The Robbers

by Paul Anderson

  ‘Dicko, it’s Raff.’

  Mustard Man stood patiently, looking around. Heard movement inside. Turned and handed a wad of cash to the bloke who answered the door.

  CHAPTER 65

  Police stations were to Glen Pascoe what churches were to Satanists. The buildings adorned with their oversized badges complete with French motto seemed to burn his skin and make him want to spit venom, projectile spew all over the jacks while babbling in ancient Latin tongue. For Pascoe, reporting on bail was a current necessary evil. The watch-house keeper, a male senior constable, slammed the bail book on the counter. Handed Pascoe the pen on a string. ‘You behaving yourself?’

  ‘Like a saint, Senior. Like a fucking saint.’

  Lynch was waiting for Pascoe as he hobbled down the cop shop’s front stairs. ‘We’re gunna do this nice and peaceful today. Detective Jack Lynch. I need you to come with me.’

  Pascoe didn’t know Lynch. Wrongly assumed he must have been from Homicide. Dropping the paralysis charade, Pascoe took off like a shot, the invisible blood of Harry Petrakis still on his hands. Lynch took up the chase. A squad car appeared and skidded to a stop on the roadway. Big Gucciardo was out with gun drawn.

  ‘Now, why would you be running?’ Lynch cuffed Pascoe.

  ‘He’s obviously been up to no good, Mr Gucciardo.’

  Lynch lifted the wretch. ‘As honest as the day is long, hey, Siegfried?’

  Lynch twisted the cuffs. Pascoe screamed. ‘All right! All right. I’ll give you the main man: the bloke who calls the shots.’

  To Gucciardo and Lynch, that rang as a preliminary confession to involvement in the half-million-dollar money van heist.

  Lynch threw Pascoe into the rear seat. Got right up in his face. ‘I’ll be honest with you. I never thought you’d have what it takes to do a job like that—with such a special weapon.’

  To Pascoe, that rang as a veiled threat that these detectives knew he’d played a role in the Petrakis torture murder.

  By the end of the day someone was going to be bitterly disappointed.

  CHAPTER 66

  Pascoe couldn’t quite work out why he was being marched into the Armed Robbery Squad office. This was all about a murder, wasn’t it? What the fuck were these Armed Robbery cunts up to?

  ‘What are you fitting me up for, you dogs?’ he shouted as the glass doors shut behind him.

  Gucciardo gave him an almighty slap to the back of the head. Pascoe began to struggle. ‘I was reporting on bail! What is this?’

  Lynch twisted Pascoe’s cuffs again and frogmarched him past Shepherd.

  ‘We’ve got you this time, dickhead,’ Shepherd threatened. ‘Who’s the cockhead you’re working with?’

  Pascoe was now more confused than before. This was about Petrakis—right? About him and McCain killing Harry Petrakis? The jacks must have found some evidence linking him to the torture murder. So why wasn’t he now in the Homicide office? Pascoe decided to hold his tongue. Swallow his venom, for now.

  ‘Dunno what you’re on about Shepherd. Got no idea.’

  Gucciardo gave him another open hander. ‘Show the boss some respect.’

  ‘Put him in Two, Gooch.’

  With the flat of his foot Gucciardo pushed Siegfried into Interview Room Two.

  Two screens sat alive and receiving black-and-white pictures in the PEC surveillance room. Investigator Brian Dreyfuss, head in a book, caught movement on the screen marked Room 2. He picked up the phone. ‘Stuart, you’d better get down here. Looks like it’s show time.’

  Gucciardo knocked Pascoe hard against the wall before dumping him in the seat. Lynch undid the silver bracelets. Whipped Pascoe’s head with the cuffs on the way past. Gucciardo leaned in, hands flat on the table.

  ‘No more bail for you, shithead.’

  Gooch raised his right paw in backhand fashion. Held it, poised to swat. Pascoe turned his cheek, fully expecting to feel the wrath. See white for a second or two. But it never came. Gooch lowered his hand. ‘Who’s the other bloke? Who is he? The one you mentioned when we grabbed you?’

  Lynch leaned in also. ‘Pissing in your pants this time around, hey? Like we’ve always said—you’re a weak dog without a gun in your hand …’

  The interview room door opened. Pascoe looked up. It was Shepherd with a can of Fanta. ‘Everything going okay, Glen?’

