The Robbers
Page 32
‘Drop the weapon!’
Nathan jagged on the trigger, leaving his last-ever thought painted across the ceiling.
Tomlinson and his men converged on the mess of a young man spasming on the floorboards—as the leaked radio report continued. ‘This is a landmark day for the Athena Taskforce, and Chief Commissioner Trevor McFarlane …’
Tomlinson relayed message to his SOG inspector.
‘Security two-six-five to Security one-fifty.’
‘Go ahead, two-six-five.’
‘Target two has just shot himself. Target two is down. We need paramedics immediately.’
McFarlane—an alabaster-looking commissioner—stood shocked and silent. Shaw cracked. ‘Who is this fucking reporter? Jesus Christ! How the fuck did he find out?’
Hand on hip, the inspector ran his hand through his hair. McFarlane retreated. ‘I’ll be in my office …’
Whitney and Tomlinson surveyed the mess in the lounge room. It was obvious the young suspect was deceased. The home was now a crime scene. The coroner, pathologist, Internal Affairs and on-call Homicide crew would all soon be en route—no doubt with a flotilla of media crews behind them. Whitney called his boss. ‘It’s one big mess here. Who the fuck tipped off that radio reporter?’
‘That’s what I want to know. When I find out I’m gunna rip him a new arsehole!’
‘Whoever it was, they’ve hurt us. I wanted Nathan Voss telling his story having been read his rights—’
Shaw took a drink of coffee. ‘Looks like you’ve scored yourself a coronial brief.’ He hung up. He had no sympathy for Whitney: the disloyal sycophant. He rubbed his eyes again. Shook his head. Took in a view of the Albert Park golf course: a place where he’d much rather be.
‘Jesus H Christ. What a fucking disaster.’
CHAPTER 96
On invitation back to the Athena Taskforce office, Rogers and Kelso stood with Shaw in the observation room staring at Voss in interview.
‘Thought you’d like to see him in custody,’ Shaw said. ‘He wouldn’t be sitting here had it not been for you two.’
‘What went wrong with the Nathan Voss entry?’ Kelso asked.
News of his death had been all over the news.
‘Let’s just say there was a complication. He heard about the raid over the radio and topped himself as the SOG went in.’
‘What sort of radio? A police scanner?’
‘No … early morning talkback. 3MR. Someone leaked details of the arrests to a reporter named Tony Hemmings—and he blew the entry.’
‘Jesus Christ—’
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Nathan Voss got off easy,’ Rogers offered.
‘Yeah,’ Kelso said, ‘too fuckin’ easy. But not Stanley Voss. He’s going down.’
Rogers was naturally suspicious. ‘Who was the leak to the radio reporter?’
Shaw took more coffee. ‘I have my suspicions. McFarlane says he’s going to handle an internal investigation personally.’
‘McFarlane’s going to handle it? Jesus.’
Kelso shook his head. ‘The Easter Bunny’s gunna end up wearing it.’
Shaw raised his eyebrows. ‘I think that’s McFarlane’s plan.’
Brennan and Sidwell sat across from Voss: the police killer in work gear minus his boots. ‘I told you bludgers I had nothin’ to do with it. I wasn’t even there.’
‘But you have been there, haven’t you?’
‘Jesus wept. I told two of your blokes I painted the joint. The guy there gave me free dim sims.’
Shaw checked that his tie was straight. Brushed down his lapels. ‘Feel free to stick around for as long as you want. I’ve got to go stand next to McFarlane at another bloody press conference.’
‘I’ve seen enough of this sniveller. I’m goin’ down the pub to celebrate your win,’ Kelso said.
‘It’s yours too.’
‘If it was ours, we’d be sitting in there cementing two murder convictions right now.’
‘Fair enough. Shane, Max—good luck at your new postings.’
CHAPTER 97
The press conference was an opportunity for McFarlane to beat his chest in public. Shaw stood to the side as an extra.
‘So in conclusion,’ the commissioner stated, ‘we have one suspect in custody who will be charged with two counts of murder. The other suspect became aware of police movements due to an early-morning radio report and fired several shots at the Special Operations Group. He then turned his weapon on himself. His was a needless death.’
Malone took the free kick in front of goal. ‘Who leaked to Tony Hemmings?’
‘Rest assured, Mr Malone, an investigation will be launched. I am going to oversee it myself.’
The media liaison rep stepped in. ‘Right, thanks folks.’
The Robbers descended on the Royal to celebrate. Every current member of the former squad—bar the fallen—was at the pub, including Gucciardo and Lynch, court dates pending. The two confirmed that they would be pleading guilty to assault charges and would argue compelling mitigating circumstances. The group was in a high mood. The drinks were sliding.
Shepherd spoke to his flock. ‘Hey boys and girls—let’s lift a glass to Roy and Kell.’
The group toasted the pair.
‘Good on ya, boys,’ Shepherd glowed. ‘You showed ’em how it’s done Robbers style. We’re all bloody proud of ya.’
The bar manager lined up another six full jugs along the jump. Caulfield received a vodka, lime and soda. It was obvious that it was going to be a long night. Shepherd turned to O’Shea.
‘As someone once said,’ he suggested to his former senior sergeant, ‘the more things change, the more they seem to stay the same.’
