A BLIND EYE Read online

  ‘By Jesus, boy. Your career is well and truly stuffed now. It’s quite clear to me, boy, that you need a lot more experience. You’re unable to handle yourself in a stressful situation and are totally incapable of assessing the operational requirements demanded. You should have used a bit of force on those clowns. Didn’t they teach you anything about resorting to physical methods of persuasion against such criminals?’

  Constable Webster was somewhat piqued by the outburst. ‘Yes, they did, but they also taught us discretion is the better part of valour,’ he replied with a touch of annoyance. ‘Anyway, I expect we haven’t seen the last of Mr. Mitchell.’

  ‘Why? What do you mean?’ queried the Sergeant, impatiently. Just at that moment the two police officers heard heavy footsteps before the door was flung violently open with Mr. Mitchell standing there, arms akimbo, his face contorted in anger.

  ‘I’ve been robbed. Some bastard has stolen the booze from the van.’

  ‘Well now, this is a turn up. Do you wish to lodge a formal complaint?’ asked a bemused Constable Webster. ‘Of course, I take it you will be able to establish legal ownership of the stolen property?’

  ‘What do you mean legal ownership? You know damn well me and the boys stole it from the pub here,’ replied Mr. Mitchell indignantly.

  ‘Well, as you cannot produce receipts for the goods, I gather you are not the legal owner. In addition, it sounds very much like you’ve made a verbal confession of guilt to the stealing of the liquor. Is that correct?’ Webster queried.

  ‘It’s a bit late now to deny we robbed the place. But I don’t care about that. I just want our booze back.’

  Constable Webster looked at his Sergeant, still secured to the Goddess of Wisdom, and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry Mr. Mitchell, but we let you go the first time and now you’re asking us to investigate a theft on your behalf. I beginning to think you’re pushing your luck, don’t you? Of course, in view of the circumstances and your recent confession of having robbed the pub, we could still arrest you. Isn’t that correct Sergeant?’

  ‘Of course it’s correct, you moron,’ replied the Sergeant angrily. ‘We should have done that as soon as we got here.’ Constable Webster refrained from the obvious response, his thoughts reflecting back on how the Sergeant, in complete control of the situation, was going to drag the pimply faced youth from the pub, caught in the process of carrying out a criminal act. Irrespective of the reputation, Webster had the uncomfortable feeling Sergeant Rose was having difficulty keeping up with the night’s events.

  ‘Now, look here, that’s not fair. We’ve gone to great lengths to organise this heist and the two knuckleheads outside expect something for their night’s work,’ said Mr. Mitchell, his initial rage moderating to seething anger.

  Constable Webster shrugged. ‘Gee, I’d really like to help but it seems to me the booze isn’t, or wasn’t, yours to give away. But now that you’ve lost the booze you previously stated to have stolen, the best we can do is for you to give me ten quid and you can take a couple of bottles of Johnny Walker from the bar. I’ll see that the owner of the pub gets the money. But I suppose that’s all beside the point in view of your verbal confession. I’m sorry, Mr. Mitchell, but it looks like we’ll have to take you in for stealing the booze in the first place.’

  ‘Hey, hang on. What booze?’ interrupted Mr. Mitchell as it finally dawned on him that he was definitely in a no win situation. ‘Have I got any booze on me, or have you seen me with any booze? There certainly isn’t any in Benny’s van outside. I know nothin’ about any stolen booze. This mightn’t have turned out the way I had planned, but here’s a tenner for the scotch,’ growled Mr. Mitchell as he helped himself to two bottles of Johnny Walker Red Label from behind the bar. ‘Don’t bother, I’ll see my way out,’ he said and headed from the saloon, the two bottles tucked firmly under his arm.

  ‘Just one thing before you go,’ interrupted Webster. ‘There’s about twenty quids worth of damage to the back door. Give me the twenty and I’ll make sure the pub’s owner gets it for repairs.’

  ‘You’re joking?’ replied Mr. Mitchell incredulously.

  ‘No, not at all. At the moment you could go for break and enter, or at least willful damage to the hotel. Pay for the damage and we can get that side of things squared away with the hotel owner.’

