A BLIND EYE Read online

  A BLIND EYE

  by

  John Henderson

  A Blind Eye

  Copyright © 2012 John Henderson

  Cover design: Renee Barratt http://www.thecovercounts.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher and copyright holder.

  ISBN 978-0-646-57455-4

  Publisher: John Henderson, Australia

  ********

  A BLIND EYE

  A drawn out conflict between Inspector Simon Webster and Chief Inspector Damien Rose ultimately results in a career ending posting for Webster. Seeking retribution, Webster, with the support of his Sergeant, Noel Elliott, endeavours to undermine Rose’s credibility with the police hierarchy. Unfortunately things don’t go according to plan and, with Rose’s credibility already under investigation, Webster is drawn into a web of corruption, extortion, blackmail and conspiracy to murder. With the help of a police informant, Ron Lange, Webster draws on all his experience and skill to prevent bloodshed and put a stop to an endless round of corruption and blackmail.

  CHAPTER 1

  ‘Can you see anything?’ Sergeant Rose asked as Constable Webster peered in through the front window of the Tattersall Castle Hotel located at the Circular Quay end of George Street.

  ‘No, not a thing. But then the report did say the vehicle was parked around the back of the pub, not at the front door here in George Street.’ Even with the cold night air, Constable Webster noticed the Sergeant’s face was bathed in sweat, a condition Webster would later learn was a natural affliction suffered by Sergeant Rose.

  ‘You stay here and I’ll go around the back to Kendall Lane and see if I can see anything there. I’ll be back in five minutes,’ said the Sergeant.

  It was quarter past two in the morning, the earlier Friday night crowd having dispersed from the many pubs located around The Rocks precinct. A ’phone call had been received at The Rocks Police Station reporting a vehicle had driven along Kendall Lane and had stopped at the rear of the Tattersall Castle Hotel, a regular drinking spot for many Friday night revelers. While there had been other officers available to respond to the call, Sergeant Rose had decided this was an opportune time, and not a too difficult case, to demonstrate his extensive policing experience to the new boy on the block, Probationary Constable Simon Webster.

  Webster was, to say the least, a rookie having graduated from the Redfern Police Depot’s September class of ’66 only ten days earlier. He had been out on a few beats accompanied by a senior officer which would be the normal routine until he had gained sufficient experience to be let loose on the poor unsuspecting public with another officer of similar rank. Constable Webster was well aware of Sergeant Rose’s reputation, a man considered throughout the station as a very tough policeman, quite in contrast to that suggested by his corpulent frame and portly pot belly.

  True to his word, Sergeant Rose returned to the front of the pub where Webster was waiting. ‘Yes, there’s a vehicle there all right, a black VW Kombi. A back door to the pub has been forced and I thought I saw a torch light, so whoever it is probably still inside, after some grog, no doubt.’ While Webster knew very little of Sergeant Rose, apart from his tough reputation, the thought crossed his mind that, just possibly, the Sergeant had a long way to go to reach the super sleuth standards of the Sherlock Holmes, Hercule Poirot ilk. After all, Webster reasoned, why else would someone break into a pub at such an unearthly hour if not to steal the alcohol.

  ‘So what do we do now, Sarge? The Station’s only two minutes away. I could go and get some help,’ Constable Webster suggested.

  ‘Hell no, boy. It’s probably some young lout trying to get his hands on some vodka. We’d look bloody silly calling for help only to find it’s some pimply faced teenager. No, we can handle this. The longer you’re on the job, the more you develop an intuition, and always follow your intuition, or gut feeling. Understand me, boy?’ Constable Webster had no idea why the Sergeant kept referring to as “boy”, but couldn’t help feeling the title was somewhat demeaning.

  ‘Yes, Sergeant. Okay then, what do we do?’

  ‘This will only take a couple of minutes. The front door appears to be well and truly secured so we’ll both go around to the back door. You wait in the lane and I’ll go in and haul the little bugger out. If on the off-chance I need you, which I won’t, I’ll call for you, so you just stay with the Kombi.’