CHAPTER 98
Dressed in a green army jacket, jeans and cheap runners, Malone sat at a suburban bus stop clocking Paul Abbott’s address from the darkness. He knew the shithead’s nightly routine, thanks to intermittent night surveillance shifts. Abbott lived alone. No partner. No snakes as pets. Just some porn and a history of violence for company. Aged thirty-three now, Abbott was looking rough and hungry: six-odd years in adult mainstream would do that to most men. Malone knew that Abbott would have walked out a far more dangerous man than the bottom-feeder he’d been when he went inside. Malone had with him the bag containing Kelso’s tools of the trade, plus some added extras of his own. On this mission he was no longer Penn’s Terry Noonan. For his role tonight he’d taken on the mantle of De Niro’s Travis Bickle from Taxi Driver. If he was ever going to do this, it had to be now. Malone rolled down the balaclava. Pulled on latex gloves. Walked with bag in hand across the road and along the footpath. On Abbott’s porch he stood, hands squeezing the life out of the baseball bat, his heart pumping hard through his neck. This was his moment of truth just as much as it was vengeance for Jessica. While feeling like both predator and prey, he took comfort in the knowledge that he’d already carried out one successful run-through: the agg burg at the Prahran drug house. He knocked. Heard footsteps down the hallway.
‘Who the fuck is it?’
‘The police, Mr Abbott. Are you okay?’
‘What?’
‘We received a report about screams for help coming from your backyard. Could you open up, sir, so we can confirm you’re okay.’ Malone still sounded genuine as a uniform copper.
‘There’s nothing going on here,’ Abbott growled.
A lock sounded. The door began to open. Malone kicked his way in, the door splitting Abbott’s forehead: a single swipe of the baseball bat smashing teeth. Abbott never knew what hit him. Malone closed the door. Stood over his unconscious victim and raised the blood-flecked bat; its splintered fangs bared. Memories of Jessica weeping in her wheelchair flashed across Malone’s mind, along with the final picture of her lying naked—wrists cut—in a red-filled bathtub. But Malone held off. He
was not there to bash Abbott to a pulp, or kill him. He had other plans for Abbott, and needed him nothing more than unconscious and incapacitated for the plot to work. Malone dragged Abbott down the hallway.
Abbott sat propped up on a couch, his hands bound with electrical tape in front of him. Head lolled to one side and with red-busted mouth he looked sort of like The Joker, dead to the world and inflicted with rabies. With the bat Malone smashed the small TV. He upturned a table. Tore apart flea-bitten cushions. Kicked some stray shit around. He made a real mess. Content with how the room looked, he dipped into his bag and produced his black-market revolver. He pointed the roscoe at Abbott’s head. Pulled the trigger. The revolver dry fired.
‘I could have had you, cunt.’
Malone allowed himself that much immediate satisfaction before returning to the task at hand. He just wanted to get the fuck out of the place. After cleaning down the gun, Malone forced Abbott’s unconscious right hand around the grip. He delved into the gym bag. Pulled free the stolen backpack filled with full gram bags. In the kitchen, he shoved the revolver and some of the stolen drug money into the oven. The Gunston crew’s speed-filled backpack went in there as well. There had to be maybe 2500 gram bags of amphetamine in that backpack. That meant about two and a half kilos. Welcome to Paul Abbott’s drug kitchen. Before scurrying clear, Malone confirmed Abbott’s pulse and surveyed the scene. It looked just like an attempted drug rip should have looked. On his way out and back into the darkness he yelled for the neighbours’ benefit.
‘Where are the drugs, Abbott? You’re fucking dead, cunt!’
A disturbed dog barked from a nearby backyard. A porch light flicked on. McSwain Street, Clayton South, now had a drug dealer living on the block: a drug dealer who—it would soon come to appear to the relevant people—had ripped off Tommy Gunston’s drug syndicate.
Two suburbs away, still with gloves on, Malone rang Triple Zero from a public phone box. He asked for police. Put on an exasperated voice. ‘A drug dealer named Paul Abbott has just been bashed at 7 McSwain Street in Clayton South. Get the cops there now—but tell ’em to be careful. Abbott hides a gun in his oven.’
Malone hung up before the first question came. The mention of drugs and a firearm would have local blue men and women swarming. With his next phone call Malone planned to have media crews there also. Mention on AM radio of armed police swarming a residential address after dark would draw in the journos and the cameras. After certain specific details—the name Abbott and mention of the hidden drug-filled backpack, the rubbish bag containing cash and the .38 handgun—were aired in court and duly reported in the media, Paul Abbott was destined to become a man marked for death, underworld style. History had proved that no-one ripped off the Gunston crew and lived long to tell the tale—whether banged up in jail or sleeping with one eye open on the outside.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Thanks to everyone, on both sides of the law, who have trusted me enough to reveal their worlds. Special thanks to my Hardie Grant ‘handler’ senior editor Rose Michael, who always brings infectious enthusiasm and sage advice to the table. Also thanks to my editor Susan Keogh, whose wealth of knowledge knows no bounds. Gratitude to all at Hardie Grant—special mention to publishing director Fran Berry—for their combined belief and team support.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Paul Anderson spent fourteen years as a police reporter with the Herald Sun before becoming the newspaper’s chief court reporter in 2009. He has won team Walkley and Quill awards for crime coverage and most recently won a joint Quill for the Best Feature in Print. Paul is the author of five true crime books. This is his first novel.
Published in 2012 by Hardie Grant Books
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Copyright © Paul Anderson 2012
Cataloguing-in-Publication Data is available from the National Library of Australia.
The Robbers
eISBN: 978 17427 3939 7
Cover and text design by Peter Daniel
Cover image Getty Images
Although this book is partly inspired by real events, all characters portrayed are complete works of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.