‘What about now, Burns? Has Bill Simmonds still got you under his thumb?’
Burns was visibly miffed. He had an almost effeminate way of showing it, by performing a sort of shoulder-shuffle with his arms folded across his chest. ‘It was never that way. It was always a mutual arrangement.’
Somehow Shaun couldn’t see anything mutual about it. Once Simmonds had an Internal Investigations detective by the nuts it would be one-way traffic. Simmonds would have no respect, only contempt, for a man like Burns, a glorified pen-pusher and paper-shuffler who was anxious to ingratiate himself into the company of real cops, real men. Even when he was in the consorting squad he probably didn’t cut it, not really. He simply didn’t have charisma. He was a pathetic hack, constantly seeking approval.
The third wheel in The Three.
‘We’re all here right now because of Simmonds,’ Shaun said. ‘But does anyone know why?’
Wollansky shook his head.
‘Said he wanted a powwow. That’s all I was told.’
‘And when he calls and says he wants a powwow, you drop everything? Even now?’
Wollansky drained his can.
‘Shaun,’ he said, ‘what you fail to understand is that once you sign on with a man like Bill Simmonds, that’s it. It’s like joining the fucking Mafia. You don’t tender your resignation. He can get rid of you, but it doesn’t work the other way. What’s the line in that Eagles song, Hotel California? Something about checking out, but never leaving. That sums it up. And the only way you can check out is with a label tied to your big toe.’
‘And you’ve got no idea what he wanted today.’
‘Nope.’
‘What about you, Burns?’
Shaun was thinking: Simmonds called Burns last night at three. He said, ‘I’m there now’, meaning Burns knew where he was and presumably why he was there. Burns had to know about the planned abduction of Joanna Steer.
Burns’ body language told the story. Shifting his feet and jutting out his jaw in a sort of defiant pose, he said,‘Not really.’
Shaun’s right fist began to clench.
‘Not really,’ Shaun said levelly.
Burns looked everywhere in the room, except at Shaun. There it was, right there.
‘He isn’t coming, Burns,’ he said softly. ‘Understand?’
With great difficulty Burns was finally able to return Shaun’s intense, unforgiving stare.
He nodded.
‘So you’re free. You’re off the hook. His time is over.’
Wollansky looked at Shaun, clearly trying to decide if it could be true or not. But he knew Shaun was a serious guy, doing a serious job.
A man on a mission.
And Wollansky had to believe him.
‘Well, what about one for the road, Mr Burns?’ he said after a while. ‘Then I have to go to lunch. Not that I have much of an appetite now.’
Shaun checked the time. It was past noon. Two green cans were popped and placed on the bar towel.
Wollansky picked up his can and regarded it for a moment.
‘I feel we should toast something, but I don’t know what,’ he said.
‘End of an era,’ Shaun said.
‘Yeah. End of an era. Good riddance.’
They touched cans as Burns watched. Shaun knew that without Bill Simmonds calling the shots, Burns was nothing. He was a eunuch.
There came the sound of someone trying to open the front door. An elderly man was peering through the tinted glass, a hand cupped around his eye.
‘Time to open up, Nifty,’ Wollansky said. ‘You’ve got a paying customer out there.’
Shaun reached behind him, under the shirt, withdrew a pistol from his waistband and placed it casually on the bar. For a long moment no-one breathed. As soon as he saw it, Burns closed his eyes, as if in prayer. Alarm filled Wollansky’s features, but he did not move or make a sound.
‘Relax, Brent,’ he said. ‘It’s a toy.’
‘Doesn’t look like one,’ Wollansky said—relief only too evident in his voice.
He picked it up, demonstrating its harmlessness before turning it around butt-first and offering it to Burns.
‘Your property, I believe, Burns,’ he said.‘I’d lose it if I were you. Someone might think you want to pull a stunt with it.’
