‘It’s you blokes with the problem … Two big problems.’
Adam Hendricks piped up. ‘And how do you figure that? You’re the one who’s going to appear before a bail justice tonight. You’re the one who’s going to be wearing two murder charges.’
Barrett countered. ‘You’ve got two cop-shooters still out there and you clueless wonders have got no fucking idea who or where they are. I told you—I only stand over crooks now. The owner of that restaurant—he runs illegal prostitutes. That’s why he’s never complained about me. I’m a fucking toe-cutter, not a bloody cop killer.’
Brennan remained straight down the line. ‘As I was saying, you’re to be charged with two counts of murder.’
‘I’d better pull on a lawyer then.’
‘Yeah. You’d better … Pat Barrett, do you agree the time is now 10.08 p.m.?’
Barrett looked at Brennan’s watch. ‘Time is the cruellest teacher, detective.’
Barrett was driven from the rear of the St Kilda Road complex, a gauntlet of TV cameras, newspaper photographers and journalists converging on the squad car as it left. It was all about that precious shot of the charged man in the back seat. Unlike some accused who covered their heads or gave the finger, Barrett sat calm and composed between Whitney and Sidwell. Brennan drove the car, with Hendricks next to him.
‘Jesus,’ Sidwell commented, ‘how the hell do they find out so quick?’
‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Whitney replied. ‘I wouldn’t have a clue.’
Crestfallen and unsettled, Rogers and Kelso sat drinking at the Royal well away from the lights and cameras. They’d left the Athena office to hit the piss after Barrett was dragged in to be charged. Kelso downed his third shot of tequila. He appeared to be on a mission.
‘That’s it, pal,’ he warbled, making a grandiose sweep with his hand. ‘The shutters are down. Case is closed.’
He slammed down the empty shot glass.
‘It’ll be broadcast to the fucking moon and back by morning.’
Rogers played the peace card. Tried to maintain reason. He knew his crew mate well, and knew he was doing it hard.
‘Brennan’s following due process. The director ticked off on the case.’
‘Yeah, well they’re wrong … and the director’s fucking wrong!’
Rogers put up his hand and winked to the night bar manager, suggesting Kelso was all right. ‘Of course they’re fucking wrong, Kell, and that’s why I need you to stay frosty, brother. We’re not gunna find the Paradox bandits at the bottom of a tequila bottle.’
‘We might. We’ve looked everywhere else.’
Kelso took a slug of beer. Lit a cigarette, his lighter hissing two flames.
‘Listen to me,’ Rogers said, putting his arm around Kelso. ‘This fucking thing ain’t over.’
Kelso brushed the arm off. ‘What do we do? Those jerk-offs are into full brief prep.’
‘And what have they got us doing?’
Kelso blew smoke. Took another messy mouthful. ‘Sweet FA.’
Rogers drummed on the bar. ‘Exactly. So we use that to our advantage and continue to work this case. Bring them something concrete to change their minds about Barrett. Something irrefutable …’
‘We’ve got nothing,’ Kelso grumbled. ‘My two friends are dead because of the operation.’
Rogers decided it was time to serve his colleague and mate a bitter pill. It wasn’t going to taste nice, but it had to be administered—for Kelso’s sake.
‘You’re a real selfish arsehole, you know that, Kell? You reckon you’re more special than the rest of us? You reckon you’re feeling it more than me, or Shep or Whiskers or Gooch? We were all a part of it. Happy and Mitch were brothers to all of us—not just you, you selfish prick. So pick your bottom lip up off the floor and harden up.’
Kelso stared at his reflection between the bottles on the shelves. ‘Fuck off.’
Rogers wasn’t sure if Kelso was talking to him, or his own reflection—but he pressed on. This had to be brought to a head and dealt with swiftly. He needed the old Kelso back.
‘Look at you,’ Roy goaded, ‘carrying your self-pity around your neck like a fucking gold medal—like you’re better than the rest of us. What makes you so fuckin’ special?’
