by Graham Guy
Seconds later the aircraft came skimming into view. It swooped low over the greeter vehicle. The man standing beside it waved as it went over. The aircraft banked and made a low-level pass. Then it took in a wide sweep to make sure there was no danger. The camouflage car-covers had obviously done their jobs well as the aircraft headed way out to the left, banked, dropped its undercarriage and prepared to land. The gunman released the safety catch of the Barrett and put the cross hairs of the Leupold on the first of the two men to his left.
“Twenty million dollars.”
He was still saying the words when he squeezed the trigger.
Chapter 1
Will someone get that bloody phone?
The directive came from Inspector John Purseley from within the walls of his glassed-in office at the Mildura CIB.
Purseley enjoyed his job as head of detectives in the Victorian rural city, but the one thing that got up his nose more than anything were phones that rang more than once without being answered.
“Jesus Christ, there’s sixteen people in this department.”
Someone pick up that bloody phone!
McLoughlin approached his desk and looked in on Purseley, chuckling as he picked up the phone. “Hello, CIB.”
“Would Senior Sergeant Ken McLoughlin be available please?”
“This is he.”
“Hold please. Commissioner Rowland would like a word with you.”
McLoughlin caught his boss’s inquiring look. “It’s the bloody Commissioner!”
“Shit!”
“Senior Sergeant McLoughlin?”
“Commissioner… sir.”
“Don’t worry about that so much. I don’t mean to bother you…” “No bother at all, sir.”
“There’s a matter of some urgency which has arisen. Can you be on a plane first thing in the morning and be in my office by eleven?”
“Well, er, yes I can, but…”
“Don’t worry about Purseley. I’ll clear it with him. So I’ll see you in the morning then?”
“Yes sir, you will. Er, something old or something new?” “Nothing you’re currently involved with.”
McLoughlin hung up the phone.
“What did he want?” Purseley demanded.
“I have to be in his office at eleven in the morning.”
“Yeah, pig’s arse. You got bloody things to do here.” “You want to tell him that?”
“I’ll bloody tell him all right. What’s he want you for?” “Wouldn’t say. Just said he’d clear it with you himself.”
“Yeah, well he’ll get bloody told he just can’t pluck my bloody blokes willy-nilly to suit his own ends.”
McLoughlin heard the phone ring on his boss’s desk. “Tell him yourself. That’s probably him now,” he said with a grin.
Purseley lifted the receiver with a scowl.
“John. Jack Rowland.”
“Commissioner. Good morning, sir.”
“John, I’m going to need Ken McLoughlin on a special assignment for a while. He’s obviously the best this state has to offer. Don’t know why the bugger won’t come to Melbourne, but he seems to like it out there with you. Do you have any problems with that?”
“None I can think of, sir. He’s working on a few things at the moment, but I’ll spread them out a bit. Any idea how long you want him for?”
“Indeterminate. But it could be a while. It’s a big job. Even for the best in the business. But I do need for him to be here tomorrow.”
“Of course.” “Thanks for that.”
McLoughlin saw his boss put the phone down. “Well you really told him didn’t you?” he laughed.
“I could hardly sit here and say you’re not going could I? He’d have my balls in a sling. Now—you’d better get Gwen to organise your flights.”
* * *
“Come in, come in, Ken,” greeted Police Commissioner Jack Rowland, extending his hand to the senior sergeant.
McLoughlin quickly took in his surroundings. A large office over-looking parklands. A plush-pile carpeted floor. Nice landscape prints on the walls. A few framed photographs on a sideboard, obviously taken at the high points of the Commissioner’s career. A massive office desk loaded with a bank of technology.
At a glance, McLoughlin could tell that the Police Commissioner had his entire force on call at the push of a button. And it appeared there was a button for everything and everyone. The air-wing, the dog squad, homicide, the breakers, the drug squad. There seemed to be no end to the buttons. Push one and you went straight through to the very person at the top of the tree.
As it bloody should be, he said to himself.
