The First Cut

by Sisters in Crime Australia

  From there on in, my life began to unravel.

  I drag myself off my bed and pull on my flannel pyjamas. My mirror mocks me. Who's the fairest of them all? Not me. Not right now. Pale skin and dull eyes. Hair that hangs like a tattered curtain past my shoulders.

  There was an internal investigation into our disastrous operation. My husband chose that moment to leave me a blunt goodbye note. One morning in the shower I started crying and couldn't stop. The Force agreed to give me a year's leave without pay.

  So here I am: 37 years of age, living with my mum, working part time in a pub. In three weeks' time, my year's leave without pay will be over and I'll have to decide my future. Stay in blue, or move on. Right now I can't even decide what to have for dinner.

  On my days off, I like to sit in other people's pubs. I am sitting in possibly the second grungiest pub in Melbourne. There are two old drunks at the bar and the barmaid is studying the room like she is empress of all she surveys. A couple of old timers are sitting at a nearby table, huddled over the form guide. A battered transistor radio sits between them, squawking like a parrot. I occupy my time by doing the crossword in one of the daily newspapers.

  Halfway through the crossword, the door swings open. I look up. It's Slasher. What is going on? For the past week, half of Victoria Police had been unable to find neither hide nor hair of this man and I seem to have Slasher magnet on me. He is not alone. My legs twitch, ready to turn and run, and I can feel my heart flip into a calypso beat. I grip my pen until my knuckle gleam white and will myself to stay put.

  Slasher and his companion sit at the table close to mine. Slasher sits with his back to me. The other man goes to the bar and asks for two scotch and cokes. As he walks back, I give him a surreptitious glance from under my eyelashes. He is in his mid-thirties and has the bloated features of a man who has enjoyed the high life. He's not bad-looking; I can tell he was once handsome. Now he hides his thickening waist underneath a baggy floral shirt. He seems familiar. I go through my mental files and can't find a match. I definitely know him from the past.

  Slasher and the younger man talk with their heads together. Their voices low and urgent. I fix my eyes on the crossword and nibble the end of my pen, while my ears strain to pick up crumbs of the conversation. I pretend to scribble letters into the empty boxes. It is difficult to hear anything but I catch a few words. Nothing that makes any sense. My head aches from trying to listen and trying to remember from where I know the other man.

  An old timer has a win and whoops with pleasure. He proclaims that all drinks are on the house. Last of the big spenders.

  Slasher and his friend finish their drinks and seem to come to an agreement. They stand and head for the door. A glint of metal catches my eye and I notice a gold object dangling from the belt of the younger man. I recognise it as an old membership medallion from a nightclub that was popular in the late nineties. A light bulb goes off and I realise who the younger man is. And, coupled with the handful of words I picked up from their conversation, I have an idea of what is going on.

  The younger man is Mark O'Toole. Back in '97, he used to be a regular feature in the doorway of a number of King Street nightclubs. There was always rumour and innuendo that, apart from providing security, he was involved in criminal activity but because he was always on the periphery of the action, the police ignored him to chase the bigger fish. I'd heard ages ago that Mark now was a part owner in a couple of clubs in Melbourne. A leap from the periphery to the nucleus.

  I sit back in my chair and ask myself what I think a methamphetamine dealer and a nightclub owner would be up to. I answer myself.

  Fake Ecstasy.

  It hadn't taken the methamphetamine manufacturers in Victoria long to cash in on the popularity of Ecstasy. Since the late nineties, the market had been flooded with fakes made with methamphetamine and a mixture of other powdered substances like paracetamol and seasickness tablets. It appears that Slasher is now busy staking a claim in the business.

  After Slasher has gone, I pull out my mobile phone and creep off to the toilets. In one of the grimy cubicles, I ring Johnno. I sigh as I listen to his voicemail message.

  'I'm at the Pier Hotel. Slasher was just here. He had someone else with him. Remember Mark O'Toole? No prizes for guessing what they're up to. Anyway, I heard a couple of things. They're meeting tonight at 10 pm. Unfortunately all I heard about the meeting place was that it's a car park behind a shed. Give me a call when you can.'