Kelso’s jaw clenched. ‘I’m warning you, Roy. I’m not in the mood for your holier-than-thou shit tonight … so shut the fuck up …’
‘Or what? You’re gunna beat me to death with your dummy? And you call yourself a fucking Robber—’
Kelso stood, his bar seat toppling backwards. Rogers stood to confront him; other punters watched on in amazement. Kelso pushed Rogers in the chest and threw a sloppy left. Rogers, in control and balanced despite his bad knee, deftly blocked the punch and charged his mate backwards. Pushed him up against the wall. The bar manager moved to intervene, but Rogers waved him off. Roy stared into Kell’s welling blue eyes. The forceful hold turned into a hug. With head against Rogers’ shoulder, Kelso yelled from the pit of his heart. And wept.
‘Let it go, mate,’ Rogers whispered. ‘You’ll be better for it. I need you back, brother. I need you back so we can get these bastards.’
Rogers looked back to the bar. ‘He’s good now. He’s good … Everything’s fine.’
Kelso breathed long, deep and meaningful breaths. Regained composure. Rogers finished the man-hug with a slap on his back and sent him back to the bar. Kelso picked up his chair and sat. Rogers rejoined him. Took a big sip. Kelso did likewise, took another breath and wiped his eyes with open hands. The air was clear again.
‘Now this is what we do,’ Roy said, back to business. ‘We start from scratch. Revisit the Paradox files. Go back to the scene. Our gigs. I also want to listen to Barrett’s two interviews. There’s got to be something we’ve missed.’
Kelso nodded. Picked up a full shot glass and peered through the tequila.
‘I’m pretty sure the answers aren’t in here.’
He leaned over the bar and tipped the poison down a sink.
‘We’ll start afresh tomorrow,’ Rogers encouraged. ‘C’mon. You can crash at our place tonight. Karen was saying just the other day that she hasn’t seen your sunny smile for a while.’
‘Okay, pal. Okay.’
The next morning Rogers and Kelso were down in the car park rummaging through ‘the cage’: a wire-enclosed elephant’s burial ground for old briefs of evidence, case files, information reports and dossiers. The crew mates lugged all relevant files back up into the Athena office, much to the amusement of Whitney and Sidwell.
‘Hey, show’s over,’ Whitney mentioned across to Kelso, dumping folders on to his desk. ‘Haven’t you read the papers?’
Whitney held up a copy of the Herald Sun and read aloud from the front page.
‘According to Chief Commissioner Trevor McFarlane, it was the excellent work of homicide detectives handpicked for the Athena Taskforce that led to yesterday’s breakthrough. Special Operations Group police, acting on behalf of the taskforce, moved in and arrested suspect Patrick Barrett at his Croydon home at about 6.30 p.m. Detectives last night charged Mr Barrett with two counts of murder. He appeared at an out-of-sessions court hearing. “The diligent work of the Athena Taskforce has resulted in the arrest of the man investigators will allege gunned down detectives David Gilmore and Mitchell Hunter,” Commissioner McFarlane said.’
Whitney lowered the paper. ‘So there you go. Show’s over.’
Rogers did not bite. Got in before Kelso did. ‘Then you won’t mind if we sort through a few things on our own.’
Whitney couldn’t keep the smirk off his face. ‘Knock yourselves out.’
Sidwell wouldn’t be left out. ‘Yeah, you do whatever it is you Robbers do.’
By that stage Rogers and Kelso had moved on, ignoring Heckyl and Jeckyl. Rogers tossed a file to Kelso, who tossed back a couple of CDs to his partner. Kelso wrote a note on his hand and ferreted through a box. Rogers sat and logged on to a central computer. Fo
r the Robbers pair, it was still game on.
From his office, Shaw watched the Armed Robbery duo beavering away with purpose. Leaning back in his chair he chewed the end of a pen—before returning to paperwork.
By midnight Rogers and Kelso were still at it, sitting drinking coffee and taking notes while listening to Barrett’s second interview. It was coming to the end.
‘You’ve got two cop-shooters still out there and you clueless wonders have got no fucking idea who or where they are. I told you—I only stand over crooks now. The owner of that restaurant—he runs illegal prostitutes. That’s why he’s never complained about me. I’m a fucking toe-cutter, not a bloody cop killer.’