Jack Rowland now introduced him to the other guests in the room. “The New South Wales Police Commissioner, Colin Johnson. The Victorian Minister for Police, David English and the New South Wales Minister for Police, Andrew Weeks.”
McLoughlin was momentarily intimidated by the prestigious company. He exchanged pleasantries with all three men. The door to the Commissioner’s office opened briefly and a trolley containing brewed coffee and sandwiches appeared. Jack Rowland walked to it and cast an eye over his guests.
“Please sit down, sergeant, sit down,” motioned the Commissioner. “I think for the purpose of this meeting we’ll dispense with the titles, if that’s all right with everyone.”
No-one disagreed.
The Commissioner took a sip from his coffee cup and his expression turned to one of drawn anxiety. “Ken, we’ve got a problem, which is why I’ve called for you.” He leaned over and placed a foolscap-sized folder in front of him. He flicked open the cover and asked, “Do you know this son-of-a-bitch?”
McLoughlin glanced at the photograph and offered a halfway grin. “John James McGregor-McWeasely.”
The Commissioner appeared most taken-aback. But McLoughlin wasn’t fooled. He knew Rowland would be most aware of a previous association. This was just a front for his guests.
“I’ll be buggered. You know this prick? Excuse the French sir, gentlemen,” he began, offering a glance to those seated around him, “but even from his school days, this bastard has only ever been known as the fucking Weasel.”
“And you know him?”
“Don’t tell me he’s still on the scene?”
“Which is why we’re all here for this happy little get-together.”
“I’m lost,” McLoughlin said.
“OK,” said the Commissioner. “You first. Where do you know him from?”
McLoughlin thought for a moment, knowing full well the commissioner was only playing ducks and drakes. The explanation would be for the benefit of the other men present.
“I reckon it would be about fifteen or sixteen years ago. There was a fairly major payroll robbery at Frankston. Hundred and fifty grand from memory. I was with armed robbery at the time. We turned the joint inside out, but in the end came up with a big fat zero. But there was one lead. A woman in a bar. She ended up dead. But not before she spilled her guts on this odious little prick.
“Seems he used to fix her up on the odd occasion, but because he was such an ugly little mongrel, she charged him big time for the privilege. She just came forward out of the blue and from what she said, it appeared John James McGregor-McWeasely was our man. Five hours later, she was dead. A .22 to the head.”
McLoughlin picked up the photograph, glanced at it and dropped it back on the desk.
“By Jesus, he was good. We staked out the guy’s place for three weeks, but nothing. We had nowhere to go. No known accomplices. Not on any electoral roll. Nothing on hire purchase. No credit cards. No driver’s license. No car. No bank accounts. Didn’t own anything. And that was back then.
“The prick began to haunt us. We knew he had more form than a dozen derby winners, but everything about him led to a dead end.”
Again McLoughlin glanced at the photograph.
“Ugly little prick isn’t he? And you’re telling me he’s still around?”
“We believe so,” t
he Commissioner answered.
“And that’s what this meeting’s about?”
“It is indeed.”
“So what’s he done now… or are you still on that case from a decade and a half ago?”
“Let me put it to you this way,” the Commissioner said, easing himself out from behind his desk. “Both the New South Wales Police and the Victorian Police believe this man has been creating havoc for at least fifteen years. But he only strikes every now and again. No real pattern, but when he hits, he hits big. There’s also three unsolved murders. Wealthy men. All robbed. No enemies. No clues. A point two-two to the head. His calling card. Has to be him.”
“Why not just pick him up?”
“Your story about the coffee and hamburgers. He’s still pulling the same stunts. He just seems to disappear, but it’s got to the point where he has to be stopped because of what’s going on.”
“Like what?”