  I come home to an empty flat. Mum is at ballroom dancing. I heat up a piece of two-day-old barbeque chicken pizza in the microwave, before flopping onto the couch. My head throbs. I peek at my wrist watch. The nightly news will be starting in 10 minutes. I reach for the remote control and switch on the television. Light and colour flicker before my tired eyes. Loud voices exhort me to buy, buy, buy.

  The news starts, although I barely register what's going on. Something about local politicians brawling over taxes. News, déjà vu. The faces change but the script is always the same. The news finishes with the usual good news story. Smiling faces and positive chat. An exhibition of some sort at the Melbourne Exhibition Centre. The camera pans along the rectangular grey building with its sloping roof. A pinprick of interest wakes me from my stupor. The Exhibition Centre was commissioned by the previous State Government, by the previous Premier, Jeff Kennett. At the time it copped the nickname 'Jeff's Shed' and it has stuck.

  I go out to my car and bring back the Melways road map. The patchwork of black and blue lines shows me that there is a car park behind the Exhibition Centre, close to the Yarra River. The Exhibition Centre is also not far away from the nightclub district in King Street. I smile in amusement to note that the car park is also across the river from Victoria Police headquarters. I close the Melways and lean back on the couch. So, do I take this seriously? I imagine the tone of Johnno's voice after telling him my hunch. Definitely not worth the humiliation. I have two options. I can ignore my hunch and settle in for the evening. Or I can do what I'm trained to do.

  For the next hour, I trace figure eights around the furniture. Turning things over and over. Tossing a mental coin. Best two of three. Get a hold of yourself, I say, finally. Just go down there and have a look. Much to gain and nothing to lose. I change out of my sweat-stained T-shirt and into a black long-sleeved top. I put on sturdy work boots and tie my hair back. I have no gun so I arm myself with my mobile phone and a shaky attitude.

  At nine o'clock, I leave a note for Mum on the kitchen bench. Don't wait up. Out chasing drug dealers.

  I start the car and drive off without waiting for the engine to warm up. If I give myself too much time to think now, I'll just go back inside.

  The Monday night streets of Melbourne are quiet and full of loitering taxis. I park the car in Whiteman Street, close to where the St Kilda and Port Melbourne trams turn off Clarendon Street. Over the road, the casino burns as bright as ever. The Exhibition Centre, however, is empty and dark. Nothing to exhibit. Nothing to attract attention.

  I walk around the back of the Centre, through the shadows and the back car park. Past additional exhibition spaces to the main car park. To where I think Slasher's meeting will take place.

  The car park is expansive and very open, with little foliage to soften its edges. Ten or so cars are dotted about in random parking spaces. I look around for somewhere to hide and come up empty. There are a couple of unoccupied yellow tollbooths but they are too far away from likely meeting spots. On the far side of the car park, running parallel to the Yarra River, is a long line of grey and white buildings. They are business spaces, mainly for event and catering companies. I notice that each business has covered steps leading up to their front doors. Maybe I can wedge myself somewhere behind those stairs. The car park is fairly well lit but in one corner, close to the grey and white buildings, there were patches of darkness caused by broken lights. Not a bad place for a clandestine meeting.

  A quick examination reveals the space under on
e set of stairs is covered by worn palings in need of repair and a fresh coat of paint. I wiggle a couple of palings loose and squeeze myself into the space under the steps. It's 9.45 and I am squatting amongst spider webs, used condoms and God knows what else. Empress of all I survey. I peer between the timber slats and have a view of most of the car park.

  A set of headlights illuminates the car park and I hear the dull rumble of a big, old car. Sure enough, a Ford Fairlane sidles up close to where I am hiding. The driver pauses for a moment before rolling the car into a parking spot. The door cracks open and the interior light catches Slasher's face. My eyes widen in disbelief. My hunch has paid off. Slasher lights up a cigarette and leans against the bonnet of his car. Arms crossed, he waits.

