Chan woke me promptly the next morning at five. It’s no use ignoring him or trying to shut him out. He’ll only yowl louder and start scratching the door. If that doesn’t work, he’ll revert to plan B, reaching up to my bedside table and running off with my watch in his teeth. He’s probably got a plan C and D too, but he’s never had to test them out on me. Today he was stretching up on his hind legs like some sort of miniature panther in a yoga pose. He’d unsheathed his front claws and was scratching the door with a long, squeaky-sounding action just like a fingernail down a blackboard. Ridiculous creature. He’d aced me on his first try.
I got up sleepily and narrowly avoided tripping up on him in the hallway. I gave him his usual biscuity things, flicked the kettle and early TV news on and jumped into the shower. Today was Friday: form day. That meant trawling through the morning’s delivery of Best Bets, Sportsman and Winning Post.
When I finished my shower, I noticed my mobile beeping with a text message sent from the night before. It was from Michelle.
Thanks for the flowers, Punter. Doc said operation was a success. C U when I get back from hols at the Gold Coast. M.
I smiled. Yesterday I’d sent her some flowers and a card to the clinic where she was having the ear surgery. It sounded like she’d be all right. I really hoped so.
I ground up some coffee beans whilst watching the TV. I couldn’t hear anything over the high-pitched grinding, but something on the screen caught my eye. They had a camera crew outside some stables that looked halfway familiar. A news presenter with a microphone stood in front of an ambulance and police cars outside the stable gates. It looked like they were covering some accident. A headline appeared at the bottom of the screen: ‘Star apprentice jockey killed in accident’.
I quickly grabbed the remote and turned up the sound. The presenter faced the camera with a sombre face. Talked about a young horseman whose career had been cut short by a tragic accident. They flashed a picture of him riding one of his many recent winners. Nicholas Malloy. Up-and-coming apprentice with the world at his feet. Then they switched the camera to the horse trainer he was indentured to. He looked ashen-faced and genuinely shocked, but still managed his customary scowl at all the unwanted publicity. If Sheamus O’Reilly thought he had problems with his spate of beaten favourites and deserting owners, then his day had just got a whole lot worse.
My mobile rang about three minutes later. It was Kate.
‘Have you heard the latest news from O’Reilly’s, about Nick Malloy?’
‘I just saw it on TV. What the hell happened?’
‘Not a hundred per cent. We’ve just sent a reporter out there, so I’ll know more later. But it looks like the poor kid was kicked in the head by a horse when he was tying a hay net up in its box.’
‘You’re kidding. I thought he must have had a riding accident. A serious fall from a horse.’
‘No, apparently not. It was just a freak accident doing a mundane stable task he’s probably done a thousand times before.’
‘Shit. That’s unbelievable. That kid was a top rider in the making. He can’t have been more than eighteen years old.’
‘I know. And to think he rode Romaro Boy for us only yesterday.’
‘I can’t believe it.’
‘Listen, that’s not the only thing I’m calling about. I should have some news back about Gofer later this morning.’
‘Gofer? Oh, you want me to swing by later, see what you’ve got?’
‘Why don’t you make it about elevenish. I’ll meet you in the coffee shop out the front of my work.’
I flicked around a few more channels, but couldn’t find anything else about Nicholas Malloy’s death on the TV. The radio’s racing station had a bit more detail on their news bulletin. They said that during the course of the morning’s stable duties, Malloy had been accidentally kicked in the head by a horse. He was found by another stable-hand who raised the alarm. By the time an ambulance arrived, he was pronounced dead.
I didn’t really know the kid personally, just knew of him as a rider. But what a senseless loss of life. When you get kicked by a horse it damn well hurt. I knew, I’d copped a few in my time. Could give you a nasty gash or even break a leg, as had happened to me once. But it was rare that a kick was fatal. Most were waist high, vicious cow kicks delivered by cranky or startled horses. But when a horse did deliberately line you up with both barrels and struck you head high, then there was precious little you could do about it.
Around ten that morning, I walked down from my flat to Kooyong Station and caught a train into town. The Age’s offices were almost opposite Southern Cross Station, so I got off there and waited for Kate in the café next to her building. I was a little early, so I ordered a coffee and sat there flicking through the morning papers. It wasn’t what you’d call a real news day and I found I’d read my way through most of the papers’ irrelevant headlines until I came to the entertainment section. I rarely go to the movies, but watch out for anything decent so that I can get it on DVD when it’s available. I needn’t have bothered. A string of superhero action movies were competing against each other for viewers. What a joke, teenage fluff. Next, I scanned the live musicals and sat up and took notice almost immediately. Now that was a musical I could go to. Better still, a musical I could invite someone along to.