  ‘Holy hell. I knew this wasn’t going to be my day,’ replied Mr. Mitchell as he withdrew a further two ten pound notes from his wallet.

  ****

  ‘Sit down, boy. I want to have a talk with you before I go back to the station and write up a couple of reports, one about the alleged theft of grog from this pub, and the other an administrative report on your conduct. Do you understand me, boy?’ Constable Webster understood exactly and knew that Sergeant Rose’s theft report would have a very slim chance of reflecting the true events of the night.

  Constable Webster pulled out a chair from one of the saloon’s tables and sat down, fully expectant of the impending bollocking. He waited, quite relaxed in view of the situation, and watched the Sergeant pace back and forwards in front of the bar, his hands clasped behind his back. He finally stopped his pacing and stood in front of Constable Webster, glaring menacingly. ‘Okay, boy, just how did you know Mr. Mitchell would be back claiming he’d been robbed of his grog?’

  ‘Simple, Sarge. I stole it.’

  ‘You stole it?’ queried Sergeant Rose, unsure as to whether he had heard Webster’s answer correctly.

  ‘Well, sort of. While I was waiting outside for you to make the arrest, I unloaded the van and stacked the grog behind the fence to the vacant allotment.’

  ‘And what the bloody hell did you do that for?’ asked Sergeant Rose utterly perplexed.

  ‘I’m sorry Sarge,’ said Constable Webster trying to be as contrite as possible, ‘but I figured if things didn’t turn out exactly as you planed, due to unforeseen circumstances, we should have a back-up plan. I’ve no doubt the grog’s still there so I’ll get it back inside the pub here while you’re back at the station. I’ll hang around until someone from the pub arrives and I’ll explain what happened. In this way there was no theft, and Mr. Mitchell has paid for the grog he took with him. He’s also paid for the damages to the back door.’

  ‘But they’re criminals,’ roared Sergeant Rose, the sweat dripping from his face, his uniform coat buttons straining to contain his heavy breathing.

  ‘Well, as Mr. Mitchell said, Sarge, it looks like you and I see things differently. I doubt very much if the three of them could rob a piggy bank. No, Sarge, I don’t think they’re criminals, and that’s why it turned out as it did.’

  ‘You were in no position to make such decisions and I’m the one to write the report,’ sneered Sergeant Rose. ‘I’m also the one to write the administrative report on your conduct, and I don’t mind telling you it will be unpleasant reading, for you, that is. You just haven’t the balls for policing, boy. There are just some times when push comes to shove and tonight was one such time, and you failed dismally. It’s a good thing for you I’m being promoted out of The Rocks Station for greener pastures as I would really make life hell for you if I was to continue being your boss.’ With that, Sergeant Rose picked up his cap and departed, muttering something to himself about the new breed and pansies.

  CHAPTER 2

  The morning ritual of the Webster household was normally a routine affair predicated on the method of transport Simon was taking to get to the City. He and his sergeant, Noel Elliott, had agreed that it was more convenient to take one car to town when they chose not to use public transport, which was often in light of the painfully inadequate bus service. As the Websters lived at Collaroy, some twenty kilometers north of the City, and Noel and his wife, Susan, at Mona Vale, at least another ten kilometers further north again, they had decided the logical solution was to combine the assets and half the costs. However, on this particular day Simon chose to take the bus as Noel and Sue had organised a night in town and would not be return
ing to Mona Vale at the usual hour.

  ‘Come on, Simon, you’re a detective and you should know these things. I have this troublesome character I want to do away with, but I don’t want it to look like a murder. Just how do I do it?’ Simon knew Georgie was having problems on how to do away with someone, but the cutting of the car’s break cables, the surreptitious turning on of the gas stove, and crimes of a similar nature had been done to death by Hollywood. And Georgie wanted something original.

  Breakfast time was one of the rare opportunities Georgie had to talk to Simon about her crime fighting novels. Notwithstanding the fact that Georgie had been successful in having her first book published, Simon had the distinct impression her somewhat sheltered life had left her uninformed as to how brutally unprincipled and corrupt the criminal mind could be. Nevertheless, he did try to offer support for Georgie’s literary aspirations, albeit somewhat cynically at times.