  Shepherd placed the can on the table.

  ‘Keep your dogs off me, Shepherd. Keep ’em off me.’

  ‘They’re not my dogs. Everything’s going to be fine as long as you act like a gentleman.’

  Shepherd addressed his two detectives. ‘Run the interview.’

  Lynch started the recording. ‘This is a recorded interview between Detective Senior Constable Jack Lynch and Glen Keith Pascoe at the Armed Robbery Squad office.’

  He read the date and time aloud. ‘Also present is Detective Sergeant Marcus Gucciardo.’

  ‘Present.’

  Pascoe piped up. ‘Get me a lawyer. I want a fucking lawyer.’

  Lynch barely paused. ‘I take note that you have asked for a solicitor. I shall just complete the formal process and then make steps to accommodate your request. I have to inform you that you are not obliged to say or do anything, but anything you say or do may be given in evidence … What is your full name?’

  ‘No fucking comment.’

  ‘Your date of birth?’

  ‘No fucking comment.’

  ‘Are you an Australian citizen?’

  ‘No fucking comment.’

  ‘Mr Pascoe, I intend to interview you in relation to your alleged involvement in the armed robbery of some 474,450 dollars cash—’

  ‘Hey?’ Pascoe sat forward; ears pricked.

  ‘I intend to interview you in relation to your alleged involvement in the armed robbery of some 474,450 dollars cash from an armoured van in Wellingham Road, North Melbourne—’

  Pascoe rocked back on his chair. Leaned forward with elbows on table and laughed through hands on face. ‘You fuckwits wouldn’t know your arses from your elbows.’ He dropped his palms. Slammed them flat on the table. Siegfried held the upper hand now.

  ‘You think I had somethin’ to do with that score?’

  ‘So you are in fact denying any involvement in that armed robbery?’ Gucciardo asked.

  ‘Damn right I’m denying it.’

  ‘Okay, that’s your prerogative. We might just suspend the interview and make some inquiries about a solicitor for Mr Pascoe. The time is now 4.19 p.m.’

  Lynch stopped the recording. ‘What was all that shit before about giving us the main man?’ he demanded. ‘The bloke who calls the shots?’

  ‘Dunno what the fuck you’re on about … but hey, here’s one for ya. What do you call two dead Armed Robbery Squad detectives?’

  Pascoe paused for effect.

  ‘A good start … Sie starben wie schwache Hunde!’

  Lynch reacted. Leaping across the table, he wrenched Siegfried from his chair. Took him to the floor and straddled him: left hand around throat and right fist punching face.

  ‘Fuck you, you Nazi cunt! Fuck you!’

  In his office, Shepherd turned on his CD player. Carl Orff’s O Fortuna sang loud. Shepherd made it sing even louder.

  Gucciardo tore his junior detective from atop the prisoner. Eased him back with a flat palm. Lynch’s heart was pounding hard and fast, teeth crunching as he champed to rip Pascoe’s head off and shit down his throat.

  ‘There’s a better way, Jack. No marks.’

  Lynch took several deep breaths. Tried to smother the rage in a corner. Let Gucciardo take control.

  ‘So you want to play hard ball, shit for brains.’ Gooch pulled a phone book from under the table. ‘I believe you requested a lawyer. Here’s the number.’

  Gucciardo unleashed mighty swipes. Forehand. Backhand. Forehand. Pascoe toppled backwards. Lynch was back in now, dropping a knee.

  ‘You come into our office—the Armed Robbery Squad office—and
disrespect two of my colleagues who were shot? I was there when one of them died, you fucking germ.’

  Davis joined Dreyfuss in the surveillance room. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘These two detectives are really working this suspect over. He taunted them about their two murdered colleagues. Said two dead Armed Robbery Squad detectives was a good start.’

