‘No thanks to you.’
‘Hey. It was either the PEC or a royal commission and none of us—you and me included—wanted one of those. Christ, imagine the scandal …’
White turned to face the premier. Sat her down on the edge of the bed. ‘So do you know … how it’s going to be done?’
Chambers wiped some of her lipstick from his chin. ‘If I was you I’d send out a subtle warning. Tell them to start acting like boy scouts—but give it a couple of days or it could be obvious where your tip came from … And I need you to lay off shit-canning the PEC. Even more importantly, I need you to stop eroding McFarlane’s public persona.’
‘The man does a good enough job of painting himself as an inept fuckwit.’
Chambers sighed. Extended a hand and rubbed the nape of White’s neck. ‘Stop your campaign against him in the lead-up to the election, and I might be able to find a few extra dollars for the police budget—to go towards equipment and more cops on the street.’
CHAPTER 61
A rock ape of a bouncer led the battered Petrakis—with full gold accessories on show—through the Wet Velvet club. Dance music ebbed as the women worked the poles and mingled. Limping and with a backpack in hand, Petrakis drank in the scenery. Johnny Maggs stood by the end of the bar, toothpick in mouth and a near-empty tumbler of Johnny Blue in hand. Maggs stopped one of his topless drinks girls and whispered something in her ear, before gesturing Petrakis to follow him up the stairs.
In the office, Maggs and the big Greek gangster sat on opposite couches. Petrakis placed the backpack on a glass table between them. He was moving gingerly; his face sported bruises and abrasions.
‘Here you go, brother,’ the Greek said. ‘This month’s supply—a “k” of speed and four hundred disco bickies.’
‘How you feeling, amigo? Heard about what happened.’
Petrakis held up his broken left hand, in plaster cast.
‘Fucking dogs jumped me.’
‘Who do you reckon they were?’
‘The fuckin’ jacks, no doubt. Cunts from the Athena Taskforce. I gave ’em shit when they pulled me in over those cops getting shot.’
‘Why’d they snip you over that?’
‘I was at a Macca’s close by when the jacks got knocked. That’s all. It was bullshit.’
Maggs walked to a wall safe, fiddled with the combination and tossed Petrakis two thick wads of cash. The drugs—all bagged and taped—went into the safe. Deal done. A knock at the door.
‘Enter.’
The drinks waitress sauntered in with a tray: a fresh Johnny Blue for Maggs and a Daniels and Coke for Petrakis. She delivered with a smile and turned to leave.
‘Hang on.’ Petrakis plucked a fifty-dollar note from his payment package and slid it down the front of her lace panties. ‘What else do you do, sweetheart?’
About thirty minutes later Petrakis walked from the club with his money in the backpack. As he neared his BMW with keys in hand, a snake bit the back of his thick bronze neck. At least that’s what it felt like: two fangs digging deep.
The stun-gun prongs zapped their electrical charge, sending the walking meat tray’s oversized muscles into spasm. Two men caught him under the arms before he hit the bitumen and bundled him into the rear of a rusted panel van. They scooped up his dropped backpack. Belted him over the head with the butt of a handgun, as a third man drove them away. It was official: Harry Petrakis was now the most kidnapped man in Melbourne.
The big Greek regained consciousness sitting in an upright position. As his vision cleared, and his faculties resurfaced, he came to realise that he was in a world of shit: totally naked and roped to a chair in what looked like a tin garage. Tape was stuck across his mouth. It was difficult to breathe through a broken nose. In one corner sat a round, three-legged barbecue; a metal poker jutted from coals glowing under the grill. Instinctively Petrakis struggled against his bonds. Tried to break the nylon rope.
‘Wriggle all you like, but your goose is cooked, cunt-face.’
The voice came from behind him. He recognised it immediately. A foe.
‘You moved in and started undercutting me while I was banged up in jail, you dumb fucking Cypriot. Now you’re gunna pay me back.’
Vinny McCain—dressed in thongs, jeans and a woollen, long-sleeved Melbourne Demons football guernsey—walked with a VB deck chair to face his trussed nude prisoner. Sat a couple of metres in front of him. A second man walked to the barbecue and took hold of the poker, its end aglow.