Kate arrived shortly after, gave me a nod and a smile as she ordered a coffee at the counter, then came over and joined me.
‘I still can’t believe it about Nicholas Malloy,’ she said, shaking her head.
‘I know. It seems such a cruel accident. Robbing someone that young and talented of his life.’
We spent a further five minutes talking about Malloy’s death before Kate looked at her watch and cut me short.
‘I can’t take too long. I’ve got some news about your kidnap suspect, Gofer.’
‘What did you find out?’
Kate reached into her bag and brought out an A4 envelope. She pulled a sheet out of it and passed it over to me.
I looked at the charge sheet of Gofer, real name Gordon Bunting. Hardly what you’d call a criminal mastermind. His life seemed to be one of habitual petty crime. As a teenager, he’d been picked up for nicking cars and a string of repeat shoplifting offences. Gofer had done a short stint in a boys’ home for that, and when he’d come out, it seemed that he’d graduated to the more lucrative trade of housebreaking and general burglary. He wasn’t particularly successful at those either. He’d been caught on four occasions and sentenced to three-month jail stints here and six months there. I finished reading it and looked up at Kate.
‘It’s certainly the résumé of a small-time loser. What do you think?’
Kate frowned. ‘I agree about the small-time loser bit. That’s why I’ve got some doubts he’d be involved in something like this. He’s a petty thief. Done time for house-breaking, burglary, and various stealing offences. But he hasn’t got the form for heavy stuff like kidnapping. Unless, of course, he’s tagged along as a driver or in some other minor role. I don’t know.’
She looked thoughtfully at Gofer’s report, took a sip of her coffee and started up again.
‘The other thing I don’t understand is where the racing connection comes into it for Gofer.’
‘I can fill you in on that, although there’s not much to tell, really. As a kid he was an apprentice jockey to a local Caulfield trainer. He’s still the size of a jockey. Probably helped him in his other vocation, house-breaking. I first noticed him at the track about a decade ago when I was working for my father.’
‘What happened to the riding thing?’
‘It didn’t last longer than his second year. Other stable lad’s money and gear went missing. Word got around that he was a tea leaf. He got fired and his riding career was as good as over. He ended up riding work here and there. You’d see him hanging around the track every Saturday scrounging for a bet. He always seemed to have money to gamble. Then he disappeared for a good while. Anyway, next time he surfaced he seemed to have stepped up in the world. Got a job as a bookmaker’s ground man.’
‘Ground man?’
‘They’re the guys you see in the betting ring watching for any price movements. As soon as something firms in or blows in the betting, their job is to alert the bookmaker as quickly as possible. Nowadays they’ve all got phones. Going back then, you’d see them sprint back to their stand like Manikato if there was a shortener in the betting. They’d fair dinkum run you over if you got in their way.’
‘Who’d he work for?’
I polished off the rest of my coffee and wiped my lips with the napkin.
‘That’s where it gets interesting. Wanna take a guess?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know any bookmakers, except the ones in this case. Big Oakie and the other one, Keegan.’ Kate looked at me for a moment before the penny dropped. ‘Shit, you don’t mean he worked for either of them?’
‘Yep. Gofer worked for a short while as Oakie’s ground man six years ago. I used to see him regularly around his stand. I don’t think he lasted long, though. Not sure why, just disappeared. Maybe on account of him doing one of his regular stretches inside.’
‘Have you talked to Oakie about this?’
‘Not yet. I wanted to check out his record with you first.’
‘Mmmm.’ Kate wasn’t convinced. She’s a hard marker and took my argument apart pretty easily. ‘I don’t know, Punter, it’s still not his form. He’s a petty thief and that’s a long way from kidnap and slicing off ears. In my job, you get to see a lot of crims. Most of them gravitate to a certain level. They’re either hard men, wannabe hard men or bit players. Assault, armed robbery, extortion? Gofer’s none of those, never will be. You told me yourself he’s only the size of a jockey, so he’s hardly going to intimidate anyone. His path in crime has been set. He’s only ever gonna be a small-time thief.’
‘What about Gofer’s connection with Oakie, working for him as a ground man?’
‘How many staff would Oakie have had working for him over the past ten years?’
I did a quick count, adding them up. ‘He carries a team of about six every race meeting. Clerks, bagmen, ground men. They come and go. He has some back-up staff to help with IT and accounts. My guess is he’d have turned over dozens of staff in that time.’