  Davis watched the continuing interview room assault—voyeuristic fascination rushing through his head. And then there was a sense of something else. It wasn’t the flush of elation he’d expected to feel. It was more like … melancholy. A sadness. At that moment, while viewing unbridled ferocity borne from rage and loyalty, he realised what sort of a man he was. Realised he was the polar opposite of men like detectives Jack Lynch and Marcus Gucciardo and the rest of the wild bunch who called themselves The Robbers. While watching the brutality, Davis felt somewhat more inferior than he ever had before. How would he have reacted if a suspect had goaded him about dead colleagues? Murdered friends? He shelved the answer in a place in his mind where it could only gather dust. This was his job. His lot in life. He truly believed that the end justified his covert, stealthy means. Like politicians and double agents, he never expected to win any popularity contests.

  Lynch hoisted Pascoe against a wall. Punched him in the ribs and sternum. Head butted him. Let Pascoe fall.

  Dreyfuss turned to Davis.

  ‘Shouldn’t we make a call and stop this now? Don’t we have a duty of care to that prisoner?’

  Davis nodded. Reached for a desk phone. Looked back at the screen. Decided not to dial. The assault looked like it had ended.

  The two detectives lifted Pascoe and dumped him back in his seat. The neo-Nazi reached down to the floor and picked up his knocked can of Fanta.

  ‘We’re sick to fucking death of you,’ Gucciardo told him. ‘You show the community no respect. You show us no respect.’

  ‘We’re the fucking Robbers!’ Lynch threw in for good measure. ‘We’re the fucking law!’

  Nose bleeding, Pascoe tapped the top of his can. Fizzed it open.

  ‘Sag jemanden, wer kümmert sich, Hund!’

  Lynch’s blood was up. ‘What the fuck did you just say?’

  ‘I said, “Tell someone who cares, you dog.’’’

  CHAPTER 67

  Looking more like a carrion cop groaning for burial than a dog of war baying for the slip, Shepherd sat mentally spent at his and White’s favourite city bar. His spirit was at low tide. A dusk beer sat in front of him. He sucked down a cigarette. Still hadn’t heard from Chelsea. Shepherd was now convinced that his daughter had officially wiped him; succumbed to her mother’s propaganda campaign and given him the one-finger salute. Shepherd still adored Chelsea and knew that, maybe up until the age of fifteen, she’d loved him. He’d slowly lost her after that. It was hurtful and frustrating not being there for her when she probably needed a dad along the journey, but she’d understood what his job had demanded of him. Hadn’t she? Understood that he and her mother had been destined to fall out of love; an eventual split inevitable? That Lorraine had found companionship with another man—a once close and trusted friend of his? Sure, Shepherd knew he’d strayed once or twice but those indiscretions hadn’t been full-blown affairs. And it wasn’t that he was crushed by Lorraine’s infidelity. No. What pissed Shepherd off was Lorraine’s choice of man; and the fact that bloke—fellow squad mate Morris Farley—had been rooting her behind his back. Most frustrating for Shepherd now was that he couldn’t book an appointment to speak to his daughter. Ask her questions. Rebut Lorraine’s version. Just bloody well talk to Chelsea and be told that her life was going okay. White appeared through the doorway shaking off his overcoat.

  ‘More rain,’ he said, gesturing for a pint of Guinness. ‘G’day, comrade.’

  ‘Hello, pal.’

  ‘How’s business?’

  ‘Shithouse. Thanks for asking.’

  White’s Guinness was delivered. He broke its creamy seal.

  ‘We had a usual suspect in today who pushed a couple of the men too far,’ Shepherd confided. ‘He came to some grief.’

  ‘The tiles in the men’s toilet still a bit slippery, hey?’

  ‘This bloke’s as hard as a cat’s head. He’s enjoyed our hospitality in the past and never cried about it later.’

  ‘How did he leave, this usual suspect? On two legs or four wheels?’

  ‘He walked out.’

  ‘Good, because the word is that the PEC have got a hard-on for you guys. The Robbers are in the gun, comrade. Tell your blokes to pull their punches for a while. Don’t give those rat-arse bastards anything they can use against you.’

  Shepherd, sitting up a bit now, needed more. ‘Have you heard anything specific?’

  White shook his head. He had to be careful how much he divulged. ‘The word is there’s a rat in the ranks.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Someone’s providing the PEC with info about you guys. Someone close. Any thoughts?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be any of mine.’

  ‘What about an outsider?’

  ‘Who are you thinking?’

  ‘That journo I’ve seen hanging around your blokes.’

  ‘Ian Malone?’