  I edge back from my viewing position and pull out my mobile phone. I dial Johnno's number with trembling fingers. Again, I get his voice mail. Irritated, I whisper a terse message, telling him where I am and urging him to get himself down here.

  Slasher sits on the bonnet, smoking and waiting. Ten slow minutes meander past and I am developing a cramp in my left calf. I have forgotten just how boring surveillance can be.

  A navy blue Commodore slips in alongside Slasher's car. Mark O'Toole parks and emerges from the car, a briefcase in his hand. He nods to Slasher and sits beside him on the Fairlane's bonnet. They exchange a few words and lapse into silence. I frown and wonder if they are waiting for someone else. A few more minutes lumber past. Another car appears and parks beside the Commodore. The driver gets out and I hold my breath as I wait to see who it is. I gasp and tumble backwards, landing in the dirt and dust with a thud. It's Mick. He opens the boot of his car and pulls out a large leather suitcase. What the hell is going on?

  From where I sit, I can still see the action. I watch, trying to interpret what I'm seeing. I wonder if Mick is undercover but he is dressed as he normally would be as a detective. There is no attempt to behave like anyone other than who he is. Maybe he is trying to get them to think he is a copper gone bad? The more I watch, the more I am confused. And frightened. Mick is over there being Mick. I remember him not being able to meet my eyes and shake my head in disbelief.

  Another thought settles uncomfortably in the pit of my stomach. How much of this does Johnno know about? When we were working together, working as partners, Johnno and I told each other everything. And what wasn't shared, we'd find out about anyway. I don't want to believe he is involved. But his unanswered mobile phone nags at me. He knows where I am and what I've seen. I have to get out of here. I don't want to find out where Johnno's heart truly lies.

  The three men head my way. I back into a corner, trying to disappear into the black. Hoping one of them doesn't look between the cracks of the steps. They thump over my head like a stampede of cattle and open the door. Fear now drives me, picking at my skin like vultures. I shove aside the wooden palings and throw myself out into the car park. I start to run.

  'Hey, what do you think you're doing?'

  I turn in fright. Mick stands at the top of the steps, unlit cigarette in one hand and a look of complete surprise on his face.

  'Shit,' he says when he realises who I am. He pulls out a gun and shouts to Slasher and O'Toole. I duck between the cars, desperately searching for the quickest way to escape. Crouching near the driver's door of O'Toole's car, I notice that he has left his keys in the ignition.

  Keeping low, I open the door and crawl into the car. The window above me shatters and I yelp. Glass confetti covers my head and shoulders, and grinds into the backs of my legs as I sit on the driver's seat. Fingers wet with sweat, I start the engine. Bullets crack the bonnet and roof of the car. Mick clatters down the steps, yelling and waving his gun. I slam the car into reverse and hit the accelerator. I reverse and keep reversing, keeping my head down and hoping I won't back into anything. I peer over the dashboard. The three men are diving into Mick's car. I do a backwards u-turn and put the car into drive… and drive headlong at two police cars, lights flashing and sirens screaming. They swerve around me and skid to a halt. Behind them is an unmarked police car, Johnno at the helm.

  'Over there, over there,' I shout, pointing to Mick's car, which by now is heading in the opposite direction. The police cars race away in a cloud of dust.

  Johnno jumps out of his car. 'You okay?' he asks.

  I catch my breath and, to my surprise, smile. I feel good. Really good. I smile again. 'That was a rush.'

  Johnno gives me a hug.

  I ask him, 'Did you know about Mick?'

  He nods, 'Yeah, we did. I was busy installing listening devices in his house when I got your voice message.'

  I grimace, 'Speed things up, did I?'

  Johnno laughs and puts his arm around me, leading me to his car.

  'You've saved me a lot of boring hours of surveillance.'

  Don't I know it.