‘You’ve had a nice little earn, but it’s all over now. I am Alpha and Omega—the beginning and the end … In other words, Harry, I run this town … Glen, give him a taste.’
An able-bodied Pascoe moved in, the iron poker illuminating the Greek’s dark caramel skin.
‘Whereabouts, Vin?’
‘Burn off an ear.’
Petrakis screamed against the tape. Pulled against his bindings. Felt the poker sear and melt his skin. He shat in his chair.
‘Aaaw, he’s crapped himself,’ Pascoe whinged.
McCain remained seated, unfazed by the shit-stained man with the smoking melted ear sitting begging for mercy before him. It was a nightmarish scene. Barbaric.
‘I told you this would get messy. Mark his chest.’
Pascoe seared the waxed chest. Traced the poker deep. Pretended to play noughts and crosses across the breastbone. He laughed as he waved away a waft of burning flesh.
‘Smells like chicken,’ he declared, on the verge of a vomit.
Petrakis was literally inhaling himself as he snorted through his nostrils. He struggled again. Pleaded for the torture to end.
‘See, he likes it,’ McCain urged. ‘Do his balls. And then his eyes.’
Petrakis began to weep. Pleaded for his life through his gag. Pleaded for his manhood to remain intact as the scorching iron burned across his testicles.
CHAPTER 62
The malamute caught the scent and made a beeline for the public toilet block. His owner, a Lalor local, tried to pull back on the lead but Oberon’s desire was too strong, the smell too intriguing. It was a cold bullet-grey dawn, steam rising from the mouths of the dog and its owner.
‘What is it, boy? What have you found?’
Detective Senior Constable Matt Fletcher, from Broadmeadows CIB, knelt next to the damp, mutilated, naked body dumped among bushes in the park garden. The deceased man lay face up behind the toilet block, blackened empty eye sockets open wide-eyed to the sky. The dead guy had been beaten to a pulp. Burned and tortured. Gelded. The Homicide Squad were on their way. A forensic analyst stood, having cast an eye.
‘Looks like someone didn’t like him.’
‘You reckon? How long he’s been dead?’
‘No rigor—so either fewer than six hours or more than forty-eight. I’d go with fewer than six, given a few indicators. The fixed marks of lividity don’t match with his position, so he was killed elsewhere and lay around for a while before he ended up here …’
Fletcher looked around the park for any light poles or posts. No CCTV.
‘You recognise him?’
‘I think so.’
Fletcher walked a few metres from the body. Made a call. Rogers was in the Athena office when his mobile rang.
‘Max Rogers.’
‘Max, Matt Fletcher, mate.’
‘Hello, Fletch. What’s doing, pal? How’s the action out your way?’
‘You’ll never guess who I’m looking at lying dead in a Lalor reserve right now.’
‘Surprise me.’
‘Harry Petrakis.’
‘That piece of shit … yeah, we eliminated him as a suspect.’
‘Yeah, so I read in the papers. Well someone’s eliminated him. He’s brown bread, mate. Been tortured. Balls gone. Eyes burned out.’
‘Couldn’t have happened to nicer prick.’
‘Yeah. Dangerous
game that drug game.’
‘Summary justice, some might say.’
‘You got that right. Anyway, bud, just thought you’d be interested.’
‘Yeah. Good news. Thanks Fletch.’
‘Hey, Max, good luck and godspeed with your investigation. We’re all counting on you.’
‘We’ll get ’em, pal. We’ll get ’em.’
Rogers closed the phone. Peered across to Shaw’s office.
Inside the glass enclosure, in civilian clothes for a Sunday, sat McFarlane listening intently to an update from Shaw—and detectives Brennan, Whitney and Sidwell.
Shaw was giving the summary. ‘Commissioner, this is where the evidence stands against Pat Barrett. Physical evidence: DNA on cigarette butts places him at the scene. The boot print on the inside wrist cuff of Hunter’s sleeve matches that of a print taken from the left boot Barrett was wearing when we arrested him. A .38 calibre Smith & Wesson revolver was located at his place of residence. It is the same calibre as that used to kill Gilmore and Hunter—but we can’t test for a match because the projectiles we’ve recovered are too damanged for comparison.’
Whitney liked to be precise. ‘Sir, one round was not found—a projectile entered Gilmore’s chest and exited up through his left shoulder.’