  ‘Yeah. Ian Malone.’

  ‘Jesus, Vic. He’s been good to us. No-one’s smelled anything bad about him so far.’

  ‘He’s the most obvious choice, Ken. The timing’s too much of a coincidence. Who else could it be?’

  Shepherd pondered over his pot glass. Put two and two together. The obvious answer was four, but Shepherd couldn’t accept it.

  ‘I don’t get that feeling,’ he said. ‘I’m gunna give him the benefit, at this stage. But I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Your call, but presume the PEC have got your office phones off—maybe even your homes. Doing reverse CCR checks.’

  ‘Arseholes.’

  ‘Ken, I’m going out on a limb telling you this. Put the word around on the quiet. The PEC are looking for something, or somebody, they can use to burn you down.’

  In a sheltered tram depot on St Kilda Road, a wet and hurting Pascoe sat spitting blood. Heavy rain had ridden in on the arse end of dusk and, after being pushed unceremoniously from the St Kilda Road police complex, Pascoe had scurried for cover. His face throbbing, he dredged up a gob of bloodied mucus. Spat it upwind. An unmarked sedan appeared on the tracks and drove up next to the depot. Here we go, Pascoe thought. More fun and fuckin’ games. Two men in suits and grey overcoats emerged from the vehicle. More jacks, no doubt.

  ‘Glen Keith Pascoe.’ The voice was Scottish.

  ‘Piss off.’

  ‘Glen?’

  ‘Who the fuck are you? Transit police?’

  Davis smiled across at Dreyfuss. Shook his head back at Pascoe. ‘Not quite. We’re from the Police Ethics Commission. We investigate police misconduct.’

  Dreyfuss came to the point. ‘You wouldn’t happen to have any complaints regarding any recent handling by police, would you?’

  ‘Who are youse?’

  Davis repeated himself calmly. ‘We’re from the Police Ethics Commission—a government body that investigates unlawful police activity.’

  Dreyfuss boiled it down. ‘We’re the police watchdog. We look at police misconduct. Corruption. Bashings of suspects in interview rooms …’

  Pascoe spat more blood for effect. ‘What’d be in it for me?’

  Davis sat down beside Pascoe. Dreyfuss took the other side.

  ‘How would you like to be the star witness who brought down the Armed Robbery Squad? Ended them for good.’

  Pascoe looked around for ‘Crooks on Candid Camera’.

  ‘You’re shitting me, right? Is this some kind of fit-up?’

  ‘We’re the good guys, Glen,’ Davis went on. ‘We have secret film of two Armed Robbery Squad detectives bashing you. If you come on board and make a statement of complaint—and back it up in any court hearing—your identity will be
publicly suppressed.’

  ‘For your protection, of course,’ added Dreyfuss.

  ‘For real?’

  ‘For real. And there’s also the promise of favourable character evidence in any of your upcoming court hearings.’

  Davis rested his hand on Pascoe’s shoulder. ‘It’s a brave new world, Glen, and we want you to be a part of it. Help us, and we’ll help you.’

  CHAPTER 68

  From their vantage points on the kitchen wall, the women ripped from the pages of Penthouse magazine watched Pat Barrett working on a jigsaw puzzle. Sitting in the glow of an electric heater in his cramped unit, Barrett was patiently piecing the picture together. He was finding the experience therapeutic. He didn’t even flinch when his door came crashing in, just sat with jigsaw piece in hand as the SOG team stormed the shoebox. He fitted the puzzle piece knowing full well the soggies had a bead. Raising his hands, he dropped to the cold linoleum.

  ‘Big mistake, fellas.’

  The SOG men forced Barrett down face first, spilling the table and with it the jigsaw and a cup of tea.

  In the Athena interview room, Barrett tried to reason with his interrogators. ‘Brennan, you’ve got the wrong bloke. I tried to help you last time by telling you what happened.’

  ‘I’ll just remind you that you’ve been read your rights. As already explained during this record of interview, I intend to charge you with two counts of murder in relation to the deaths of police officers David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter.’

  ‘So you reckon I’m the one with the problem here.’

  ‘It would appear that way.’

  Barrett shook his head, knowing full well he was headed to the lockup no matter what he said. He spoke in civil tone. There was nothing to be gained by firing up now.