  It is 11 o'clock in the morning and I am Empress of all I survey. A squad room full of noisy detectives and a desk loaded with files. Someone else will have to pull Percy and Gil's next beer.

  FROTH AND TROUBLE OR SUN HILL BLUES

  Margaret Pollock

  There was tension at the station

  For the word had got around

  That soon their harsh grey world would turn to soap.

  Could be Rinso, Lux or Omo;

  It was difficult to say,

  But industrial strength with perfume was the hope.

  'I've been busy nabbing villains

  For twenty years or more,'

  Said June to colleague Debbie with a frown.

  'If they think I'm going to prance around in flimsy negligees

  They should realise that I will turn them down.

  It's not that I've got stretch marks,

  Though there might be one or two,

  Or even that my boobs are not still pert;

  But I've been trained to tackle toe-rags, toms and pimps and narks

  Not to simper, smile and sob and flounce and flirt.'

  'It's not all bad,' said Reggie,

  Slicking back his hair

  With Brylcream which was past its use-by-date.

  'If romance is on the menu their leading man is here.

  I'll willingly surrender to my fate.'

  'It's not you they'd choose,' said Chandler,

  'I'm sure that's not the deal.

  I've got charm. I've got charisma. I'll advance.

  Although some might think me ruthless

  I've got loads of sex appeal;

  I'll be first to get inside the ladies' pants'.

  But the rest were not so cocky.

  Des and Jim and Dave

  All muttered to each other over beer.

  While Cass and June and Polly

  Did more than rant and rave:

  They made plans when no one else was there to hear.

  Polly was most strident,

  Though usually slow to rile

  She said she couldn't take it any more.

  'I've worked night shift, I've worked day shift, even double shifts on Sundies

  And now the bleedin' scumbags want to show me in me undies.

  I'll fight these new scriptwriters, tooth and claw.'

  Then Cassie nodded sagely

  When June said with a smile,

  'They think they're smart but we're much smarter still.

  If we three stick together we'll sail through stormy weather;

  We're wily, we three women of Sun Hill.

  The writers think we're dopey,

  That we'll let them turn us soapy,

  But we'll soon prove that all of them are duds.

  We'll not let some faceless hacks

  Rewrite our world behind our backs,

  There's no way they're going to drown our souls in suds.

  We fight crime for them all day!

  They've got no right to watch us play,

  So we'll nip their grotesque plot lines in the bud.'

  'If they want to send me clubbing


  Then those writers need a drubbing,'

  Said Cass, 'I don't want things to change.

  'Though some might think it boring, I spend most evenings snoring

  Or wash my hair. Most viewers do the same.

  My professional life's so crushing, always dashing always rushing,

  Do they think I only treat it as a game?'

  'I heard they've got some lurk of me finding love at work,'

  Said June. 'It really is a joke.

  There's something badly missing if they think they'll get me kissing

  Jim, Reg or Matt or any other bloke

  Who works here at the station. We must use imagination

  And make damn sure their poxy scheme goes broke.'

  So, while the men were getting pissed

  The women made a list

  Of crimes and crims and scams and cons they'd known.

  Of successful schemes and failures, axe murderers and blackmailers,

  Of people they could contact on the phone.

  Although some were doing gravy or had even joined the navy

  They worked all night until their list had grown.

  'While the blokes are at the pub

  We'll appropriate some bugs

  From CID,' said Poll, as dawn drew near.

  'While those writer hacks are eating

  At tomorrow's lunch time meeting,

  Everything they talk about, we'll hear.'

  So, while the writers munched on sangers

  Drafting outlines for cliff-hangers

  The coppers listened closely to each word.

  They learned the writers' names -

  Geoffrey, Claire and James -

  And shuddered as the plots got more absurd.

  'Let's go,' said June. 'We'll tail them

  And after that we'll nail them.

  We'll stitch them up then make them come undone.

  If they've secrets we'll detect it, and when they least it expect it

  We'll make these scabby scribblers turn and run'.

  Now, Geoffrey's case was easy

  For his private life was sleazy