He lobbed the piece at Burns, who caught it awkwardly on his chest. He was visibly shocked as his mind grappled with the question of how it had ended up in Shaun McCreadie’s hands. Minds raced, but no-one said anything for a full minute as Shaun and Wollansky finished their cans. They went out together and stood on the pavement next to Wollansky’s car, which was a brand-new anthracite Jaguar XK8 convertible, with the hood down: risky in this neighbourhood, but it showed Wollansky was rich enough not to care. He had the key in his hand, but hadn’t yet de-alarmed the car. Shaun could see how anxious he was to get inside it and drive away, but he wasn’t quite ready to let him leave yet.
‘How do you think that went down, Brent?’ he said.
Wollansky studied his car key for a moment before meeting Shaun’s unrelenting green eyes. ‘You certainly make your presence felt, don’t you?’
‘You okay about it all now?’
Wollansky nodded. ‘Yeah, I’m perfectly okay about it.’
‘Understand the issues involved?’
‘Yeah, I have a grasp of that.’
‘What about Burns?’
Wollansky snorted. ‘I wouldn’t worry about Nifty Burns. All he wants is for his customers to go away so he can hit the Johnnie Walker.’
‘Yeah, I guess,’ Shaun said.‘He’s a right mess, isn’t he? A sack of crap, one might say.’
‘Has been ever since he gave the job away. That created a big hole in his life, which can only be filled with the JW, apparently.’
Shaun lit a cigarette. ‘Yeah. Listen, Brent, before you go.’
‘What?’
‘Have you had any, uh, return calls from Leon Turner? Since I was up there, I mean.’
‘Nope.’
‘He told me a lot of stuff, you know. I had my doubts for a while, thought he might’ve been running off at the mouth, big-noting himself, but I don’t think that anymore. He gave me the whole fuckin’ deal, inside-out and every which way, and he managed to touch off a few raw nerves along the way. At the end I, uh, lost it a bit and gave him a decent old pasting. We were on the beach, talking, and I just . . . lashed out and into him, old and near-dead as he was.’
‘I guess you had a lot of pent-up anger.’
‘Pent-up anger, yeah. I didn’t think I was carrying any of that,but it turns out I am.I wanted to put him down,right there on the fuckin’beach.I mean, I was fuckin’ savage. Out of control.’
Wollansky was nodding, wondering what the point was.
Shaun stepped closer, so he was right next to Wollansky’s face. They were about the same height, and stared straight into each other’s eyes. To Wollansky’s credit he didn’t waver, although at that range he didn’t have much choice.
‘I don’t want any repercussions from what went on in there today, Brent. None.’
‘You won’t get any from me, mate,’ Wollansky said straightaway.
‘Good.’
Wollansky moved towards his car.
‘There’s just one more thing,’ Shaun said. He produced the business card Wollansky had given him and put it in front of his eyes. Wollansky glanced at it before he returned his gaze to Shaun with the shadow of a cumulous cloud crossing his features.
‘Does your company have responsibility for an old container depot off Lorimer Street?’ he said softly, aware that Wollansky’s eyes were watching his lips move.‘Don’t lie to me, Brent.’
Wollansky ran his tongue around his lips. There was a dry, clicking sound coming from inside his mouth. Shaun would never have thought Smooth Wollansky was a man who knew much fear, or could ever be stood over, but he was showing signs of distress right now. It seemed material success had made him soft.
<
br /> ‘We look after some places down that way, I guess so, yeah,’ he said.
Shaun put the card in Wollansky’s shirt pocket. Then he dug out the other one, the folded-over one he’d found at the site, and held it in front of Wollansky’s concerned face.
‘See, Brent, I don’t need your card, because I already have one. And you know where I got it, don’t you?’
Wollansky swallowed and nodded.
‘This is just so you know the whole score, Brent,’ Shaun said. ‘You gave certain information to Bill Simmonds very recently that was grievously harmful, possibly even fatal, to my wellbeing. Maybe he put the screws on you, I don’t know. But where I’ve been for the last eleven years that sort of minor detail would not matter. The offender would be cut open and then strung up with his own guts. Are you with me?’
Wollansky continued nodding. The safety of that Jaguar was a million light years away.
