helpful.
And why did a casual barman like Robbie deserve this kind of photographic attention? Was it because he wasn’t just a barman, as my anonymous caller had suggested?
Warren Bowman said senior drug squad officers were on the scene quickly after the uniformed cops reported finding Robbie’s body.
Expensive surveillance, two cameras on one occasion. That only happened to persons of great interest. Unless Robbie was an accidental, someone filmed in the surveillance of someone else. But, in that case, he would be someone close to the target; there was no other way he would be caught on camera so many times.
Robbie caught up in the surveillance of someone else. Was that it? The fleshy man?
Back to cooking. Time to add the tuna, get the rice going.
I was eating in front of the television when the phone rang. Cam.
‘Little trip in the morning,’ he said. ‘Won’t take long.’
‘I got talkin to the bloke at the hotel next door,’ Cam said. He wound down his window, flicked his cigarette end out, raised the window. We were in the V-8, passing the Fawkner Crematorium on the Hume, a sunny morning, petrol tanker ahead, Kenworth behind, stream of heavy metal coming the other way.
‘What’s the connection?’
‘Hotel’s part-owner of the carpark. Guest parkin. Carpark employs three blokes on eight-hour shifts, hotel provides security. In theory. This fella, he worked there eighteen months.’
‘The name again?’
‘Rick Chaffee. Two complaints about extra Ks appearin on the clock while he was there. One bloke from Adelaide had a logbook, he reckoned someone took his Discovery for a 200K spin.’
Cam edged out for a look, came back in. He was wearing Western District casual attire today, navyblue brushed-cotton shirt, heavy moleskin trousers, short riding boots. ‘On the day, this Chaffee, his story is he was on the phone, he thought he recognised the driver of the Land Cruiser, let him out without checkin ID. Honest mistake.’
‘They buy that?’
Cam shrugged. ‘What can you prove? Sacked him. Cops run the tape over him, the hotel bloke says. No form to speak of, some kid stuff in WA, he’s a WA boy, Mangoup, Banjoup, one of those up towns, they got hundreds. Plus he’s got an assault when he was a bouncer in King Street.’
He was steering with his fingertips, head back, index fingers tapping to the music, soft Harry Connick. ‘Worth a yarn, I reckon.’
‘If the bloke’s in this,’ I said, ‘it’ll take more than a yarn.’
Cam’s dark eyes lay on me for a moment.
I went back to reading the Age . The story at the bottom of page one was headlined: Call for Cannon Ridge tender probe .
It opened: The State Government was last night urged to hold an inquiry into the tendering process that awarded a 100-year lease on the Cannon Ridge snowfield and a mini-casino licence to a company associated with Melbourne’s millionaire Cundall family .
The company, Anaxan Holdings, has a glittering list of shareholders, including some of Australia’s Top 100 richest. A spokesman for shortlisted rival bidder WRG Resorts told a press conference yesterday that WRG has evidence that Anaxan knew details of all tenders before the vital second round of bidding .
The Minister for Development, Tony DiAmato, said WRG Resorts had not approached him. ‘I have no idea what they’re talking about. The previous government awarded this tender. We fought the whole idea of a private snowfield and another casino, everyone knows that. But it’s done, it’s history.’
Cam said, ‘I read that stuff you sent me. The Saint’s big with your crim tatt artist.’
I folded the paper. ‘That’s what my bloke said. Use half the phone book.’
I’d sent him the yellow A4 envelope left for me at Meaker’s, sent it by express courier, fat and silent Mr Cripps behind the wheel of his burnished 1976 Holden.
‘It’s down here,’ said Cam.
We turned right off the Hume, drove through a light industrial area, bricks,
And why did a casual barman like Robbie deserve this kind of photographic attention? Was it because he wasn’t just a barman, as my anonymous caller had suggested?
Warren Bowman said senior drug squad officers were on the scene quickly after the uniformed cops reported finding Robbie’s body.
Expensive surveillance, two cameras on one occasion. That only happened to persons of great interest. Unless Robbie was an accidental, someone filmed in the surveillance of someone else. But, in that case, he would be someone close to the target; there was no other way he would be caught on camera so many times.
Robbie caught up in the surveillance of someone else. Was that it? The fleshy man?
Back to cooking. Time to add the tuna, get the rice going.
I was eating in front of the television when the phone rang. Cam.
‘Little trip in the morning,’ he said. ‘Won’t take long.’
‘I got talkin to the bloke at the hotel next door,’ Cam said. He wound down his window, flicked his cigarette end out, raised the window. We were in the V-8, passing the Fawkner Crematorium on the Hume, a sunny morning, petrol tanker ahead, Kenworth behind, stream of heavy metal coming the other way.
‘What’s the connection?’
‘Hotel’s part-owner of the carpark. Guest parkin. Carpark employs three blokes on eight-hour shifts, hotel provides security. In theory. This fella, he worked there eighteen months.’
‘The name again?’
‘Rick Chaffee. Two complaints about extra Ks appearin on the clock while he was there. One bloke from Adelaide had a logbook, he reckoned someone took his Discovery for a 200K spin.’
Cam edged out for a look, came back in. He was wearing Western District casual attire today, navyblue brushed-cotton shirt, heavy moleskin trousers, short riding boots. ‘On the day, this Chaffee, his story is he was on the phone, he thought he recognised the driver of the Land Cruiser, let him out without checkin ID. Honest mistake.’
‘They buy that?’
Cam shrugged. ‘What can you prove? Sacked him. Cops run the tape over him, the hotel bloke says. No form to speak of, some kid stuff in WA, he’s a WA boy, Mangoup, Banjoup, one of those up towns, they got hundreds. Plus he’s got an assault when he was a bouncer in King Street.’
He was steering with his fingertips, head back, index fingers tapping to the music, soft Harry Connick. ‘Worth a yarn, I reckon.’
‘If the bloke’s in this,’ I said, ‘it’ll take more than a yarn.’
Cam’s dark eyes lay on me for a moment.
I went back to reading the Age . The story at the bottom of page one was headlined: Call for Cannon Ridge tender probe .
It opened: The State Government was last night urged to hold an inquiry into the tendering process that awarded a 100-year lease on the Cannon Ridge snowfield and a mini-casino licence to a company associated with Melbourne’s millionaire Cundall family .
The company, Anaxan Holdings, has a glittering list of shareholders, including some of Australia’s Top 100 richest. A spokesman for shortlisted rival bidder WRG Resorts told a press conference yesterday that WRG has evidence that Anaxan knew details of all tenders before the vital second round of bidding .
The Minister for Development, Tony DiAmato, said WRG Resorts had not approached him. ‘I have no idea what they’re talking about. The previous government awarded this tender. We fought the whole idea of a private snowfield and another casino, everyone knows that. But it’s done, it’s history.’
Cam said, ‘I read that stuff you sent me. The Saint’s big with your crim tatt artist.’
I folded the paper. ‘That’s what my bloke said. Use half the phone book.’
I’d sent him the yellow A4 envelope left for me at Meaker’s, sent it by express courier, fat and silent Mr Cripps behind the wheel of his burnished 1976 Holden.
‘It’s down here,’ said Cam.
We turned right off the Hume, drove through a light industrial area, bricks,
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