Kick Back

Twenty-eight

On Friday they rotated the shifts again. Wyatt took the first shift, and he saw the money arrive.

Two men brought it in a briefcase, late in the morning, as Anna had said they would. From the driver’s seat of a rented Datsun, he watched them drive up in a mud-splashed white Falcon, two men in tweed jackets, yellow hard hats on the rear window shelf. They were in there for five minutes, and when they came out they looked fed-up.

Hobba watched until two o’clock. Pedersen watched until four, this time on foot. At five past four, Wyatt and Hobba pulled up in the van. Pedersen climbed into the back and changed into overalls. Finn had come back from his coffee break, he told them. And he’d seen a client go in.

They hit at four-twelve.

Anyone passing on the footpath might have seen a white commercial van pull into the driveway of 5 Quiller Place and three men get out. The men wore balaclavas-it was a cold day-and overalls. They kept to the far side of the van, which meant that they couldn’t be seen clearly, but one witness, a Lady Wright, later told police crossly that ‘three tradesmen came out, pushing one of those trolley things’. There was only one other witness, a shop manager checking to see that he had switched off his car lights. He saw the van over at number 5 and said he assumed they were getting their computers serviced.

No-one saw the three men pause at the front door and pull the balaclavas over their faces, then plunge through, fast and silent.

Wyatt went to Finn’s office, Hobba to Anna Reid’s.

Pedersen locked the front door, unplugged the telephone and held his gun to Amber’s temple. He touched his forefinger to her lips and pushed down on her shoulders until she understood and sat on the floor. He said nothing.

Hobba was there first, pushing Anna Reid ahead of him. She stumbled, restricted by a close-fitting skirt. Her hair fell forward, concealing her face. ‘Who are you?’ she said, shaking it back. ‘What are you doing?’

Hobba said nothing. He pushed her onto the floor next to Amber and pressed his.38 to the top of her head.

Wyatt came in with Finn and a client-male, young, wearing a short leather jacket and designer jeans. The client was blurry, vague, as though half asleep. Finn refused to be hurried. He entered alertly, a vigorous shape in a grey, fitted suit, and stared in fury at Hobba and Pedersen and back at Wyatt. ‘You don’t know what you’re getting into here,’ he said.

Wyatt motioned with the gun.

‘What?’ Finn demanded. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Don’t, Mr Finn,’ Amber said. Her voice was shaky. ‘He wants you down here with us.’

Finn eased his big frame onto the floor. Wyatt prodded the client, who seemed to collapse in relief.

Hobba said, ‘Face each other in a circle, and put your wrists out.’

It was the only thing said by any of the men in the four minutes they were in the building. Later none of the victims could remember his exact words or what his voice was like. They were certain no names were used. They held out their wrists and felt the handcuffs click tight and they sat there then, in a circle, linked to a leg of Amber’s heavy desk, while two of the men left the room. The third stayed behind.

This one said nothing. He stood behind Anna Reid, his gun at the back of her bowed head, staring at Finn. The meaning was clear: try anything and she gets shot. Amber was certain it was a real gun. She could see bullet tips in the cylinder, and she heard the latex glove squeak against the metal. No sign of nervousness, no yelling, no waving of guns around. The policeman who later took her statement nodded. ‘Pros,’ he told her.

In Finn’s office, Hobba and Pedersen worked fast, slipping a cardboard carton over the safe and tipping it onto the trolley.

Wyatt heard them returning, the trolley wheels grumbling on the polished floor of the hall. Then he heard them go out the front door. He did not look round. He kept his gun on Anna Reid and his eyes on Finn.

A minute later there was a rap on the door frame. It’s done.

Wyatt touched his knee very gently against Anna’s shoulder, then backed out of the room, his gun now pointed at Finn. Finn seemed to swell, to spit his words: ‘I’ll find you bastards.’

In the hallway they removed their balaclavas, then left the house and heaved the safe into the rear of the van. Hobba scrambled in after it. Pedersen slammed the door and got into the passenger seat. Wyatt had the engine running. He eased them out of Quiller Place and onto Toorak Road, No-one looked twice at them.

At Chapel Street, Wyatt turned south for three blocks, then he cut in front of a tram and entered the system of side streets mapped out for him by Pedersen. They were narrow streets, made narrower by small glossy cars. A dog ran into their path from behind a red MG and they felt and heard the wheels tumble and crush it. Dogs here were valued over children. There would be outrage on Channel 10 tonight.

Then they were on Punt Road, still going south, quite fast now, but no faster than any combative peak-hour driver. An easy right with the lights onto Commercial Road, a smooth run onto St Kilda Road, heading north for a few blocks in the service lane, then quickly left, left again, and down with a gentle bump to the underground level and into the lock-up garage.

Wyatt began stripping off the transfers and unbolting the false number plates. Hobba joined Pedersen in the back of the van. Wyatt heard them conferring. Then Pedersen got out. ‘Wyatt, I can’t drill-the casing’s mill-hard grid, take hours. I’ll have to blow it.’

‘Can you do it without hurting the money?’

‘Piece of cake.’ Pedersen demonstrated with his hands. ‘What I do is, I concentrate the blast around the lock. No flying metal, just some smoke and noise.’

Wyatt nodded. He helped them unload the safe, backed the van out, and shut the garage door on them. Then, leaving Pedersen and Hobba to set the plastic explosive, he went up to the street level with a radio. After five minutes Hobba said, ‘All clear?’

The home-time traffic was heavy on St Kilda Road to Wyatt’s left and on Queens Road to his right, but here outside the pink and grey apartment block there was no traffic. He had been thinking of Sugarfoot Younger, but there was nothing to indicate that Sugarfoot was about. ‘All clear.’

‘Blowing now.’

There was a dull thud, like a distant door slamming. The radio crackled, as if Hobba’s hand had tightened in reflex.

Wyatt waited. They were taking a long time. He said, ‘All right?’

‘Wait a tick,’ Hobba replied. ‘My fucking ears. There’s smoke everywhere.’

Two minutes later, the radio crackled again. It was Hobba. ‘You little beauty.’

Wyatt walked down into the underground garage again and drove the van back into the lock-up. He could smell smoke; the air was still heavy with it. Hobba and Pedersen were crouched over the safe, which was blackened from the force of the explosion. The little door stood open, scorched and buckled, revealing small stacks of fifty- and hundred-dollar notes. Hobba hadn’t waited. He was bundling the money into a Qantas bag.

Wyatt unsnapped the fasteners of his overalls. ‘I’ll dump the van tomorrow but you two won’t be coming down here again so check you’ve got everything. Max, you dump the overalls and the balaclavas.’

Pedersen didn’t respond at first. Then he uttered a short laugh and looked around at Hobba. ‘Listen to him, would you. Give us a smile, Wyatt. Look at all the lovely loot.’

Wyatt ignored him. He stuffed his overalls, gloves and balaclava into a shopping bag, then retrieved and wiped the three.38 revolvers.

‘Forget it, Max,’ Hobba said.

‘Well he gives me the shits,’ Pedersen said.