘Keep your pants on, boy. Don’t say nuthin’ on the phone. I’ll come over.’
The call ended.
‘What is it?’ Doris asked. ‘Is it Brenda?’
‘No, it’s not Brenda. Brenda’s fine. I’ve just gotta go sort out a problem. Be back later.’
In his garage, Voss reached atop a cabinet and pulled down an empty paint tin. With a screwdriver he pried it open and took out his .38 wrapped in a tea towel. With gun inside his bomber jacket, he drove to Nathan’s house.
Nathan was snorting a line of speed in the ensuite when he heard his hysterical Brenda let Voss in. He splashed water on his face. Went back out to the kitchen. Voss pulled his gun. Brenda screamed.
‘Jesus, Dad, I didn’t say a word to anyone.’
‘Shut up, boy, I’m not here to kill ya. Do you promise me you chucked your .38?’
‘Yeah, I did. It went off the Frankston pier.’
‘Good. Good. I’m gunna get rid of this one tonight.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m gunna drive down to Patterson Lakes. Throw it off the bridge there.’
Shaw and the rest of his taskforce sat listening. Brewer gave Shaw a hearty thumbs up. ‘You gunna give the order to move in tonight?’
Shaw shook his head. ‘Not if he’s tooled up … We’ll let him dump the gun and then we’ll recover it. Safer option.’
Nathan’s voice continued through the speakers.
‘Do you think they know it was us?’
‘Sounds like it. But they need proof.’
Voss helped himself to a stubby from the fridge. ‘The more I think about it,’ he said, ‘the more I reckon those two cops were pulling my chain a bit. They said that Barrett bloke was cactus. That was bullshit.’
‘But their story about your painting gear—that sounds pretty right, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it?’
Voss took a drink. ‘The only way they could possibly link us to it would be through the guns, and you’ve chucked yours.’
Brenda lit up a cigarette at the sink. ‘I can’t believe this. I can’t believe it!’ She began to weep.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ Voss told her. ‘As soon as I throw this gun in the river it’ll all go away.’
The snort was starting to jack Nathan. It was the full-moon effect: eyes changing, claws emerging. Sweat. A snarl.
‘Nathan, act normal,’ Voss ordered with his gun. ‘It’ll all blow over.’ He kissed Brenda on the forehead. ‘Nighty night.’
Voss turned back to his son. ‘Remember what I told you. Act like Joe Average. And keep your eyes and ears open. Keep watching and listening to the news. If anything’s up, we’ll hear about it.’
CHAPTER 91
At first light the police divers were in the water at Patterson Lakes, groping in the mud for a tossed .38 near a pier where surveillance had watched Voss toss an item. After an hour’s searching the divers found a gun. It was brought to the surface and bagged and tagged.
About the same time, near the Frankston pier pylons, police divers found Nathan’s dumped weapon.
Like expectant doctors awaiting two hearts for transplant, ballistics experts at the Forensic Science Laboratory were on standby for the arrival of both handguns. Comparison checks against Detective Kelso’s recovered projectile were now top priority.
CHAPTER 92
The plan was set twenty-four hours later. Ballistics results had come back: the slug recovered from the tree at Chirnside Park matched the gun Stan Voss had dumped in the drink at Patterson Lakes.
‘We now have enough to move in,’ Shaw told a briefing consisting of McFarlane, Brad Tomlinson and the Athena team.
‘I had every confidence this taskforce would bring about a resolution,’ McFarlane trumpeted.
Tomlinson stood at the back of the ops room like a stern-looking soldier on the ramparts. ‘Speaking of resolutions, Com-missioner …’
McFarlane deferred back to Shaw. ‘Andrew?’
‘We’re thinking of giving them a week to calm down due to all the recent excitement we’ve subjected them to. Lull them into a false sense of security and then—’
The commissioner was having none of that. ‘A week? That’s absurd. You’ve got the necessary evidence. You said it yourself. Move in and arrest them asap—before they decide to go and shoot another two members.’
Shaw stood his ground. ‘With all due respect, Commissioner, we believe it would be a wiser move to let things cool for a week. We’ve got them under constant surveillance.’
McFarlane was on his feet now and pointing the finger. ‘They’ve dumped their guns. They’re ripe for the picking. I’ve got the premier so far up my arse on this one she’s flossing my back teeth. I’ve got a media pack that I sense is ready to turn ugly—unless we start making new arrests.’
