Alfie Russell was a convicted Australian petty criminal whose cell had been two along from Nash’s. Sydney detectives called on him at the request of their New Zealand counterparts to see if he did indeed know anything about Nash’s whereabouts. He reminded them that they had asked him all these questions before, when they visited him and his then girlfriend, Dorothy Cameron, shortly after Nash’s escape.
Quite coincidentally, Russell had been released from his stretch at midday on the day Nash escaped. As soon as he walked out of the doors, he was scooped up by detectives and escorted to the Wanganella for deportation and warned never to set foot on New Zealand shores again. He told the Sydney police that his trip from prison to port was far from pleasant.
Once he was aboard and sitting in the lounge, however, he had begun to relax. ‘I was just sitting there minding my own business when this bunch of Kiwi squealers come rushing in. I nearly shit myself, of course. I had no idea what they were after, but I assumed it was something to do with me. But they ignored me. When I heard they were after Nash, I just about had a fucking heart attack.’
‘Why was that, Alfie? We hear you were neighbours at the Big House. Best of pals, they reckon. Why would you have been worried if Nash was aboard with you?’
‘We were mates for a while.’ Russell shrugged. ‘But we had a bit of a blue over something stupid—the mouthpiece of a trumpet, of all the stupid bloody things—and I planted Trev on the jaw, here. Got him good, and busted it. Well, Trev wasn’t too happy, and he was telling everyone he was going to fucking shank me. I kept clear of him until I got out and then I breathed a big bloody sigh of relief. Until they told me he was aboard the Wanga-whatsit.’
‘So you didn’t help him stowaway?’
‘Fuck off! He’s the last cunt on earth I’d help. He’d kill me as soon as look at me. I tell you, I didn’t get a wink’s sleep the whole four days back to Sydney, ’cause I was afraid Trev would appear and slip me the shiv. For all I knew, he was on board and gave the cops the slip. He’s a shrewd bastard, and they reckon he’s not short of cash.’
Meanwhile in New Zealand, police caught up with Russell’s ex-girlfriend, Dorothy Cameron. She was a simple, unassuming gang-moll wannabe, and she copped to posting the letter addressed to the superintendent of Mount Eden Prison, although she refused to disclose the actual author. It could have been Russell, or it could have been Keenan. Alf Russell and David Keenan had shared a cell and become close. When Russell was deported, she accompanied him across the ditch. She lasted two months before getting sick of both Sydney and Russell, and when she returned to New Zealand she promptly became Keenan’s girlfriend.
Dorothy remembered the visit Sydney detectives had paid to Russell to talk about Nash. She confirmed that Russell had often mentioned Nash, but she had never met Nash and nor did she think Russell had any idea where he was.
While it seemed this lead, too, was going nowhere, the Sydney Detective Bureau agreed to renew enquiries and lean on known local gangsters. The tough veteran detective Fred Krahe was tasked with conducting enquiries in the criminal underworld. After an extensive two-week shakedown, Krahe reported ‘all activities on the criminal front were quiet and there were no foreign interlopers, whether they be from out of state or foreign nationals’. Krahe was revered by those on the right side of the law in 1961, and his word considered gospel. But a decade later he was accused of being at the forefront of corruption in the New South Wales Police and of having links to organised crime. Krahe was rumoured to be associated with Lennie McPherson, the ‘Mr Big’ of Sydney’s criminal underworld, and was alleged to have murdered or had a hand in murdering prostitute and police informant Shirley Brifman in 1972 and famed anti-development campaigner Juanita Neilsen in 1975.40
— — —
In the second week of July, while enquiries were being conducted in Sydney, police in New Zealand were investigating rumours that Nash had been seen loitering around the ports in Tauranga. This was plausible. The port at Tauranga was comparatively new and undeveloped, and police had previously found it to be woefully lacking in security. Their investigations into other goings-on there had indicated the organised criminal gangs were just as aware of the opportunities it presented.