‘My point exactly. He’s not the only one who would have had a connection to Oakie.’
‘Well what about the aftershave then?’ I told her excitedly about Michelle recognising the aftershave and me noticing that Gofer wore that particular brand.
‘It’s got to be more than just a coincidence that a regular racegoer and one of the kidnappers use the same brand of cheap aftershave.’
Kate got up and smiled at me. She leant across the table and I thought I was going to score a kiss on the cheek. No such luck. Instead, she took an exaggerated sniff.
‘Punter, you might use a decent aftershave, but there are plenty of guys out there who douse themselves with sickly smelling lolly water every morning after a shave. Gofer’s not alone in that department. I’m sorry, but I gotta go.’
‘Hey,’ I said, thrusting the Herald’s entertainment section in front of her. ‘Did you know Guys and Dolls is playing at Her Majesty’s?’
She stopped and stared at the paper for a moment. Her eyes seemed to show a genuine flicker of interest. ‘That’s that great old racing musical, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah. You know they got all those old-time songs: I got the horse right here, his name is Paul Revere . . .’
‘You can’t sing to save yourself, Punter. But I know the song.’
‘What would you say if I came up with a couple of tickets?’
‘I’d say you need to find someone other than your cat to take along.’
‘I take it that’s a no, then?’
Kate left me sulking at the table. She was probably right about Gofer. But I wasn’t prepared to dismiss him that easily. I ordered another coffee and threw a few different angles around. None of them seemed to go anywhere and I still kept coming back to Gofer and the aftershave that Michelle had recognised. I couldn’t help think there was something I’d missed. Finally, I rang Kate back on my mobile.
‘Hi, it’s me again.’
‘No. I’ve told you, I don’t want to see Guys and Dolls.’
‘It’s all right, I can take my cat. Listen, there’s one more thing about Gofer I need you to find out.’
Kate let out a sigh. ‘Punter, I really do have a deadline to meet.’
‘Would you be able to find out who he mixed with in prison, his last stretch?’
‘Jesus, I’m a crime reporter, not a parole officer. The answer’s no! Anyway, you’d need a cop to interview the general manager of the prison for that. And you’re a punter, not a policeman.’
That was true. I was no cop, but I knew where to find one.
I was shown into Jim Beering’s office by his receptionist. It was set under the grandstand at Caulfield Racecourse and most punters wouldn’t even be aware there was anything there if it wasn’t for the tinted one-way window overlooking the betting ring. I’d walked in on Beering during his lunch hour. He had his feet up on the desk, a brown paper bag of sandwiches on his lap and a bottle of juice in his hand. He slurped a mouthful down, wiped his mouth with his hand and told me to sit down. He picked up a formguide he’d been reading and waved it at me.
‘What happened to that horse of your old man’s the other day?’ he said accusingly.
I had to think back to which horse he was talking about. I’d been to several different meetings and played a dozen different races since I’d last spoken to him. Now I remembered: it was the Caulfield meeting after the police had interviewed me.
‘You know the one,’ he went on, ‘the bank teller’s job,’ he said, doing a bad job of mimicking me. ‘What happened to her? Bloody thing stopped like she was shot.’
I had to stifle a laugh at Jim’s moaning. Didn’t matter what I tipped him, the end result would always be a disaster. If I put him on to a good thing, it would get beat a head on the line. If I said ‘Get on this next run’, the horse would be sent for a spell and not sighted till six months later. Dad’s mare had faded under her big weight to finish out of a place. As usual, my tip was rubbish.
‘A bloody bank teller’s job,’ he said again, shaking his head.
‘It started in the red, Jim. In case you hadn’t heard, odds on – look on. You should know not to back them when they’re that short.’
‘Don’t go makin’ excuses, Punter, you’re full of ’em. That’s the last time I’m copping a tip off you. What are you doing around here anyway, races aren’t till tomorrow.’
He hadn’t asked me to sit down, but I sank back into one of the two chairs in front of his desk anyway.
‘I need a detective. Someone who can ask the chief at Barwon Prison a few questions.’
Beering gave me one of his narrow-eyed copper’s stares. Shook his head slowly from side to side, and then took another gulp of his juice. ‘You’re up to no good, Punter.’
He was less than enthusiastic after I told him what I’d pieced together and what I wanted him to do. His take on Gofer was similar to Kate’s.