  Simon folded the morning paper and placed it beside him on the kitchen table. ‘Well, I suppose you could nudge him off the platform into the path of an oncoming train. That could prove fatal and difficult to prove, especially if it was during the peak hour rush.’ Simon paused and absently stroked his chin, deep in thought. ‘I suppose getting your character to stand in front of you at the same station and the same time might be a tad difficult to arrange.’

  ‘Can’t you be serious for just once in your life?’ asked Georgie as she pulled the toast from the toaster. ‘What was it that killed those two over at Lane Cove a couple of years ago? The police never arrested anyone so it must have been well thought out.’

  ‘If the truth be known,’ replied Simon becoming a little impatient with the discussion, his thoughts more on the marmalade he was trying to extract from the jar, ‘the police haven’t a clue what killed them so they don’t know if it was murder. That case is exceptional and is still ongoing. We know the where and the when, but the how and why are mysteries, if it was murder, that is. Anyway, let’s change the subject. How are you getting along with the sweet little old lady from next door? I haven’t seen her for a while.’

  ‘Well, lucky you,’ responded Georgie, shaking her head and screwing up her face in feigned sarcasm. ‘She’s been at me a few times since we had the pest man come and spray. She claims all the bugs and cockroaches we had here have migrated to her place and we’re responsible for her sudden pest infestation. You know, that sweet little old lady, as you so kindly put it, is not so sweet and kindly. If the truth be known she’s a nasty, offensive and obnoxious old bitch with a huge chip on her shoulder. You don’t have to put up with her but I’m home nearly all day and she’s invariably got something to have a moan about, especially the number of spiders she’s noticed, and she’s a definite arachnophobic, to say the least. She really can’t stand seeing a spider.’

  The little old lady next door was Dorothy, her exact age unknown to the Websters although they placed her at being in her late fifties. The story went that she had been married, maybe still was, but apparently as soon as the kids had left home, so too did her husband who had run off with a much younger woman. Georgie and Simon had both come to the conclusion that Dorothy’s poor husband must have lasted for as long as he could and then given up and walked out. Irrespective of the past history, Dorothy was bitter and hell-bent on making life as difficult as she could for everyone she came into contact.

  Georgie poured Simon and herself another coffee and sat down. ‘Anyway, how are you getting on with Rosey?’ Simon had used Georgie as a whipping post, not so much when he had been transferred to Day Street some fifteen months previously, but on discovering he would be working directly to Chief Inspector Rose.

  ‘I try and have as little to do with him as possible,’ Simon responded. ‘As soon as I submitted my report on illegal gambling, I put in an application for transfer to another station but haven’t heard anything yet. I wouldn’t put it past Rosey to knock it back just to be a sheer bastard. And you can bet your life he’ll go to Fisher for support for his decision, irrespective of what that decision is.’

  Fisher was Superintendent Fisher, an individual who wasn’t, according to Simon’s reckoning, all that kosher. Simon could not put his finger on the problem, he just had this gut feeling, a feeling enhanced by the fact he couldn’t believe anyone could get on with Chief Inspector Rose as well as Superintendent Fisher did. ‘Anyway, I’d better be going,’ said Simon finishing off the last of his coffee.

  ‘Okay, sweetie. But can you give my murderer some thought? It’ll give you something to think about on the bus.’ Simon bent down and planted a hasty kiss on Georgie before he picked up his briefcase, opened the door and headed down the road to catch the 190 bus to Wynyard.

  CHAPTER 3

  ‘Inspector Webster, if you’re at work, get down to my office, now. Elliott, if he’s not, tell him to get here as soon as he shows his face.’ It was the voice of Chief Inspector Rose, booming out from behind the closed door of his office located on the third floor of the Day Street Police Station.

  Cripes, let me got my coat off first, thought Webster having just entered the office he shared with his partner, Detective Sergeant Noel Elliott. Before saying a word to the Sergeant, Webster did an immediate about turn and walked briskly down the greeny coloured linoleum corridor, past the conference room and several other CIB offices located on the third floor to the Chief Inspector’s office. He knocked on the door and entered before receiving a response, the normal procedure following a summons for attendance.