Beat constables called in at all hotels in Mount Maunganui and Tauranga. The assistant accountant of the Commercial Bank of Australia in Devonport Road reported finding a £10 note with the serial 4/F 875335 amongst the banking brought in by a local tailor. The note was well used and had traces of oil on it. Mr Teasey, the tailor, recalled a man from Galatea, aged about 60, had tendered the £10 note as well as a number of £1 notes when he came in to be fitted for a new suit.
Then a teletype arrived in Auckland from Detective Armstrong at Tauranga CIB, reporting that a used-car salesman had phoned in with a ‘gut feeling’ on a recent customer. Vernard Jacobson was approached at Central Car Sales by a man who drove in with a 1956 Morris van that he wanted to sell there and then. Jacobson offered £450 and, after a moment’s thought, the man agreed. This rather surprised the salesman, as he had made the unrealistically low offer in the expectation that the two would haggle and arrive at a reasonable price. Instead, the man seemed to be anxious to get it all over and done with. When Jacobson asked if the seller was looking to buy another vehicle, he replied he was thinking of upgrading to a larger Morris van. That also seemed odd; if he wanted to upgrade, why would he accept such a low offer?
Still, they shook on the deal, Jacobson reeling slightly, as he had never had a transaction go as quickly or smoothly as this one. He wrote out a cheque, but as soon as he crossed it the man made a noise and insisted on either cash or an open cheque. Jacobson tore up the first cheque and wrote a new one. All the papers were with the van. Jacobson noticed the registration number had been recently changed and the old plates were in the boot. The man walked off, and it wasn’t until Jacobson sat down later and was going through the paperwork that he saw Mr West had only purchased the van five days earlier, for a price much higher than that for which he let it go.
Jacobson telephoned Coster Motors in Auckland and was told by the salesman, Robert Young, that Mr West had walked in off the street and bought the van there and then, without taking it for a test drive, and had paid in cash, no questions asked. Jacobson felt uneasy. He sat on it for a week, then ran it by a police acquaintance. The police officer agreed it sounded suspicious and at the end of his shift sent a brief through to Auckland.
The teletype print was ripped off and placed on the duty sergeant’s desk at 6 pm. Most of the detectives had gone home by then, and there was no one else around at 9 pm when the teletype burst into life. The sergeant read the message as it arrived, his eyes widening in astonishment. He picked up the phone.
‘Chief? Just got a teletype from Oz. You won’t believe this. Victoria have picked up a bloke they reckon is Trev Nash… Yeah, that’s right. Earlier today… Yep. They’ve banged him up pending deportation.’
— — —
Senior Detective Reginald Henderson was a quiet but colourful figure in Victoria Police. Affable and unassuming, he was noted for his photographic memory and his freakish ability to recognise faces, all of which he modestly downplayed. The records spoke for themselves: over the years, he had accumulated a number of arrests where he had clocked someone from a wanted poster he had previously seen. Whenever he was congratulated on solving a cold case in this manner, he tended to shrug it off, preferring to push younger colleagues into the limelight. In his 29 years’ service in Victoria Police, he had notched over 300 arrests. Most recently, he had been assigned to personally protect the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh during their royal visit to Australia.
On the night of Sunday 5 February 1961, Henderson was late finishing up duty at Victoria Police headquarters in Melbourne and on his way out the door when the teleprinter began to clatter and spool out paper. Out of curiosity, he tore off the wanted poster of an escaped Kiwi criminal by the name of Trevor Edward Nash who was on the lam and poss
ibly heading for Australia. Henderson gazed at the picture for a few minutes. He should have placed it in the inwards tray for distribution to any of the relevant divisions within CIB. Henderson worked the Dealers Squad, investigating stolen articles peddled through antique second-hand dealerships. This was none of his business. But no one was in the office at CIB, so Henderson folded the printout and stuck it in his coat pocket, resolving to pass it on the next day.