  The two policemen made their way along George Street, turned left into Mill Lane then left again into Kendall Lane. The one street light, located on the western side of the lane approximately twenty yards from the Kombi, provided a faint and stingy glow that quickly surrendered to the overwhelming darkness of the lane. Sergeant Rose put his index finger to his lips in the universal sign of “shush”. Slowly he eased the door to the pub open and slipped inside. Webster, left to his own devices, withdrew a torch from his utility belt and gazed through the back window of the van. It was clear that whoever was doing the stealing had almost completed the task as Webster could count five or six boxes of various spirits, including whisky, rum and vodka, packed into the Kombi. He tried the sliding door and, to his surprise, found the door unlocked, probably to allow the robber easier access to the van while holding a case of grog, he decided.

  Webster turned his attention to a rear window of the pub and could see a faint light moving around and assumed it to be Sergeant Rose. The constable was taken aback somewhat by the very nature of the situation, the whole episode becoming surreal. While there were probably a million other places he would rather be, not the least being tucked up in bed with his lovely wife, Georgie, here he was in Sydney, the largest city in Australia, in the middle of the night waiting to nab a felon currently in the process of carrying out an indictable offence. No way could any amount of training at the Police Depot prepare a police recruit for such a scenario, he reflected.

  Having nothing to do until Sergeant Rose had the culprit safely under arrest, Webster took stock of the laneway in which the Kombi was parked. The lane was no more than fifteen feet wide and bounded by old two storey buildings along its length. The buildings, once occupied as dwellings or living quarters during the early days of the settlement of Sydney Town, were now occupied for commercial purposes and, in view of the early hour, provided no additional lighting to the meager street lighting. Opposite the Kombi was a rusted wrought iron gate, about five foot high, which gave access to a small block of land overgrown with weeds where a building appeared to have been demolished many years before. It was this disused plot that provided Webster with, what he considered, a brilliant idea and an opportunity to display his initiative, an aptitude strongly encouraged by the instructors at the Police College. Seeing Sergeant Rose was preoccupied in dealing with the robber, Webster decided to ensure the thief would not get away with his ill gotten booty should things not turn out exactly as the Sergeant plainly expected.

  After putting his plan into place, Webster’s attention returned to the pub. It had been about fifteen minutes since Sergeant Rose had entered, surely enough time for a tough policeman to apprehend, - how did the Sergeant describe the scoundrel – a pimply face teenage lout – in the process of committing a simple case of robbery.

  ‘Webster, are you out there?’ came the thunderous roar of Rose’s voice from deep within the darkness of the pub.

  ‘Right here, Sergeant. Where are you?’ replied Webster, a little surprised the Sergeant hadn’t been a little more circumspect with his enquiry.

  ‘Just come through the back door, down the hallway and turn left into the main bar. Go straight ahead a
cross the bar and you will see a door leading to the Ladies’ Saloon. I’m in there.’

  ‘On my way, boss.’ Webster did as directed, finding the Ladies’ Saloon with a light shining brightly under the closed door. He was unsure whether to knock or just barge in, however in view of the Sergeant’s indiscrete instructions he assumed everyone on the premises would be aware of what was going on. Deciding there was little room for etiquette, Constable Webster quickly threw open the door and plunged into the room.

  And then he saw the three men, and not one of them his Sergeant. The first thing Webster noticed about the men was that two were armed, one with an ugly looking snub nosed pistol, the other with what appeared to be a pick axe handle. The third gentleman, casually leaning with his back against a small pool table and smoking a cigarette, was wearing a dark grey fedora, the brim pulled down low over his forehead shadowing his facial features. Webster couldn’t suppress the thought that he had just run into Bogey in some cheap gin joint somewhere in Morocco.

  It took Webster several seconds before he noticed his mentor, Sergeant Rose, secured with his own handcuffs to a four foot high statue of the Roman goddess Minerva standing on a pedestal wearing her coat of mail and carrying a spear. He reflected back to his school days and the Latin he had persevered with, ‘ecce homo’, he muttered to himself. Webster smiled and shook his head. He was sure the Sergeant didn’t have a clue as to whom he was handcuffed, but Webster thought it quite appropriate that of all the classical gods, Rose had chosen the Goddess of Wisdom as his custodian.