‘Remember, Brent. I know you did that. I’ll give you a pass on it—for now. I’m prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt, because you’re not a complete and total cunt, like Simmonds and Burns. At least you have some redeeming qualities, plus I believe you are genuinely remorseful about your part in what happened to Mitch. He got himself caught up in the mangler in a way that perhaps you didn’t anticipate. Even though you should have. Lie down with sluts and you will get up with the pox. So, don’t push it, Brent. I’ve still got plenty of that pent-up anger to go around if I get one breath of grief from your general direction. Ever.’
Shaun was now so close Wollansky winced as if he thought he was going to be head-butted, and was bracing himself for the impact. But then Shaun stepped back, evenly balanced on the balls of his feet, arms loose at his sides, ready for anything. It was the classic prisoner’s stance: poised, locked and loaded.
‘You’ve got nothing to worry about from me,’ Wollansky said. ‘That’s a pledge.’
Now Shaun was nodding, measuring the sincerity of Wollansky’s words and overall demeanour. Then he reached out, squeezed his arm lightly—significantly—and released him.
‘Nice chariot, Brent. Given your current status, I don’t think you would welcome an investigation that’s gonna put you in the stand and dredge up a whole bunch of real bad shit from the old days. Am I right?’
‘Definitely,’ Wollansky said automatically.
Shaun edged slightly closer, holding the other man’s eyes. ‘Just between you and me and that bag of garbage indoors, I wouldn’t bother going anywhere near that container yard. Scratch it off the list. Nothing there for you except a hard road to a place you don’t wanna be in, believe me.’
‘What container yard?’ Wollansky said, dry-mouthed.
Shaun continued to claim his eyes close-up for a significant moment before giving him a wide smile.
‘That’s all I wanted to say, Brent. Go and have your lunch. Enjoy the rest of your life.’
He turned, walked away and was gone around the corner before Wollansky had time to climb into the open Jaguar, where he let out a long, deep breath and sat stunned for three whole minutes before he could bring himself to put the key in the ignition.
‘Holy fucking Christ,’ he said, and whistled soundlessly as he accelerated down the street.
The first thing Shaun did when he got home was to remove his shirt and have Jo cut through the brown packing tape that was wrapped twice around his body, holding the miniature cassette recorder firmly in place on his six-pack stomach. Once she had used the scissors he unpeeled the tape from around his back, then gritted his teeth before separating it from his mat of stomach hair with one painful rip. If he’d been a real professional he’d have shaved his body first, but then, what was a moment of discomfort in the overall scheme of things?
The Panasonic recorder was the smallest and most expensive one he could buy at Dick Smith’s. From it a wire— also taped over—ran up his chest, so that the miniature, acutely sensitive microphone was about level with his second-top shirt button. When he had his shirt on and buttoned up there was no sign whatever that he was wired for sound.
As he’d followed Brent Wollansky out of the Unicorn he had surreptitiously slid his hand up inside his shirt and pressed the Stop button, so that the exchange on the pavement was not recorded.
The tape ran for around forty-five minutes, and throughout the sound quality was outstanding for an amateur effort. To his layman’s ear it was as good as anything on radio. All three voices were clear, distinctive and could be readily identified, especially as Shaun had made a point of using names frequently so as to avoid any possible confusion. And yet, although there were many incriminating admissions made during the session, he realised that the tape would never be admissable evidence in any court of law. Apart from the issue of proper authorisation and authentication, there were numerous occasions when statements were made as a result of glaringly leading questions, and there were also times when Shaun had virtually put words into the speaker’s mouth. And so, even though the confessions from both Wollansky and, later, Burns, were perfectly clear and unequivocal, and damning, any defence attorney worth his fee would be able to convince a judge to throw them out for a variety of legal and technical reasons.
But that wasn’t why Shaun had made the tape.
If a time ever came when the Petrakos case was reopened, or if there was ever a more wide-ranging inquiry into police corruption in Victoria, then the tape would serve as a reference point, a useful tool for investigators running down instances of abuse of power, dereliction of duty, graft, bribery, extortion and murder. One revelation would lead to another. History showed that once a juggernaut like that got moving there was simply no stopping it. The choice was to get on board, or go under and get chewed up. Witness protection programs went into overdrive, old loyalties were forgotten as everyone got their stories straight, amazing reports hit the papers daily and, of course, lawyers had a field day. This was what had happened in the long-running Independent Commission Against Corruption in New South Wales. The lid was lifted, and the air became ripe with hot denials and counter-accusations.