‘Yeah, I know Gofer from around the traps. He’s a shifty little prick, but his go’s thievin’. Can’t see him getting involved in something like that.’
‘I know it’s not his form.’
‘He’s not in Chopper Read’s class, that’s for sure. You want to be looking for a standover man for something like this.’
‘Jim, can you ask anyway? It might turn up something we hadn’t thought of.’
‘All right,’ he said grudgingly, ‘I’ll make the call.’
‘Thanks.’
I got up to leave and was halfway out the door when he called out again.
‘Hey, Punter.’ He’d picked up the formguide again. ‘Got one for tomorrow?’
Because I was at Caulfield, I thought I might as well walk the track and see what condition it was in for tomorrow’s meeting. Been a while since I’d done that. Once upon a time I used to walk the tracks religiously every Friday afternoon. These days all the clubs give out penetrometer readings for the state of the track on the morning of the race anyway, so there was no need to physically walk them any more. But you could still learn a lot from poking around and kicking the odd sod of turf.
I started just after the winning post and walked around anticlockwise, in the same direction as the horses race. We’d had some showers over the last couple of days, but there had been plenty of wind with it as well, which had kept the ground reasonably dry. In fact, as I walked along I was pleasantly surprised at how firm the track was for this time of year. A couple of runners doing laps jogged past as I prodded my heel into the grass. I said g’day and they nodded back, grimacing as they ran. I’ve never seen a runner yet who smiles when they run, it can’t be that enjoyable a sport.
At the mile gap, some trackmen were busy doing work on the running rail. They were putting in a false rail a metre or so out from the rail to protect the course proper for the more important spring meetings coming up. I said hello to one of the guys leaning on a shovel having a fag.
‘Save yourself the walk, mate,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry, the track’ll be perfect.’
At the fourteen-hundred mark, the course proper backs onto the stables. As I walked past, some horses were already beginning their afternoon exercise. Strappers were riding or leading them, bound for the walking rings, or the swimming pool, or maybe just a pick of grass. My father’s horses weren’t out yet. He liked to start his afternoon routine a little later than the other trainers did. But I recognised some of the woollen exercise rugs of the other trainers who were there. Pricey’s big string of horses were headed for the pool, as were some of fellow trainer Peter Roody’s. And the yellow and green checked rugs of O’Reilly’s stable were out and about too. Some of his horses were heading for a swim. I saw O’Reilly’s foreman, Frank, leading a chestnut horse towards the pool, so I gave him a wave. He didn’t recognise me at first; I’d only met him last Sunday. But as I got closer he remembered who I was and greeted me.
‘Terrible thing that happened to Malloy, wasn’t it?’ I said.
He shook his head sadly and stopped to give his horse a pick of grass while he talked to me.
‘It’s just heartbreaking. Shocking. A kid like that cut down in his prime. I’ve got a son that age myself. And the stupid thing is, it wasn’t even a riding accident.’
‘I know. That’s what I thought. When a jockey buys the farm, it’s usually because of a bad fall. But he just copped a kick in the head, didn’t he?’
Frank nodded. ‘We’ve got a cranky old mare, Duredin, who’s got a reputation as a kicker. She’s all right, as long as you keep an eye on her. But if you turn your back on her, she has been known to let one fly. I don’t know what he was thinking. Everyone in the stable knew to watch her real close. Seems he was tying her hay net up in the corner of the box. Poor kid wouldn’t even have seen it coming. They’re holding his funeral next week.’
‘How has O’Reilly taken it?’
Frank shrugged. ‘You know what he’s like, doesn’t like to show a soft side. But I think it’s shaken him up more than he’s letting on.’
I left Frank to it. At least his parting news was a bit brighter. He told me Romaro Boy had continued to thrive since his last run and the stable was looking forward to him racing next week.
At the five-furlong mark I walked wide, seeing what sort of ground those horses who had drawn an outside barrier would encounter. Out there, there didn’t seem to be any particular bias. I moved in closer, trying to think like a rider on a horse. What was the best part of the track? Where were the best lanes?
Just up ahead of me towards the turn were another couple of track-walkers. I caught up with them and wasn’t surprised to see top jockey Damian Culliver and trainer Rodney Kemp. Culliver always walked his tracks the day before a meeting. He had a large golf umbrella in his hand, which he was using to prod the ground every now and then.
‘Hi guys. What do you think?’ I said by way of greeting.
‘G’day, Punter.’ Culliver grinned. ‘The drizzle don’t seem to have made any difference. Should be a good track tomorrow, or dead at worst.’