“Like about a couple of million in cash at the last count. Chuck in the killings. Plus priceless bloody artworks, gold bars. Christ, you name it. He’s into some of this country’s richest and most influential people. Colin and Andrew are getting it in the neck in Sydney. David along with myself are wearing it down here. Insurance companies are screaming. The bereaved want justice. There’s nothing from ballistics. He’s got us by the tit. Quite frankly, we don’t have a single thing to go on. In fact, we don’t even know that it is him. But we all agree it has to be. But one thing we do know: Somehow, he just simply disappears off the face of the earth… and always after a major heist or murder.”
“And you want me to nail his arse?”
“In a word, yes.”
“So what makes you think I can do what the two biggest police outfits in the country can’t?”
Jack Rowland placed clenched fists onto the top of his desk. “Because there’s a fair amount of opinion going round that you’re the best in the business. But you won’t be expected to do this on your own. I’ll have my deputies pick out three top men and Colin will do the same in Sydney…”
“Hold it right there,” McLoughlin interrupted.
Jack Rowland gave him a perplexed look.
“If you want me to nab this prick, then I insist we do it my way.”
“Which is?”
“No team of six guys. Just one. And I’ll pick him myself.”
“Who?”
“Dave Bourke, my partner in Mildura.”
“Oh come on, Ken!” the Commissioner scoffed. “Dave’s a boy. Jesus! You’re gonna need six hard-nosed bloody veterans…”
“No I’m not. I’m not working with six guys I don’t know. If I do this thing, then I just want one man who would be prepared to die for me—and me for him. That’s how it works. I need to know everything about a colleague in this situation. I need to know what food he likes. When he likes to piss. When he likes to sleep. His favourite colour. His everybloodything. You can’t assign blokes to do that. Bourke knows everything about me. I know everything about him. He’s smart. He farts when he sleeps and when he gets a skin full of piss he gets pretty brave in chasing arse. But you could put a Bunsen burner under him and he’d never sell you out. He’s a shit-shot with a .38. Prefers the .45 Glock 20 semi-auto with a 15-shot mag…”
“They’re not on issue,” the Commissioner cut in.
“Matter of fact, so do I; so we’ll need two, sir,” McLoughlin continued, ignoring the Commissioner’s comment. “And apart from that, he’s a mean son-of-a-bitch when he gets behind the barrel of a four-one-six Remington Magnum…”
“They’re not on issue either,” the Commissioner again said.
“No sir, they’re not. But I think Oakdale proved they should be.”
McLoughlin’s crack about the four-one-six was lost on the other three men. It wasn’t lost on Jack Rowland.
“Just give me Dave Bourke, sir. I don’t want six blokes. Six blokes will get me dead.”
Commissioner Jack Rowland could tell McLoughlin was deadly serious. He stared hard into his eyes. Then he glanced at the other three men. Individually, each gave a nod of approval.
“So what’s the big bloody deal with these damn Glocks?”
“Unbreakable sir. You can freeze them in ice for 60 days, take them out, let them thaw and they won’t malfunction. Bury them in dirt, or mud, they still work. Drop one fully loaded into a metre of water for an hour. Haul it out. No problems. You can even run over them and it won’t hurt them. They’re practically indestructible.”
“Tell SWAS what you want. It’ll be approved by the time you call them. What else?”
“How secret is this operation?”
“There are five people in this room. That’s it. And your Mr Bourke, of course.”
“Credentials?”
Jack Rowland opened a folder to the left of the one already sitting in front of McLoughlin. “The mobile phone has been programmed with four twenty-four-hour numbers. Those numbers belong to each of us in this room. You are to call any of them at any time. I want to hear from you once a week. The credit card will get you any motor vehicle, any ticket on any aeroplane, any hotel room… in fact, whatever it is you need, the card will cover it.”
McLoughlin smiled. “Bloody hell, a week in Vegas is looking good.” Jack Rowland ignored the comment, but McLoughlin did notice the sly grins offered by the other three men.
“Now all this will be duplicated for Mr Bourke. There is also a special credit card-sized police badge signed by all four of us. That will get you into anywhere you want to go. If you have a problem, use that phone. One of us will always be available.”