‘I understand the peripheral concerns sir, but—’
‘There are no buts on this one, Andrew. You need this to happen just as much as everyone else. Trust me on that.’
The SOG leader spoke. ‘Commissioner, all we need is the green light and we are go,’ Tomlinson said with a tone of finality. ‘I promise you it will be swift. If anything, the Sons of God are swift peace-makers.’
McFarlane spoke again to Shaw. ‘You’ve been on these two for weeks now. You should know their routines.’
‘Tradesmen, the both of them,’ Shaw responded. ‘Weekdays they’re up and out of home by six-thirty. But Commissioner, we know Nathan Voss is in possession …’
‘Then move in before then. Swift and bloodless, gentlemen. I demand a swift and bloodless resolution.’
McFarlane tucked his cap under his arm. ‘I expect to be informed the night before the arrests are carried out, which will be this week. Not next week. Not the week after. Do what you people have to do and make it happen.’
‘If that’s the way you want it, sir, let’s take them down tomorrow,’ Shaw said. ‘Pre-dawn. Brad, you good with that?’
‘Roger that.’
That afternoon, McFarlane summoned a visitor up to his office. His staff officer showed the guest in. Offered him a drink. Hemmings asked for a coffee.
‘Afternoon, Commissioner.’
‘Let’s dispense with the pleasantries, Tony. I’ve got something for you tomorrow morning. It’ll be good PR for us and a big exclusive for you.’
Hemmings sat, poison pen poised. He could feel a Quill Award coming on. Maybe another Walkley. ‘Is it to do with Athena?’
‘Yes.’
‘Arrests?’
‘Yes. If you sit yourself well down the street from 17 Haldane Drive in The Basin from about half past four tomorrow morning, you’ll get to see a SOG team arrest the older suspect. At the same time, another SOG unit will be scooping up the second suspect at his Boronia home.’
‘What are their names?’
McFarlane shook his head. ‘No, no. You can do your own homework on that one. Jesus, you’ve got to do some ground work to justify your no doubt exorbitant pay packet … And for Christ’s sake, stay out of sight until it all happens.’
The coffee was brought in; a Monte Carlo biscuit on the side.
‘How do you want it dollied up?’ Hemmings asked, after the staff officer had left the room.
McFarlane brushed down his shiny flat hair. ‘Something along the lines of—according to sources close to the taskforce, the arrests are the culmination of an intense investigation overseen by the chief commissioner’s office. It is believed to have involved the use of listening devices. Sources said the arrests were the result of tireless dedication shown by Homicide Squad detectives who were handpicked by Commissioner Trevor McFarlane. How does that sound?’
Hemmings spoke as he jotted it all down.
‘You’ll be the king of the hill tomorrow.’
‘That’s the idea, Tony.’
CHAPTER 93
It was a temperate early spring afternoon. Gone was winter’s Antarctic chill. This new season brought zest. Renewal. Kernels of hope. New life from cold decimation. Malone stood by the grave telling Jessica that everything had been set in place and that his plan was going to work. That he’d rounded the moon now and was on his just trajectory home. He told her that very soon she’d be able to rest in peace, despite the worms and the bugs and the natural post-mortem processes having eaten to her bones. He told her that his plan could be done in the real world and that it would be done—and that it wasn’t just something you’d see in a movie. He’d invested too much to pull out now. Spent years of torment to bring this one simple plan to fruition.
Malone was ready, and justice was coming.
CHAPTER 94
That evening, Nathan Voss was a Pandora’s box of anxious fear, delusions of grandeur and methylamphetamine-induced paranoia. What would Tony Montana do right now if the cops burst through his door? He’d stand and deliver. That’s what fucking Montana would do. Nathan smoked some more ice. Exhaled the white smoke. For a moment in time his heart seemed to stop. His system froze. And then everything kicked into overdrive. Say hello to my little friend! In the darkness of his lounge room, he sat in a corner couch seat with Norinco semi-auto in hand. Turned on his stereo and tuned in to 3MR late-night talkback to listen for any clues; any news of police movement. This was his life now: sleeping in the shadows with one eye open. He wasn’t living the dream so much as a waking nightmare.
CHAPTER 95
It was on the verge of dawn when two SOG teams approached both target houses; marksmen painted green nestled among bushes and hedge to provide cover for the Sons in black. Voss was up and already dressed, stuffing bread into the toaster.