  The office was a somewhat drab affair although the Chief Inspector had tried to brighten it up to some extent by placing a worn out rug in the middle of the lino floor. Upon the rug was a small pine coffee table with a glass ashtray, now full of cigarette butts, undoubtedly the source of the stale air that permeated the room. The Chief’s pine desk, positioned at the far end of the office, was somewhat less than extravagant but functional having three drawers on either side. There were three, four drawer metal filing cabinets against an internal office wall, while the external wall had two windows fitted with sheer curtains that looked like they hadn’t been cleaned since their installation some twenty years earlier. The saving grace of a very ordinary office was that the windows provided something of a view, albeit limited, of the Darling Harbour docklands freight terminal, or what remained of the terminal, the facility in its death throes with a new cargo terminal being constructed at Botany.

  ‘You wish to see me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. Take a seat.’ Inspector Webster sat on one of the two vinyl lounge chairs placed in front of Chief Rose’s desk and looked at the Chief Inspector as he busily wrote something on a notepad. Ah, the old ‘I’m the boss, you can wait for me’ trick, Webster thought. Rose is making me wait, just to reinforce his position, no doubt. Webster took the time to scrutinize the Chief and came to the conclusion the man had not changed since those heady days at The Rocks. Chief Inspector Rose was still big, obese probably a better word to describe his physical appearance which was in stark contrast to Webster who was built more like a whippet. Rose was wearing civvies, as was Webster, but where Webster was wearing a dark grey suit and tie and looked respectable, the Chief had removed his coat, loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. Even with these comfort enhancing measures, his face continued to drip beads of sweat onto his portly frame while his breathing, more of a gasp for air, probably reflected the effort it took Rose to push a pen.

  There was nothing Inspector Webster liked about his boss and the passage of time had not altered his initial opinion of Chief Inspector Rose. Inspector Webster was well aware the loathing he had for the Chief was reciprocated, but unfortunately for Webster, he was the Inspector and Rose the Chief Inspector. Inspector Webster turned his attention to the window, too depressed to carry on with his scrutiny. Who cares if he’s as useless as tits on a bull, Webster mused. He’s a definite candidate for a heart attack anyway.

  Chief Inspector Rose stopped scribbling on his notepad, picked up a P
olice Department manila folder and frowned. ‘Ah, yes, Webster. I’ve read the report on your investigation into illegal gambling. I’ve also discussed it with the Superintendent. Both of us compliment you, it’s well written.’ Straight away the Inspector knew something was amiss, not enough pretty pictures for Rose, Webster thought cynically. He knew Rose would have taken the report to Fisher, irrespective of its content, as Rose always seemed to need the Superintendent’s support for any decision most Chief Inspectors would normally make without reference to a higher authority.

  Chief Inspector Rose closed the file. ‘Unfortunately both Superintendent Fisher and I believe your evidence does not fit with your conclusions. You seem to be drawing a very long bow to suit your own preconceived ideas. I’m sure if the problem of illegal gambling was as rampant as you seem to think, there would be much more compelling evidence to support your claims.’ Inspector Webster stifled the urge to tell Rose exactly what he thought of him, knowing Chief Rose would almost certainly take disciplinary action, and enjoy doing so. However, the thought crossed his mind that Rose should get off his backside and get out into the real world just to find out what life was all about. Webster knew illegal gambling existed in Sydney; he’d taken part in it to gather information. He couldn’t imagine a city where illegal gambling didn’t take place to some extent, at least.

  ‘So, it goes no further, no follow-up action?’ asked Inspector Webster.

  ‘No. Not at this stage,’ said Chief Inspector Rose, throwing the folder onto his desk. ‘The decision has been made by Superintendent Fisher so we will leave it at that. Oh, before you leave. Your application for transfer has been rejected. Superintendent Fisher believes you need more investigative experience and your illegal gambling report tends to support his view. Apart from that, there are no vacancies available within your rank structure. Thank you Inspector Webster. That is all.’