Kemp thought so too. It would probably suit his front-running colt that Culliver was riding for him in the third, although I didn’t mention it. I walked on ahead of them and had nearly completed my circuit of the track when my phone rang again. It was Jim Beering.
‘Where are you now?’
‘Still at Caulfield.’
‘Jesus, you bloody well live here. Don’t you have a home to go to?’
‘I just walked the track.’
‘Well, seeing as you’re here, you might as well duck back around to my office again. I just got some interesting mail about Gofer.’
Ten minutes later I was back where I’d started. Beering sat opposite me across the desk, his hands together and fingers pointed church-steeple style under his chin.
‘So, what’s the mail then?’ I asked, sitting down.
‘I spoke to Glen Teague, the general manager at Barwon. In fact, I used to know him when he was second-in-command at Pentridge, back when I was in the force, so he was happy to fill me in on Gofer.’
Beering got up and began pacing the room. It’s an old cop habit he has when he’s talking to someone. I find it annoying, especially when I’ve got to turn around and crane my neck to look at him.
‘Gofer got sent away for six months on his last stretch. Got busted again for house-breaking and being in possession of stolen goods. Man’s a born thief and he’ll most likely die one. Anyway, back in the slammer he goes, but this time it’s no holiday camp like that last one he went to. This is his fourth time in and the judge sends him down to Barwon. Ever been to HMS Barwon, Punter?’
‘Can’t say I have.’
He shook his head. ‘Nor do you want to. Since they closed Pentridge down, they’ve got nowhere special to put the hard cases. They divvy them up between a few of the regional jails, but for some reason Barwon cops the shit. They get some hard men down there and there’s always a gang war between one side or another going on. If you can’t look after yourself, then you need to be on the right side to survive.’
‘And Gofer’s not what you’d call a hard man.’
‘No, we both know that. He’s a pint-sized jockey who’s never going to grow taller than the windows he crawls through breaking into houses. Teague said he got himself bashed the second day he was there.’
‘How did he get through the next six months?’
‘Well Gofer’s also a braggart and a cunning little rat. If he was to survive, he knew he’d better ingratiate himself into one of the established gangs. Get himself some badly needed protection or he’d end up a punching bag for the rest of his stay.’ Beering stopped pacing laps of his office and decided to sit down in his chair again. Thank god for that. I’d need a chiropractor to put my neck back if he’d kept it up much longer.
‘Teague said he made friends with Ronnie Davis. You ever heard of him, Punter?’
‘Sorry, no. I don’t mix in your circles. But go on.’
‘Davis ran the show down there at Barwon. You were either in his gang, or with the Vietnamese mob, or you were caught in between. He’s always been a violent bastard. He used to ambush drinkers out the back of the trendy pub car parks and bash ’em till he got their wallet and PINs. Then he’d go and clean out their accounts whilst he left ’em bleeding half to death.’
‘Not the sort of person you want to meet after a night out.’
Beering squinted. ‘No, he’s a genuine bad bastard. Both him and his brother, who he’s teamed up with over the years.’
‘His brother?’
‘He’s got a younger half-brother, Craig, a dead-set psycho. Been up numerous times for assault with a deadly weapon, usually a knife. But Ronnie’s the one with the brains. Always one to sniff out a quick quid.’ Beering looked down at some notes he’d made. ‘How’s this for a track record: PIN extortion – I’ve already told you about that. Armed robbery. Assault. Manslaughter; he was serving nine years at Barwon for killing a guy in a home invasion that went wrong. Bashing gays.’
‘Where’s the profit in that?’
‘He used to bash ’em for fun and take their wallets. Then he started to go through their IDs, see who it was he’d caught out.’
I still didn’t get it. Beering explained it to me.
‘Some of those guys who hang around the dunnies looking for young boys are amongst our most respectable citizens. Businessmen, teachers, even judges. Ronnie would get his younger brother Craig to go bait, then they’d give the poor fag a flogging till they coughed up a PIN or some cash. One night, it seems they caught out a well-known Toorak doctor who wanted young Craig to suck his cock. They gave him the customary bashing, but when Ronnie went through his wallet and found out who he was, that’s when he got the idea he could get a regular paycheque rather than the one-off fee he’d been getting.’
‘Blackmail?’
‘Yep, well, let’s call it the Ronnie Davis school of blackmail. Nothing too suave about it. He got away with that one for a good while before the doctor had had enough and went to the cops. He was taking two grand a month off that bloke. I’d say he’s done others too, who would never report it.’