  ‘Okay, copper. You obviously see some humour in the situation. What’s so bloody funny?’ demanded the henchman carrying the pick handle. Before Webster could answer, Sergeant Rose made a desperate plea to his colleague.

  ‘For Christ sake, boy, don’t antagonise them. They’re in control of the situation and they could very well kill both of us, so just shut up and do whatever they want, and that’s an order.’

  ‘Yes, of course Sarge.’ Constable Webster had already made his own assessment of the situation and had come to the conclusion that it was quite likely none of the robbers was capable of committing murder. He realised, of course, he could be wrong, his assessment made purely on “gut feeling”. Webster had attended lectures on criminal profiling and psychology while at the Police Depot, clearly aspects of police training introduced well after the graduation of Sergeant Rose who was, according to Webster, of the old school where a good punch-up in a dark alley ensured a win to any argument. But then again, Webster had read somewhere that violence was the last resort of the incompetent.

  The cigarette man flicked some ash onto the carpet, pushed his hat back on his head with a well practiced nonchalance, and looked at his two colleagues. He was unmistakably the brains of the gang, the other two henchmen providing the necessary brawn. Whereas the cigarette man was easily identifiable by his manner and charisma as the leader of the group, the two henchmen were just as easily identifiable by their physical size and the noticeable feeling that both looked upon the cigarette man with great reverence. Irrespective of the façade they presented, Constable Webster couldn’t help feeling a touch of sympathy for the gangland trio. He had a vague suspicion that none of the three had a clue as to what they were doing, nor any idea of just how to do it even if they did.

  ‘You know, boys’, the cigarette man said to the two henchmen as if he was a teacher addressing his pupils, ‘I have an idea these two coppers will never see eye to eye. Young cops these days are encouraged to think for themselves and to use their brains, not like back in the good old days when people were respectful of the police and even feared some of the techniques they often used.’ Constable Webster smirked. The cigarette man would have been aged somewhere in his mid twenties and Webster believed there was little chance of him being born in the good old days, let alone having experienced them. Clearly the cigarette man had come to the same conclusion as Webster when it came to assessing the Sergeant’s policing methodology.

  ‘Gee, Mr. Mitchell, you know all about being a gangster. Jacko and I were really lucky you picked us to become your partners. We didn’t know how to rob a pub and here we are with you teaching us,’ the six foot two henchman armed with the ugly snub nosed pistol said with pride and admiration for his boss.

  ‘Benny, Benny, Benny. How many times have I told you? No names during a job,’ responded Mr. Mitchell, clasping a hand over his eyes and shaking his head in disbelief.

  ‘Sorry, boss. I won’t say another word,’ replied Benny ashamedly. Mr. Mitchell looked at Constable Webster and shrugged.

  ‘Honestly, mate. You just can’t find good help anymore these days. It’s this bloody Vietnam War. All the blokes are being conscripted and sent off overseas. There just isn’t the quality of blokes around, not ones wanting a career in crime, that is,’ said Mr. Mitchell, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

  ‘Well, let’s get on with it,’ said Jacko, tapping the palm of his left hand with the pick handle. Constable Webster had a mental picture of what he thought the lumberjack Paul Bunyan might look like and Jacko seemed to fit the bill admirably. He was a giant of a man dressed in a red flannel checked shirt and a dark blue bib and brace, not the attire generally worn in downtown George Street. ‘We’re in a bit of mess now we have two coppers to deal with. I’m for doin’ ’em in, shovin’ their bodies in the van along with the booze and getting the hell out of here as quickly as possible.’

  Sergeant Rose couldn’t believe what he was hearing. ‘Hey, you can’t kill me; I’m a sergeant of police, married with a wife and family. I’m not in your way here so if you must kill someone, kill the Constable over there,’ he said nodding to his colleague.