‘As I was saying, you’re to be charged with two counts of murder.’
‘I’d better pull on a lawyer then.’
‘Yeah. You’d better … Pat Barrett, do you agree the time is now 10.08 p.m.?’
‘Time is the cruellest teacher, detective.’
Rogers stopped the recording.
‘Jesus, that’s prophetic, coming from Barrett.’
Kelso jotted some more notes. ‘Yeah, he’s quite the philosopher … I’ve got someone who might be able to confirm his claims about the Lucky Dragon owner, Henry Wu.’
‘You’re working to prove motive that way …’
‘Hey, we’re looking for two bandits—not a lone standover merchant.’
In a garden bed in the back streets of Prahran, behind Chapel Street at the ‘Broadmeadows end’, Malone knelt behind a red-brick fence. This was his surveillance: awaiting Mustard Man’s arrival for another cash drop. From what Malone had managed to learn, there was a regular pattern to this local arm of the Tom Gunston drug syndicate.
Mustard Man did the deals and, when loaded up with substantial amounts, delivered the cash to the drug house.
CHAPTER 69
A great statesman once said that politics was the conduct of private affairs for public advantage. It was for that very reason that McFarlane wanted to fire the first public salvo; get in and announce the death of the Armed Robbery Squad before the PEC took the chocolates. To stake claim to the victory, McFarlane had decided to enlist his media pawn. His wife asleep upstairs, he used the phone in the kitchen.
Hemmings stirred in his bed. Answered his mobile.
‘Tony, Trevor McFarlane.’
‘Commissioner, to what do I owe this late-night pleasure … at 12.46 a.m., no less? Something must be brewing.’
‘I’ll be announcing the disbandment of the Armed Robbery Squad today. The PEC has secured damning evidence which will become public soon enough. I’m doing it today so it doesn’t look like Stuart Davis has forced my hand.’
‘I understand … What’s Davis got?’
‘The brutal bashing of a suspect. Got it on camera.’
‘Gold … So those responsible will be charged?’
‘First I axe The Robbers. Then the PEC will hold a public hearing where evidence will be aired. Criminal charges will no doubt follow.’
‘The bloodletting begins.’
‘I’ve got a media spiel prepared for you. Got a pen handy?’
‘When don’t I?’
‘Broadcast something like this: the chief commissioner is set to announce the disbandment of the Armed Robbery Squad due to an inordinate number of complaints of misconduct.’
‘How inordinate? How many are there?’
‘Let’s just say they far outweigh complaints made against any other squad. You can go to air with it from eight o’clock tomorrow. You’ve got it all to yourself. The media conference will be at ten.’
‘It’ll be all over the airwaves at eight.’
Now a fully fledged Herald Sun man, Malone was in at his desk by seven bells that morning. The first hour offered nothing. At eight o’clock he sat back with a coffee to listen to the 3MR news broadcast. It was ritual to monitor the morning radio to keep tabs on any breaking stories and news agendas. Media outlets were like hyenas, feeding off each other’s leads if they didn’t have the lines.
‘It’s eight o’clock. Good morning. I’m Roger Benson. Victoria Police force command will this morning disband one of the state’s major crime squads. Police Commissioner Trevor McFarlane is expected to announce at ten o’clock that the Armed Robbery Squad is to be axed. Crime reporter Tony Hemmings has this exclusive report.’
An astonished Malone sat paralysed as Hemmings’ news piece ran.
‘Due to an inordinate number of complaints of misconduct levelled at the notorious Armed Robbery Squad, the police chief commissioner will today announce that the squad is to be disbanded. 3MR news understands that the methods of the squad—which trades on intimidation—have proved a concern to Chief Commissioner Trevor McFarlane, who recently announced a new, more accountable direction for his force.’
Malone jumped for his desk phone. Punched in Kelso’s number.
‘Kell, it’s Malone. Have you heard the news?’
Two hours later McFarlane stood centre stage in the glare of the fresnels in the media theatrette at the Victoria Police Centre. He addressed a full room; journalists as well as high-ranking officers were present for the landmark press conference.