‘So how’d Gofer get friendly with Ronnie?’
‘It’s feasible to think he might have come up with the idea for Davis to target the bookmaking fraternity. And maybe Ronnie’s brother Craig came in with them. The knife assaults on Michelle and Keegan’s wife all bear his trademark.’
I frowned; made a puzzled face. ‘Yeah, you mentioned Craig had form with knives.’
Beering grunted. ‘He’s a vicious bastard who won’t hesitate to use ’em. One of his charge sheets shows an unprovoked attack where he sliced a guy’s face open with a fishing knife as he sat at a bar. There’ve been three other knife-related instances recorded against him too, although there are probably twice as many that he’s gotten away with. He’s not half the fighter Ronnie is, so maybe he makes up for it by going the knife to look tough.’
‘Sounds like he enjoys it.’
‘That’s an understatement. Anyway, we were talking about Gofer. He’d have to offer something up to Ronnie to come under his protection. Teague said they became pretty tight. Spent a lot of time talking together when they were inside.’
‘Were? I know Gofer’s been out, what, six months now. Is Ronnie out too?’
‘He’s out all right,’ said Beering wearily. ‘Out on the run. Busted out on Christmas Day.’
‘Jesus.’
‘Yep. Not the first time he’s tried either. He faked having severe food poisoning after the Christmas dinner. They took him to the jail hospital where he hostaged a medic, held a needle to his neck. Got himself through the gates. Had someone waiting for him in a car. It was well-planned. Picked Christmas when they had a skeleton staff on. ’
‘Was Craig the driver? Or maybe it was Gofer?’
‘Both are possible. Neither Ronnie nor Craig have been sighted since, despite a massive manhunt. It’s gone cold now. I think the police think Ronnie’s interstate or has left the country.’
I let out a low whistle. ‘Sounds a good story to me. I’d buy it.’
Beering, for all his information, was noncommittal. ‘Oh yeah, it sounds a good enough story. But don’t get too excited. I could come up with a dozen others like it if I tried. Like the one that Gofer’s got absolutely zip to do with it. That your aftershave theory is nothing but shit. That maybe Oakie’s daughter is mixed up in it herself.’
‘What! There’s no way she’s involved.’
Beering sniffed unconcernedly. ‘I’m just giving you some of the angles, same as the police will be working on now.’ He got up and started pacing again. ‘They could be friends of Oakie’s or ex-employees. They could be clients. They all gotta be checked out. And believe me, they will.’
‘Well, hang on a minute, you just said it was a good story.’
‘Yeah, it is. And I’ll pass it on to those two jokers at the State Crime Squad. I’m seeing that detective woman – what’s her name, West? – next Monday, I’ll talk to her then.’
The frustration must have shown in my face.
‘What? Do all police investigations move with such lightning speed?’
‘Ah, fuck off, Punter. It’s Friday afternoon. They’re not going to pull a finger out between now and next week. Not for something as sketchy as that. You haven’t got prints, you haven’t got a voice or a face that’s been recognised. You haven’t got any DNA tying them to Michelle. You haven’t got a weapon. And you certainly haven’t got Ronnie Davis or his brother hanging around to ’fess up to a scheme like this. You haven’t got nothin’ except a yarn that you and I have been kicking around.’
‘What about Gofer? Can’t they pick him up, question him?’
‘If you picked Gofer up you’d want to search his house, and to bother a judge for a warrant at this time of the day with what we’ve got wouldn’t wash. Believe me, he’ll keep till Monday. Besides, if the story works out like we think, it’s Ronnie Davis and his brother we want anyway. They’ll probably end up putting surveillance on Gofer, who will hopefully lead us straight to them.’
I felt better hearing that. ‘Yeah, you’re probably right.’ I stood up to go. ‘Thanks, Jim.’
‘You watch, he’ll turn up tomorrow at Caulfield like he owns the place. Oh, and Punter, I don’t have to tell you not to go near him, do I?’
Later that night, I caught up with Big Oakie, Kevin and Tiny at the Star Kingdom Lucky Dragon, a Chinese restaurant near Oakie’s house at Balwyn. Between the four of us, we were rapidly demolishing the Banquet Supreme. In Oakie’s big hands the chopsticks looked like little twigs, but his size belied his skill in using them. He scooped up another serve of beef and fried rice whilst Tiny gave up the struggle and switched to a fork.
‘I dunno how youse blokes use these things. Fair dinkum I don’t. I’d make a jockey’s weight if I had to use ’em every meal.’