Not that Shaun believed such an inquiry would ever be instituted in Victoria. As he had said in the pub, it was in no-one’s interests to dig up old bones. There was no political mileage in it for anyone.
However, it was an extra string to his bow. Although he believed neither Brent Wollansky nor Neville Burns posed any threat, it was essential in such circumstances to have extra insurance, a Plan B to fall back on. And so, he would make two copies of the tape, send one to Wollansky and another to Dave Wrigley, to be played and acted on only in the event of anything unfortunate happening to Shaun. The original he would hold on to.
The way Shaun now saw it, Bill Simmonds initially hired Bernie Walsh to recover the lost cash with a hit-and-run mission, and when he failed to deliver he roped together the old, trusted team for one last payday. Burns was on tap and had a pub, which served as a useful rendezvous and centre of operations. Must’ve been Burns on the other end of Simmonds’ phone at the container yard, confirming the arrangements. Maybe at that hour the publican was too pissed to remember what they were, and had to double-check. Shaun had little doubt the plan to abduct Jo was hatched in the Unicorn between the two old cops. Trouble was, Burns was now a lush and a has-been who couldn’t cut it any longer. He was anything but nifty. For his part, Wollansky came over as a reluctant conscript. He had a thriving business, so why would he want to get involved in this shit after all these years? The answer had to be that Simmonds strong-armed him into it. On top of that, Brick Turner had one leg in the grave, and former drug czar Morris Salisbury was nuts.
His private army of followers was no more, but Simmonds couldn’t accept it. He was living in dreamland. Now Shaun had to sweat for a while and hope he did not appear again in the real world, anywhere, anytime.
Sydney Private Eye Henry Agar Found Dead
By Louise Dhouma
Homicide and arson squad detectives are sifting through the bur
nt-out wreckage of a Milson’s Point office building in the search for clues regarding the violent death yesterday of prominent Sydney private investigator Henry Agar.
Firefighters were called to the premises at around 10 P.M. last night as the fire threatened to spread to a high-rise apartment building next door. Three units took over five hours to subdue the flames.
According to a police spokesman, the victim’s burnt remains were found in a bathroom area at the rear of the office. ‘We don’t know the full story at this stage, but we believe Mr Agar had been brutally attacked and mutilated with a sharp, heavy weapon such as an axe or a cleaver before the perpetrator set fire to the building, apparently in an attempt to cover up the murder.’
The 58-year-old Agar, a flamboyant personality and a familiar sight in the Double Bay area in his gold-plated Rolls-Royce, heavy clusters of jewellery and trademark black clothes, has long been associated with Sydney’s sleazy underbelly. When challenged by a reporter over his extravagant car, he once quipped: ‘I like to have a decent set of wheels under me.’
Supposedly under the patronage of bent detectives and leading organised crime figures, Agar’s name has been linked to serious offences going back to the 1970s, including the rape and murder of Penelope White in 1985. Although his private investigator’s licence was under threat many times, he was invariably able to beat any charges, often due to the unwillingness—or inability—of witnesses to testify against him.
Perhaps the lowest point in his turbulent life was the suicide of Cambodian Princess Soong Ran, who was pregnant to him, in 1988. The couple were to be married, but Agar cancelled out after the substantial dowry he expected was cut off by her parents, who bitterly opposed the marriage.
In more recent times Agar tried to have a movie made of his life, based on the biography by Sydney crime reporter Jack Pace. Producer Martin Braddock recalled that Agar approached him with a screenplay he had written himself.
‘It wasn’t all that bad,’ Braddock said at his office this morning. ‘We had some discussions, I suppose you’d call them. He seemed to believe he could get his movie made using tactics you might expect on a construction site. I remember he insisted the only actor who could play him was John Malkovich.’
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