The next day, he forgot. The day after that, he forgot too, although he had fished the poster out every time he stuck his hand in his pocket and renewed his vow to pass it on. And even when he had handed the poster over, he kept a bit of an eye on the matter, asking the desk girl to check Nash’s status as he went by. Each time he asked, the news was the same. Nash remained at large. Eventually, Henderson put it to the back of his mind.41
Henderson typically began his working day by clocking in at Russell Street police HQ in central Melbourne and waiting for the others in his team to arrive. He found it frustrating that, by the time they hit the streets and started visiting suspect businesses, trading had been underway for half an hour and there was a good chance they’d missed prime time for peddling stolen goods. What’s more, by mid-morning many of the dealers were tied up with paperwork and legitimate customers and had no time to assist with police enquiries. So Henderson had suggested to his then partner, Detective John Davy, that every so often they forgo clocking in and instead meet at a central location in town at 8.30 am, in order to get the jump on dealers when they opened for business.
That’s what they were doing at around 8.30 am on Wednesday 12 July. Henderson and Davy had met at a prearranged spot and were heading in the direction of the antique stores. About 9.10 am, they walked along Bourke Street, where the many department stores with which the road is flanked were just beginning to buzz. Henderson idly gazed around at the people sitting at cafe tables on the pavement when he noticed a fellow calmly sipping an espresso and reading a newspaper. The patron looked odd: he had long, unusually coloured orange hair, undoubtedly cheaply dyed. And, now that Henderson looked at him, he seemed vaguely familiar. After they walked past, Henderson glanced back. It was bothering him. He knew the face, but just couldn’t place it. It wasn’t until they turned the corner with Russell Street that Henderson stopped dead.
‘What’s up, Hendo?’ Davy asked.
‘I think a man back there is wanted,’ Henderson replied. He spun on his heel and began stalking back to the cafe. ‘Just follow my lead, lad.’
They turned the corner. Henderson instantly spotted his quarry, barely 8 yards (7 metres) away and walking right towards him.
Henderson moved deliberately into his path. The man stopped and frowned. Davy moved instinctively to his left, boxing him in lest he cut and run.
Henderson had remembered the name by now. ‘Is your name Nash?’ he asked.
The man was startled. ‘Of course not,’ he spluttered. ‘No. My name is West.’
He attempted to push past them, but Henderson placed his hand on the man’s chest to stop him.
‘What is your full name?’
‘John Martin West.’
‘Rubbish!’
Henderson and Davy hustled their man into the doorway of Albert Cohen’s Music Store and handcuffed him. He offered only limp resistance. The accounts of this moment in newspaper, magazine and various books over the years have consistently reported Nash muttering, ‘You wouldn’t bloody read about it’, but police records state that his actual words were, ‘You bloody bastards.’
When he was booked at Russell Street CIB, the man persisted in claiming his name was John West. He was found to have a black leather folding wallet containing £100 in New Zealand £10 notes and £100 in £5 notes, and £93 in Australian notes. In his pocket was a Yale door key and a small key for the lock on an overnight bag. He was wearing three wristwatches—two Rolexes and an Omega—on his left wrist. In the pocket of his coat was a small transistor radio.
Henderson read the arrest warrant on the charge of escaping and said, ‘Are you the person mentioned in this warrant?’
‘Oh, I have nothing to say about the matter,’ the man claiming to be West replied.
A number of other questions were put to him, but he refused to give anything other than yes or no answers.
Henderson sent a teletype to Auckland CIB informing them he had apprehended a fellow he was certain was the fugitive Trevor Nash. While he was out of the room, ‘West’ asked Detective Davy if he could talk privately with Henderson, and asked Davy to retrieve his gear, which was stored at a boarding house in Brunswick Street in the Melbourne suburb of Fitzroy.
Henderson and Davy left Nash in the cells and drove to 33 Brunswick Street. The landlady was shocked and stated that the polite Mr West had taken a single room the previous Friday 7 July, saying he was a travelling salesman looking for a full-time gig as a barman.
The bedsit was barely larger than a jail cell. Personal effects were stored in neat and tidy order. On the dressing table was shaving gear. On a small stand near the bed was an array of clothing. The wardrobe contained more clothing, shoes, an overnight bag and an old fibre suitcase. On the bed were two pieces of newspaper, a page torn from the telephone book and a piece of writing paper. The detectives stashed everything in the bags and hightailed it back to the station.