‘All in the finger action, Tiny,’ said Oakie, ‘just like writing with two pens in your hand.’
‘Yeah, well, that explains it then. I never was much good at writin’. Can sign me name, that’s about all. Food’s good here, though, no matter what you eat it with.’
We all murmured agreement in between mouthfuls. Made some small talk. I asked Oakie how Michelle was getting along.
‘She’s had the operation. The doc told me it all went well. She’s gonna take it easy for a coupla days then Veronica’s takin’ her up the Gold Coast for a week. Give her a bit of a spoil and a chance to forget about what’s happened. She’ll probably give my credit card a mother of a hiding while she’s there, but . . . what can you do? The police shrink said we gotta get her back into a regular routine again. Keep her occupied and get her out socialising, or get her a job. I’m going to start her up clerking for me again as soon as she’s back.’
The restaurant owner came over and said hello to Oakie; he obviously knew him as a regular. Oakie ordered another round of drinks and a couple of waiters appeared like magic and cleared our table. When we were settled back with some fresh beers, I leant forward and brought them up-to-date on everything I’d found out about Gofer.
I started by filling them in on how Michelle had recognised the scent of the aftershave I’d spilt as being worn by one of the kidnappers. Then I told them about bumping into Gofer at Mornington races and identifying the same aftershave on him.
‘That’s when I started thinking there might be a link, given his racing background and that he worked for Oakie at one time. Here,’ I said, pulling out a copy of his charge sheet, ‘I got Kate to take a look at his record. It’s only small-time stuff, but where it gets interesting is his connection with a guy he did time with in Barwon prison. Guy by the name of Ronnie Davis.’
I gave them Beering’s take on Ronnie and his half-brother Craig and how it might have worked out for Gofer, looking for protection inside jail.
‘He could have big-noted himself to Ronnie Davis. Made out there was an easy quid in snatching a bookmaker’s daughter.’
‘Gofer! That fuckin’ little weasel. To think he used to work for me a few years back,’ said Oakie. ‘I can see how it ties together now.’
‘Well that makes it easy, then,’ said Kevin. ‘All we gotta do is have a little talk with Gofer and get him to show us where the two brothers are hiding out. Piece of cake.’
‘Too right,’ said Tiny. ‘Snatch him up like they did poor Michelle. Take him to a dark little cellar and convince him to tell us everything.’
‘Convince him?’ I said. I was far from convinced about what they were proposing.
‘Yeah,’ said Tiny enthusiastically, ‘I’ll have ’im tied to a chair, like, and start sharpening the old axe up in front of him. That usually does the trick. Then I start testing the blade’s sharpness on his toes. Never fails.’
‘Nah, that’s too fuckin’ slow,’ said Kevin. ‘Over in Iraq, we didn’t have time for that shit. If we caught an insurgent out in the field and wanted to know if there was an ambush coming, we used to shoot him in the foot straight off, before we even asked a single question. Then we’d say, “Right, next one’s in the knee, then we’re gonna work our way up unless you answer the questions”.’
‘No kidding?’ Oakie joined in. ‘Did it work?’
‘Fuckin’ oath. Most spilled the beans after the first shot. Although we left a few behind with missing kneecaps. I never saw them use more than two bullets on anyone.’
‘That don’t sound like regular army procedure,’ said Tiny.
‘I wasn’t in what you call the regular army,’ said Kevin. He thought about it a moment; decided it needed further explanation. ‘Mine was more what you’d call a special division.’
I was thinking it was pretty special too, as was the treatment they were dreaming up for Gofer.
‘Look, guys. We’re jumping the gun here. Firstly, Gofer makes a good suspect, but we’ve still got a lot to do to prove that he was involved.’
‘What more do you want to know?’ said Oakie. ‘He worked for me, knows my movements and family. He’s done time with a heavy who’d be up for that sort of thing. And then Michelle’s identified that aftershave he wears.’
‘But if you guys jump in now and “convince” Gofer to talk, leaving him minus a kneecap or short a couple of toes, then the police will be straight on to you.’
‘Not if we don’t leave him around,’ said Tiny. ‘We could make him disappear. Permanently.’
What was I doing here? ‘No, Tiny. It won’t work. Oakie? You know you can’t do that. Besides, if something went wrong, you’d alert the real kidnappers that you were on to them. They’d just go to ground. At the moment you’ve got the advantage that they don’t suspect we know who they are. If you’re going to do anything, why not just follow Gofer? At some stage he’s going to lead you back to Ronnie Davis and his brother. And they’re the ones you really want. That’s exactly what the police are going to do. Except that you’ve got a couple of days’ head start. Beering’s not going to see the police till Monday, so you’ve got all weekend.’