  ‘Oh, thanks Sarge, but as you said, they’re in control and they’ve put forward a proposal to do us in. Now, I don’t know about you, but Georgie would be awfully pissed off if I didn’t come home tonight, and I expect your wife would be too.’ Georgie was Webster’s wife of a few months, they having met on the Manly ferry South Steyne after spending an utterly useless twelve months commuting sitting opposite each other on the ferry with nothing more than a nod of recognition. It had taken Simon Webster almost a year to pluck up the courage for the next step with an introduction which just happened to turn out to their mutual benefit.

  Mr. Mitchell, deep in thought, looked at Jacko and raised his eyebrows. ‘Okay, Jacko, seems like a good idea, but do you want to do the doing in?’

  ‘No, not me. Not on your life. You’re the boss so it’s up to you, unless of course, Benny wants to shoot that little pee-shooter of his.’

  Benny looked at Jacko with horror. ‘Ah, come on mate, I’ve never fired a gun in my life, and besides, the gun’s not real, just an imitation.’

  Mr. Mitchell rolled his eyes to the heavens, sighed in resignation and mumbled something incoherently. He dropped the cigarette he was smoking onto the carpet and squashed it with the toe of his shoe before turning to his two associates. ‘There’ll be no doin’ in. If we did kill the cops, they’d never stop looking for us and we’d end up dead meat ourselves.’

  ‘Look, Mr. Mitchell.’ It was Constable Webster’s turn to take the floor. ‘Why don’t you just leave things as they are and write tonight off as a bad example of how not to rob a pub? You have a few cartons of grog in the van, so why not just call it quits and go disappear into the ether?’

  ‘Hey, where’s this place ether, ’cause if it ain’t in Sydney, I’m not goin’?’ asserted Benny.

  ‘God help me, just where did I find this yo-yo, in a cabbage patch?’ said a thoroughly exasperated Mr. Mitchell. ‘Look, come on, boys. We’ll have to get rid of the van pretty quickly as it’s getting late and no doubt it will have been reported stolen by now.’

  ‘No, boss, I don’t think we have to worry about that.’ It was Benny, notwithstanding his pledge of silence, who interrupted the boss’s thoughts. Mr. Mitchell suddenly experienced a sense of foreboding as he anticipated Benny’s next revelation was not going to be good new
s.

  ‘What is it now, Benny? All I asked you to do was go pinch a van suitable to load some grog into. The van out the back is okay, so what’s the problem?’

  ‘It’s Dad’s.’

  ‘What do you mean, it’s Dad’s?’

  ‘Well, I knew he wouldn’t be using it at this hour of the day and I knew where he kept the keys. I just thought it would be a lot easier to pinch his for a while, and then give it back later.’

  ‘Christ all bloody mighty. Just which one of the seven dwarfs are you, you idiot. Even if these two coppers hadn’t turned up, you may as well have sent the police a letter telling them what we plan to do.’

  ‘Sorry boss. But I am learning.’ Benny’s comment was lost on Mr. Mitchell who couldn’t imagine just what Benny thought he was learning.

  Mr. Mitchell turned to Constable Webster. ‘So you’re prepared to let us go, just like that?’

  ‘No we’re not,’ roared the handcuffed Sergeant Rose, his face bathed in sweat. ‘I’m the senior officer here and I make the decisions. If we don’t take ’em in, Webster, your career’s busted. Do I make myself clear?’ the Sergeant seethed.

  Constable Webster, of the opinion his Sergeant was in no position to be giving orders, ignored the Sergeant’s comments and turned to Mr. Mitchell. ‘That’s right. The three of you can just walk away and that’ll be the end of it.’

  Mr. Mitchell shrugged and looked towards his associates. ‘The Constable’s right lads. Let’s call it quits and get the hell out of here. Come on, we’ve got enough grog in the van to make a few bob with a couple of bottles each for us. Oh yes, here’s the keys to the cuffs. Your boss looks like he’s about to have a coronary.’ With that, Mr. Mitchell tossed the keys onto the bar and strode from the saloon; the two henchmen following close behind slamming the door shut behind them.