The Commissioner moved across to the pot of brewed coffee. “Just nail this bastard will you Ken? Take as much time as you need. I thought we’d kick it off in ten days. That’ll give you time to tie up any loose ends in Mildura. Inform your Mr Bourke and maybe take a few days off. Go fishing or something. I’d like the two of you back in this office Monday week. We’ll call it Operation Magpie. Good old Collingwood forever, eh!”
* * *
When McLoughlin left the Commissioner’s office he walked outside to the most beautiful day. He looked across the street to the park which he saw from the office. It was a temptation too hard to resist. He checked for traffic and made his way into the highly grassed and tree-covered city sanctuary. A park bench beckoned. He propped for a few minutes, endeavouring to take in the contents of the meeting.
He couldn’t work out if he’d just been given a promotion, a sideways move, or a job nobody else would touch with a forty-foot pole. One thing he was certain of. It certainly wasn’t his lucky day. He knew full well that John James McGregor-McWeasely would prove a handful.
McGregor-McWeasely was too good for the coppers all those years ago. And, right now, the combined efforts of police in two states still came up with zip.
There’s no doubt the prick’s a master-thief. And by all accounts, a master bloody killer, too. What the hell have I let myself in for?
As he reached into his pocket for the mobile phone he’d just been given, he contemplated his own personal situation. The other side of fifty. Single. Preferred to have never married. Had figured it wasn’t the job for a married man. But he knew he was in the minority as pretty well all his colleagues had been to the altar, the divorce court, and back to the altar again for another go.
McLoughlin had to admit his life was his job, with maybe a spot of fishing here and there and a couple of good videos. There seemed little doubt that when he walked inside his house after a day on the job he was quite happy to close the door, cook a steak and watch a movie. For the next little while, the real world would be far, far away.
He called Bourke to tell him the good news.
Chapter 2
John James McGregor-McWeasely never knew his parents. There were various stories: they divorced; they died in a car accident; he was given up for adoption at birth. It appeared there were as many stories about his birth parents as there were foster parents in his youn
g life. His earliest memories as a boy were of cruelty, neglect, drunken, violent men and abused women. Being shuffled from one foster home to another. And severe headaches. No doubt the result of being belted across the face and head for daring to speak at meal times or wetting the bed.
To a young John James, violence was just a part of normal family life. He was surrounded by it. Every day. And in every foster home he was sent to.
Then there was the ridicule. He could never understand why he was the target of so much ridicule. And the cruelest of all was the nick-name school bullies had given him. John James was seldom referred to by his given names. Someone called out to him one day, referring to him as “The fucking Weasel.” It stuck and he hated it. And the girls would say, “Geez, he looks just like one doesn’t he?” It was to stay with him all his life.
He never experienced kindness, a gentle hand, a birthday celebration, or Santa dropping by for Christmas. Where other kids had new clothes, a new bike, or even a new pair of shoes, John James McGregor-McWeasely only ever received what others threw away. He found it difficult to make friends to the point that, even as he entered his teenage years, having a friend was something that only happened to someone else.
He would dearly have loved to have had a girlfriend. But he couldn’t even recall having a conversation with a girl. All girls ever did was poke fun at him. The bigger boys bullied him, school teachers victimised him and parents made sure their children went nowhere near him.
In the case of John James McGregor-McWeasely, so much abuse, violence and ridicule in his early years was to set him on a path of robbery, violence and murder. By the time he was fifteen, he had learned the hard way that he was a social misfit. Slightly built. Skinny legs. Concave chest. Pock-marked skin. Pointy, narrow nose and beady eyes that were too close together even for his liking. Jug ears, thin lips, sallow, drawn beaky face, sunken temples, and a gait that would segregate him all his life. He had been hurled against a wall as a baby, the force of which fractured and dislocated his hip. Not receiving proper medical care, the hip self-mended, which left him unable to walk normally. Consequently, he stood out like a thorn amongst roses with his short, hopping-style steps and rapid pace.