In the Athena monitoring room, Brewer had his headphones tuned in to the home of Stanley Voss. Hendricks was listening to the Nathan Voss household. Shaw sat in his office monitoring the arrest phase via a closed radio channel. McFarlane paced Shaw’s glass enclosure.
Voss slurped some tea and munched on toast with jam. Doris appeared in dressing gown and slippers.
‘Early start today?’
‘The early bird catches the worm, darl. See ya tonight.’
He scooped up his keys and was gone.
The morning air was crisp. A low mist hung. The lawns were painted white. Jack Frost had been this way. With a slice of toast jammed in his mouth, Voss made his way across the path to the driveway. He was going to need a bucket of water for his car windows.
‘Police! Don’t move! On the ground! Now!’
The SOG team had Voss surrounded, beams from torches attached to their firearms searing into him. Searching for a heart.
‘What the fuck’s going on, ya bludgers? I’m just a painter goin’ to work—’
The team sergeant forced Voss to the concrete. Cable-tied him. Lights were on in several houses now. Face down on his driveway, Voss continued to protest. Doris appeared at the front door, screaming and wailing at the sight of men aiming shotguns at her husband’s head. The SOG sergeant spoke into his portable.
‘Security two-fifty. Target one is in custody.’
‘Roger that. Team two, move in.’
Parked down the street from the Voss household, Hemmings was on his mobile phone waiting to go live to air.
Nathan Voss was dozing in his corner couch chair, Norinco still in hand in his lap. The second SOG team was at his front door, twelve-pound key at the ready. The 3MR announcer’s voice continued from Nathan’s stereo speakers.
‘And we now cross live to crime reporter Tony Hemmings with an exclusive on-the-spot report about a major police development. Tony …’
‘Yes, that’s right, Mark. I can exclusively report that members of the Special Operations Group—on the orders of the Athena Taskforce—have just moved in at a house in The Basin and arrested a man in relation to the murder of police detectives David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter—’
The radio revelation acted as a defibrillator, sparking Nathan to life. He sat bolt upright. Confirmed he had one in the Norinco’s pipe, his heart beating up through his throat.
There was no way he was going to jail to become a Viagra-fucked muppet.
Hendricks heard the 3MR report through his headphones. Nathan Voss was listening to a fucking radio broadcast about the Stan Voss arrest—as it was happening! He therefore knew the police movements. Hendricks snatched up his two-way. Radioed the SOG command post.
‘Team two abort entry! Repeat, team two abort entry in Boronia!’
Team two—led by Tomlinson—was already in, moving through the house in clearing formation. Brenda woke, screaming in fright at the sight of a black soldier with shotgun up
in her bedroom.
‘Police! Don’t move!’
The SOG inspector at the command post relayed the abort message.
‘Security two-six-five. Abort Boronia entry! I repeat, abort Boronia entry!’
It was too late.
In Shaw’s office, McFarlane stopped his pacing.
‘Security two-six-five, abort Boronia entry!’ the police radio blared.
McFarlane stared deep into the broadcast. ‘What’s happening, Andrew?’
Tomlinson and two of his men moved to the kitchen–lounge area, Hemmings’ voice on the home stereo providing a real-life running commentary.
‘It is my understanding that a second, younger man is also being arrested in a Boronia home by another SOG unit as we speak,’ Hemmings’ report suggested.
Nathan saw the cops in black coming, and unleashed his pistol. The Norinco kicked three times, spent cartridges dancing across the polished floorboards. Brenda could be heard screaming from the bedroom.
‘Leave us alone, you bastards!’
Nathan took cover behind the couch; Hemmings’ voice continued from the stereo.
‘According to sources close to the taskforce, the arrests are the culmination of an intense investigation overseen by the chief commissioner’s office.’
Hendricks, slightly breathless, appeared in Shaw’s office. ‘Some fucking radio reporter has broadcast the Stanley Voss arrest—before Team 2 went in. The Nathan Voss arrest has turned to shit! Shots have been fired.’
Crying and panicked, Nathan was at the crossroads. Surrounded.
‘Police! Throw down your weapon!’
He held his Norinco tight, palms and fingers wet. Mouth sand-dry. He had a choice. Live or die. What life did he have to look forward to now, other than that of an arse-fucked lifer who’d one day be doing the butt-fucking behind bars? No freedom. No fun. What a loser. He stood with pistol under his chin.
The Robbers Page 31