‘As you’re all no doubt aware, I stand here this morning to announce the disbandment of the Armed Robbery Squad.’
Malone was on the front foot immediately. He wanted to be seen to be flying the flag to protect his true agenda. ‘Why is the squad being disbanded?’
‘The squad has received a very high number of complaints in relation to the treatment of suspects—a number that is disproportionate to the number made against other squads and CIBs. The squad has also been involved, in recent times, in questionable operations in which lives have been lost.’
Malone again: ‘Do you think there might be a higher number of complaints against the squad because they deal with the state’s worst criminals?’
‘Their methods have been called into question.’
‘Have any charges ever been laid against ARS members, and if so, have any stuck?’
‘Umm, several squad members have faced internal disciplinary action—some are still facing such action—and, as you well know, several have faced coronial inquests in relation to fatal police shootings …’
‘And all have been cleared by either a coroner or a judge.’
Hemmings rode into the battle to protect his commissioner. Instead of a grenade he threw a Dorothy Dixer.
‘Commissioner, is it fair to say that the squad’s culture had become a concern?’
‘Yes.’ The chief commissioner’s relief was almost palpable. ‘The squad’s culture, methods of dealing with suspects, their lack of discipline at times, their internal attitude towards superiors—all of this has reflected badly on themselves and the force as a whole. Victoria Police is an evolving professional organisation that must be seen as accountable and trustworthy in the eye of the community.’
Malone wasn’t going to let him off lightly. ‘But aren’t you placing the community at greater risk by removing the specialist detectives who investigate and arrest the state’s worst criminals?’
‘This decision is being made for the benefit of the community and Victoria Police as an organisation.’
The new Age police reporter got in on the action. ‘And what of the Armed Robbery Squad detectives?’
‘They are being informed, as we speak, about their current predicament and their future. They will be moved to different areas of the organisation where we think their experience will best be utilised.’
The ABC TV reporter made herself heard over the hubbub of other journalists. ‘Does this decision today have anything to do with a rumoured PEC focus on the practices of the Armed Robbery Squad?’
McFarlane seemed to almost lean over the lectern. ‘We act independently of the PEC. This decision has been made independently of any possible PEC investigation.’
Again, Malone made a stand for the squad. He needed an answer that wasn’t rehearsed. ‘What
are your personal feelings about the Armed Robbery Squad?’
McFarlane stood silent for a second or two. His media adviser had waited one question too long to intervene.
‘They have a long history,’ the commissioner said, trying to choose his words carefully. ‘They have prepared successful briefs of evidence against many serious offenders … Let me put this on the record. This is not a personal crusade. Okay, thank you. There will be a full press release available from the media liaison bureau.’
Morris Farley stood in the centre of The Robbers’ office like the cat that had just licked itself clean, an imperious grin on his chops. Before him sat The Robbers—assembled together under their banner for the last time. The chief of detectives had been thirsting for this moment. And he was going to relish it.
‘You all know it pains me to have to say this, but as of this moment the Armed Robbery Squad no longer exists. Are you people absolutely clear on that? You have been disbanded due to the high number of complaints made against you, a string of recent fuck-ups and your outdated culture. Look around this office—there’s a lot of history on these walls. Trophies, plaques, commendations … The adulation you have received makes me want to spew.’
The squad members—minus Rogers and Kelso—sat unusually silent given their flag had just been torn down.
Farley continued, with obvious spite. ‘McFarlane’s wanted you gone ever since he was appointed chief. I’ve wanted you gone for much longer than that. So, as I said, it pains me to have to say this but—piss off. Each of you will be informed in the coming days about the positions to which you’re being re-assigned.’
Arms crossed, Shepherd stood off to one side. ‘Fuck you very much, Morris.’
Gucciardo was the first to give the commander the finger. Lynch followed. McCrann after that. One by one each and all of the squad members raised the bird. Farley scoffed. The last laugh was his, and that’s all that mattered to him.
After Farley had left the office, Shepherd approached big Gooch. ‘Did you get all that?’
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