‘I dunno. Maybe I gotta think more about this,’ said Oakie. ‘Gofer might only be a messenger, but that don’t make him any less guilty than Ronnie or his brother.’
‘If they did it.’
‘Yeah, okay, if.’
Oakie threw back another beer, his eyes flicking back and forth like I’d seen him at the track when he was figuring the odds. He was thinking. Wondering if he could short-circuit the police investigation, get to the kidnappers before they did.
‘Okay, so say we do follow him. Where do we pick him up from? You got an address?’
‘No. Police might have his last-known whereabouts, but I wouldn’t be asking Beering or West for it.’
‘Gofer will rock up at the track tomorrow, bold as brass. Why wouldn’t he? No one suspects him and he’ll just go about his punting like he normally does. I’ll keep an eye out for him. As soon as I see him, I’ll call up Kev and Tiny and they can follow him. Gofer doesn’t know them, so he won’t notice he’s being tagged. What do you think?’
I’m sure Oakie and the others would have been happier grabbing Gofer and persuading him by their means to tell them what he knew. But Oakie was no fool. He wasn’t going to jump in and get fingered over a small fish like Gofer. Thankfully, common sense prevailed.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll try it Punter’s way.’
Next morning, I arrived at Caulfield well before the first. Kevin and Tiny were also there, but we’d agreed not to be seen together in case Gofer saw us. I called Kevin on his mobile. He was in a bar over near the lawn area. Tiny was in another café on the other side of the grandstand. The plan was, I’d monitor the members’ area and betting ring and let the others know as soon as I saw him. Oakie, too, would be on the lookout. From up on his stand he could scan the crowd and watch for Gofer whilst calling the odds. There’s only a limited number of places you can go to on a racecourse, so we were pretty confident we’d spot him sooner or later.
I passed some of the time playing the second race. One of Freedy’s horses, whom I’d seen win impressively in the country last start, was good value at fours. I backed it and a couple of savers with Oakie after I’d seen them parading in the mounting yard.
‘Any sign of him yet?’ Oakie asked me.
I shook my head. ‘No. But still time yet.’
When I walked up into the stand, I saw Kevin leaning against a pylon with a formguide. I shook my head at him and he nodded. Then I rang Tiny and gave him the same message.
‘No sweat,’ said Tiny, ‘but I’m down after the first race. It’s a bloody trap waitin’ around here. A man’ll do his wages hangin’ around! Got anything for me in this?’
I told him to back Freedy’s runner and to keep nearby, as Gofer often surfaced to look at the horses in the mounting yard after they’d raced. Up in the stand I scanned the crowd down on the lawn with my binoculars. No sign of the little rat. I couldn’t see him anywhere in the grandstand either.
After the race, I stayed where I was, sweeping the crowd with my glasses and paying particular attention to the mounting yard where I’d seen him at previous race meetings. My phone rang – it was Tiny.
‘Hey, thanks for the tip, Punter. That thing shit in! I got four fifty about it. Got another for me?’
‘I’ll give you a tip. That was the second race and Gofer’s still a no-show. I’m getting worried.’
‘Have another scout around. Go for a walk, see if you can spot him. I’m sure he’ll turn up by the next race.’
I did as Tiny suggested. Walked around through all the little bars and cafés that I normally wouldn’t go into. I looked in the members’ area, checked out the birdcage. Walked all around the horse stalls. Then I checked back with Oakie again. Same result. He hadn’t seen him anywhere either. By the time the third race had come and gone, Gofer was still a no-show. Ditto for the fourth.
I was about to start back on my rounds when my mobile rang. This time it was Jim Beering.
‘Hey, Punter, you anywhere near my office?’
‘Yeah. I just watched the last race, I’m still up in the stand.’
‘Drop in on your way down.’
I caught the escalator down to the ground floor and walked to his offices at the rear of the stand. His door was open so I went straight in to find him sitting in serious thought at his desk. There were no formguides on his desk, no jovial greeting or asking for tips either.
‘I just got off the phone from the State Crime Squad,’ he said. ‘That surveillance thing with Gofer, it’s not going to happen.’
‘I’ll tell you why not, because they found Gofer’s body this morning, dumped in a St Kilda laneway. Little bastard had been stabbed to death.’