Brennan joined in. ‘Barrett admits being at the scene as part of an extortion racket. That gives him motive to shoot Gilmore and Hunter. He makes mention of the rubber masks—that’s information that has never been made public, but it could be known in criminal circles.’
Whitney was not one to relinquish the spotlight lightly. ‘Gilmore mentioned Barrett by name before he died. Barrett also has priors for violence against police.’
Sidwell felt he had to say something. ‘He shot a detective once during a raid.’
Brennan spoke for the taskforce. ‘It is a strong circumstantial case, sir.’
McFarlane returned gaze to the boss. ‘Andrew, is it strong enough?’
‘It’s strong. It’s a bloody big coincidence if he’s there on the night and he’s not our shooter.’
Whitney jumped in again. ‘This whole story about men in masks is bullshit, ’cos he knows we know he was there thanks to those cigarette butts.’
McFarlane ruminated for a second or two. ‘Run it past the director at the OPP. If he thinks there’s enough, then re-arrest Barrett and charge him. We’ll make a big deal of it in the media. The Athena Taskforce strikes back. It will be the epitome of swift justice.’
CHAPTER 63
As far as armoured van jobs went, this one was an absolute beauty. Gucciardo and Lynch had tigged it. The van itself sat where it had been ambushed by two colourfully disguised bandits, its back doors wide open where it had been breached. Forensics were dusting and photographing the truck. Caulfield and Barlow had just finished taking statements from the crew members. Shepherd arrived for the run-down.
‘Talk to me Gooch.’
‘Just under half a million in traceable and untraceable notes. Two offenders disguised as—wait for it—clowns.’
‘What, in full clown suits?’
Gooch smiled and huffed at the mental imagery.
‘Nah. Just had their faces painted. Wore wigs … One was armed with some sort of submachine gun. The other a semi-auto pistol.’
Shepherd nodded, eyebrows raised. ‘Serious clowns.’
‘Extremely fuckin’ serious, boss.’
Gooch went on. ‘Both in through the back doors—gained access with what appears to be cut keys.’ He pointed to said keys still in the door locks.
‘All three guards were ordered into the rear of the truck. Handcuffed. Garbage bags over heads. A third offender in a vehicle sat directly behind the truck to shield it from other traffic. The money was transferred into that vehicle, and off they went.’
‘Good fuckin’ job.’
‘Great fuckin’ job. Real slick. No-one hurt.’
Shepherd studied the key. ‘Clever clowns … Very clever clowns.’
‘They obviously had help.’
‘Someone on the inside’s sold their soul for a quick dollar … Who have we got out and about who’d be up for something like this?’
Gucciardo thought for a moment. ‘A couple of names spring to mind … Murphy. Ricketts and Russo …’
‘Murphy got binned in New South two weeks ago for a pub affray.’
‘Strike him off the list then …’
Lynch came up. ‘How about Valenti and Flynn?’
Shepherd weighed up the job versus the calibre of that stick-up team. ‘They’d be a chance … What about our good mate Siegfried?’
Lynch agreed. ‘He’s mad enough.’
Gucciardo wasn’t so sure. ‘This is a little above his wages, isn’t it?’
Shepherd took his pack of smokes from his duffle jacket pocket. Lit one up against the chill. ‘Never discount him … Check on any of his past associates who might have the nous to mastermind something like this. See if he was talking dirty on the telephone while banged up on remand. There was obviously a degree of planning here.’
Lynch made notes. ‘You got it, boss. Pascoe’s on the list.’
Gucciardo threw some mints in his mouth. ‘If anything, it’ll give us a chance to catch up with the cunt for old time’s sake.’
‘Pick him up when he reports on bail … In the meantime, collate the relevant serial numbers and we’ll put out a general bank alert.’
The media had circled. Shepherd strode toward the throng. Singled out Malone and took him aside in front of his rivals, who took obvious exception and tried to crowd the conversation.
‘Excuse me,’ Shepherd said with a glare, ‘but I’m talking to someone here.’
Malone’s competitors appeared not to be easily intimidated, not even by the boss of the Armed Robbery Squad.