Mr ‘West’ changed his shirt and shoes, while Henderson unlocked the overnight bag and tipped out the contents. There was a polaroid camera and two transistor radios, and under the neatly folded clothing was a handkerchief, knotted at the ends, containing a bundle of New Zealand £10 and £5 notes totalling £2400.
‘Where did you come by all this cash, Trevor?’ Henderson asked.
Mr ‘West’ simply stared at him.
‘I’m going to arrest you and charge you with unlawful possession, Nash,’ Henderson said.
Again, Mr ‘West’ did not dispute his identity. ‘I’m not guilty of that. I’ve not stolen anything in Victoria,’ he said firmly.
But his demeanour changed as he began to be subjected to the processes of arrest. He had to be forcibly fingerprinted, he refused to sign the property sheet giving police custody of his personal effects, and when he was pushed into his remand cell he violently threw the contents around the floor and smashed the table across the cell bars.
— — —
The next day, Thursday 13 July, Nash appeared in Melbourne City Court to face the charges. During the brief hearing, the fact that he was allegedly an escaped convict from New Zealand was barely touched upon, although when reading the summary of facts, Detective Henderson indicated preliminary steps had been set in motion to extradite Nash back to New Zealand.
‘How do you plead?’ the magistrate, Mr Addison, asked.
‘I don’t understand any of this. I need to speak to a lawyer,’ Nash replied.
‘If your case proceeds in this court, police will appoint you a lawyer,’ Addison said. ‘In the meantime, will you be seeking bail?’
Nash grinned. ‘Well, yes, I will,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I’ll get it.’
Everyone but the magistrate roared with laughter.
‘No, I don’t think you will, either,’ Mr Addison said sternly. ‘Bail is declined. I remand you in custody until twentieth July. Stand down.’42
The clock was ticking. Senior Detective Henderson made an application seeking a warrant to arrest Nash on charges of escaping prison so that police could file extradition proceedings.
‘We’ve reason to believe that this man is a wanted fugitive from New Zealand justice, Your Honour. We’re just waiting for the papers.’
‘That’s all well and good, detective,’ Mr Addison replied, ‘but you’re going to have to settle a few matters before I can issue a warrant. I haven’t seen anything that proves this man’s identity. You’ve laid other charges under the name John Martin West, and unless you can prove to this court that he is actually Nash then you’re not going to get home on this one.’
&nb
sp; Henderson grimaced. He could see the possibility of the case slipping through his fingers due to bureaucratic bullshit, and the prospect wasn’t a happy one.
‘It’ll take time to get proof,’ he said.
‘I will grant an extension of seven days.’ Addison nodded. ‘If you haven’t got the necessary verification of identity by then, I’m not going to be in a position to rule in your favour.’43
Henderson had been trying to keep police in New Zealand abreast of proceedings, but he had no idea who was at the other end of the teleprinter—whether it was someone as meticulous and determined to see the case prosecuted as he was. The terse responses he was receiving offered little reassurance. He was anxious his telexes were sitting in a growing pile in someone’s in-tray.
The local Melbourne newspapers reported the arrest and impending court hearing, and Henderson became a minor celebrity. The next day, two men telephoned Victoria Police independently of one another, each saying they had been approached by a man answering Nash’s description at the races. Nash, if it were he, claimed he was a seaman who had been paid off from his ship and was offering NZ£1200 in return for Australian notes to the same value, explaining this was the way seamen normally exchanged currency. Neither man was interested in the deal and turned him down. Both were happy to shitcan Nash in court. Henderson knew that this didn’t get them over the line, either, but it was a useful step forward.
— — —
Despite Henderson’s anxieties, things were moving quickly back in New Zealand. Bill Brien had barely settled in at Police College when he was recalled to Auckland. He was made de facto lead on the case and sat by the teletype receiving Henderson’s frequent progress reports. It was after 8 pm when a teletype outlined Henderson’s identification quandary. There was a new detective chief inspector who had not been on the scene when the Nash case had passed through the office, but he was canny enough to know the score. Brien filled him in and he made an immediate decision.
The Great New Zealand Robbery Page 19