After three weeks of leave, mostly spent sorting through his father’s belongings, Trent was grateful to be back amongst the order and discipline of his work. But within twenty-four hours something happened to him that had never happened before. He couldn’t decide which file to work on first. The decision itself wasn’t life or death; it wasn’t huge by any means. But the fact that he couldn’t make it was practically life-changing.
The reason behind his indecisiveness was obvious. Trent never left anything unfinished. And as far as he was concerned, the mystery behind the money in his dad’s closet was far from finished.
But now he was in a quandary. Informing his sergeant of his father’s likely involvement in the 1992 bank heist might be the right thing to do. But if it turned out that Murray had no part in the robbery—other than his involvement with the woman who did steal the money—then he would be drawing attention to himself unnecessarily. The last thing he wanted was for his peers to think his father was a criminal. At worst he was an accessory after the fact.
He developed a plan that allowed him to be discreet with his inquiries. With the decision made, Trent felt normal again. Somehow the fact that he would be lying seemed justified, and it didn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. It required several days of research to locate the department handling the case. Once he had the information, he waited for a moment when he was the only person in the room. He didn’t want anyone querying what he was doing. He snatched up the phone and dialled the number.
Trent introduced himself to the man on the end of the line and explained that he was interested in an old case. He went on to tell him that he found a box of newspaper clippings in a suspected felon’s property, and that he needed to establish if the cases were related. The detective on the other end of the line seemed interested in helping, but when he requested Trent’s contact details and said he’d call back, Trent wasn’t so sure. Not a single person he’d met on the force so far shared the same sense of urgency he did.
The next couple of days were brutal. In order to focus less on the ticking clock he increased his productivity output by approximately ten percent. He cut out meal breaks and reduced his water intake, thereby reducing his toilet breaks. And he avoided the corridors. This in turn eliminated chance encounters with fellow employees. Idle banter was not Trent’s thing at the best of times. Finally a sealed evidence box landed on his desk.
To say he was surprised at the size of the box was an understatement. Nearly ten years of inquiry evidence reduced to a small archive box. He was reluctant to open it, and yet at the same time he was eager to read every last detail of its contents. Trent stood up and scanned the room. Benson was on the phone and Kineely and Papageorgiou were deep in conversation. No-one seemed even remotely interested in the box that had arrived by courier just moments ago.
He gulped a large mouthful of water, trying to soothe his dry throat, then lifted the lid and peered inside. It was only half full. He removed a newspaper with a front page article covering the fifth anniversary of the robbery. Trent read the article then studied the photo. The caption read: 1992 Melbourne Cup day bank heist lead investigator, Superintendent Montgomery Steel, still faces investigation over bungled police operation. Trent instantly felt sorry for the man. He could imagine the frustration Steel would’ve suffered over the missing money.
There had been sensational accusations from within the police department and the media over who had the opportunity and inside knowledge to steal it. As Steel was the only police officer whose whereabouts was unaccounted for between the robbery and the arrest, his name was at the top of the list. Internal Affairs would have grilled him over the operational procedure, too. Steel claimed all along that he’d had no choice; that—constrained by lack of resources—he’d set a trap to catch the gang after the fact. But in retrospect, letting the robbery happen didn’t seem like the most intelligent strategy. It had ruined his career.
Despite the yellowing paper, Steel’s anger was evident in the photo.
As Trent examined the evidence box, he was intrigued by the photos. They weren’t official police photos of the criminals. The shots were taken from an elevated position, some distance from the subjects. In the background was a building. Trent recognised it instantly. It was the old boatshed. In the foreground was each of the bank robbers, exactly as he remembered them nine years ago. There were six photos of each of them. Trent paused to scrutinise the pictures of the woman. She was stunning and he could still remember being shocked that a knockout like her was messed up with a bunch of robbers. The guy with the tattoos looked as mean in the photos as he recalled. After studying all thirty-six pictures, Trent was fairly sure his dad or Gemma had taken these photos after Trent told them of the robbers’ hideout.
Trent shuffled the photos back into an evidence envelope. He reached for the next envelope. It contained a cassette tape labelled ‘Tiffany Black tape 1’. His heart leapt to his throat. He had a horrible feeling this tape would be the very tape he and Max had recorded when they hid under the boatshed. Trent glanced around the room. His colleagues were still distracted, but it would be risky listening to the tape here. Someone would question it. He slotted it back into the envelope and sat it on top of the growing forms of evidence on his desk.
He returned to the report files and by the end he’d learnt one significant piece of the case that he didn’t know. The day before the Melbourne Cup race, late in the afternoon, a woman had tipped the police off about the robbery. She had furnished them with tape recordings of the gang’s planning sessions, as well as photographs of each of the suspects. The woman had given the name Tiffany Black, but it later transpired that she had given a false identity. After seeing the photos, Trent was sure that once he listened to the tapes he’d know for certain that Tiffany Black and Gemma were one and the same.
There was just one thing that didn’t make sense. If Tiffany Black AKA Gemma planned to steal the money from the robbers all along, then why had she come to the police with all this evidence beforehand?
He jotted down the facts of the case.
1) National Australia Bank in Eagle Street robbed during the 1992 Melbourne Cup race, by five men and one woman.
2) Police tipped off about the robbery by a woman named Tiffany Black.
3) Robbers caught at an abandoned boatshed in Norman Park.
4) Money never recovered.
Now he jotted down some of the information he had that wasn’t in the case file.
1) Max and I overheard the robbers and told Dad and Gemma.
2) Dad, Max and I recorded Jack’s robbery planning sessions.
3) Gemma left Dad a couple of weeks after the robbery.
4) According to her letter, Gemma left him $100,000.
5) Dad may have donated money to the robber’s sick wife.
There was one question that still needed to be answered: was someone still looking for the money?
That last question was an interesting one. If someone was still looking for the money, how close had they come to Murray and Gemma?
Trent felt obliged to contact Steel. It would be the decent thing to do.
Trent procrastinated for an entire day before he finally made the call. He couldn’t believe he was about to admit to a complete stranger that his recently deceased father might have been a thief. He paced back and forth between his lounge and kitchen, trying to establish the appropriate approach to Montgomery Steel. Finally, unable to procrastinate any longer, he carried the phone to his lounge room along with an unopened bottle of red wine. He’d refrain from pouring a glass until after the call. No doubt he’d need it then. Trent dialled the number.
“Steel.” The man on the other end of the line clearly had no regard for pleasantries.
“Hello, Mr Steel. My name is Trent Hinds, and I have some information regarding an old case you worked on.”
“Oh yeah, which one?”
“The Melbourne Cup bank robbery.”
Trent heard the crackling of the phone line. “How’d you get my private number?”
“It’s a long story. I was wondering if we could meet in person to talk about it.”
“Look, buddy, there’s not going to be any meeting unless you give me something a little more interesting.” Steel’s voice was a harsh, throaty sound.
“How about I tell you that I know who stole the money from Jackson Rich.” Trent’s heart pounded as he listened to Steel breathing.
“Give me something to prove you’re legit, mate, or this conversation’s over.” Steel’s voice was full of authority.
“I understand. Then you should know, I’m a member of the police force and I think Tiffany Black was my dad’s girlfriend.”