‘There’ll be a press conference in due course,’ Shepherd told the media pack. He slipped Malone under the crime scene tape to howls of disapproval. The two sat in Shepherd’s sedan.
‘Jesus,’ he said. ‘You blokes don’t back down.’
‘It’s about self-preservation. The more information missed at a scene means the more arse-flesh chewed off back at the office.’
‘Yeah, well, when they’ve earned the right, they can come sit in here with us.’ Shepherd winked.
‘By the way,’ Malone said. ‘You might like to know that I got a call from the Herald Sun the other day. Said they’d noticed how I’d been consistently breaking good crime yarns. They offered me a spot as their two-IC crime man.’
Shepherd shook Malone’s hand.
‘Well done. ’
‘Yeah. The biggest-selling daily in the country … I start there August 9.’
‘More coin for you, I hope.’
‘A little bit more.’
‘Good on ya … Now speaking of coin, this is a big job. Can’t tell you exactly how much.’
‘Ballpark?’
‘Can’t even give you that. If the figure got out we’d have every dickhead trying to rob these vans … Let’s just say it’s the biggest cash-van grab we’ve had this year. The bandits were painted like clowns.’
‘Clowns …’
‘Yep. Face paint and wigs.’
‘Did they drive off in a little red car with a big hooter horn on it?’
‘No, but one was armed with some sort of submachine gun—that enough to get you over the line?’
‘That’ll do.’
‘Okay, now, in case you hear anything, we’re treating Glen Pascoe as a possible person of interest for this.’
‘You think he’s involved?’
‘Maybe. Maybe not. There are others more likely … . but I need you to leave Pascoe’s name out of it. I don’t want to scare him off from reporting on bail. We’re gunna pick him up and grill him.’
‘Understood.’
‘Good man … Now you’d better go and rejoin
your colleagues before they start storming the barricades. I didn’t bring my riot gear.’
Malone stepped from the car and walked back under the tape. Jealous eyes were on him, but he didn’t act the rock star or the heavy hitter. Didn’t prance around like Walkley Award winner Tony Hemmings—a loud belligerent journo with a conspiratorial mindset. Hemmings sidled in next to Malone.
‘Paying off the talent, hey,’ Hemmings said, feigning a friendly approach. ‘G’day, Tony Hemmings. Don’t think we’ve actually met before.’
Malone wasn’t having a bar of it. He’d never met the radio crime reporter, and didn’t want to encourage conversation. Hemmings pushed on.
‘So what was that all about with Shepherd?’
‘He was giving me some race tips … Maybe you can get a few from Trevor McFarlane or your mates at the PEC.’
Hemmings dropped his halo and reverted to being a cheese-eater. ‘This is why you’ll never win a Walkley—you don’t align yourself with the power-brokers. When you lie down with dogs, you wake up with fleas, Ian.’
‘I’d rather fleas than herpes, hot shot.’
CHAPTER 64
Malone sat under the eave of the old church by the skate park, the hood of his raincoat pulled low over his head. Rainwater cascaded from the gargoyles and the guttering. Tonight was the night he took receipt of his ordered handgun. Just a revolver. Nothing too fancy. Mustard Man arrived in leather jacket. Lowered an umbrella under the protection of the church roof. Sat down on the bench seat. Reached inside his jacket and handed Malone a crumpled McDonald’s bag. It felt heavier than a usual Quarter Pounder.
‘Here’s your burger.’
The drug dealer handed Malone a second, smaller bag.
‘And your fries.’
‘Fries?’
‘A burger tastes better with fries.’
Malone shoved both bags inside his coat. Handed over the agreed price—twenty-five hundred. The ammo must have been for free.
‘Jesus, it took long enough.’
‘There was a long line at the counter.’
At a distance in the rain, hood still pulled down, Malone tracked Mustard Man back down Chapel Street and along a warren of Prahran back streets. They were up towards what was commonly referred to as the ‘Broadmeadows end’ of the trendy Chapel Street district when Mustard Man walked up to a small, nondescript house—slightly overgrown with a red-brick frontage. From behind a parked 4WD, Malone watched Mustard Man knock on the steel frame of a security door. The door didn’t suit the home’s old-fashioned appeal. Looked modern and more recently installed. Inside it was a heavy-looking wooden door more suited to the house.
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