Andrew, came out in 2002.’
‘The third one,’ said Villani. He took out the camera, found the image, offered the camera to Colby. ‘You might remember this bloke.’
Villani had served in the Armed Robbery Squad under Colby, they went to an in-progress at a bank in Glen Iris, he and Colby and Dance, arrived on the scene late, it ended with Colby jumping onto the bonnet of a moving yellow Commodore, the front-seat passenger stuck his gun out, a Magnum, wrong-handed, fired four shots, took away a big piece of Colby’s right pec, a bit of an ear. Colby crawled onto the roof rack, reached down, got his fingersinto the driver’s hair, pulled his head half out the window and banged it against the frame, repeatedly.
Doing around eighty, the Commodore crossed tramlines, clipped an oncoming tradesman’s van, hit a concrete bus shelter, broadsided into a tree, spun into a small park, rolled twice, came to rest beside a sandpit. Children were playing in it, chirping.
When Villani and Dance got there, the driver was dead, the shooter was dying, the third man, Vernon Donald Hudson, was unharmed, whimpering. Colby—skull fracture, broken arm, rib piercing a lung—was on his feet, face a blood mask, right arm hanging like a dead fish. He spat, blood and a tooth, looked down at himself and said, ‘Jesus, a brand-new fucking suit.’
‘Vern,’ said Colby, eyes on the camera screen. ‘Less hair but it’s Huddo. He’s a survivor. Was. Where’s the cunt been?’
‘We haven’t heard of him for a long time,’ said Ordonez. ‘He’s supposed to be in Queensland. Retired.’
‘Retired now,’ said Colby. ‘So what’s this shit about?’
‘Ivan’s an animal,’ said Ordonez. ‘Smack addict and animal. High on our list. We reckon he killed the SecureGuard bloke in Dandenong last October, executed him. Also shot the customer at Westpac at Garden City in March, no reason at all. There’s other bashings, one woman’s got brain damage, can’t speak. We reckon these boys have done seven, eight jobs in the last two years. Maybe eight hundred grand. Dandenong was two hundred but that was lucky.’
‘What a pity we couldn’t cull the boys when we took out the old man,’ said Colby.
The coroner determined that Dance and Vickery fired twelve shots at Matko Ribaric before Vickery hit him in the left eye, no skill, just luck, the slug came off the roof. It was not textbook stuff but then Matko was shooting at them in a shopping mall carpark with a Benelli M4 Super 90 semi-automatic shotgun, the pellets hitting the cars like steel hail.
‘Anyway, this is all helpful and also not helpful,’ said Colby. ‘Who would kill the pricks?’
‘No idea,’ said Ordonez. ‘These boys are just robbers.’
‘I should say here,’ said Villani, ‘that the brothers have been worked over like I haven’t seen since Rai Sarris. Noses, tackle cut off, hair burnt. There is pleasure involved.’
‘Our belief,’ said Ordonez, ‘is that the Ribs have done jobs with one Russell Jansen and one Christopher Wales, both serious hardcases. Jansen is a near-fuckwit but he’s good with cars. Stealing, driving. Wales is another druggy. Everything we know is here.’
Ordonez passed a folder to Villani.
‘The Oakleigh address is in there?’ said Colby.
Ordonez pulled a tight-lipped face. ‘No, boss. We did not have addresses for any of them.’
‘They lived there?’ Colby said to Villani.
‘At least four people lived in the house,’ said Villani. ‘That’s at a glance. Vehicles parked all over the place, that’ll take a bit of working through.’
‘Mr Dance,’ said Colby. ‘Since you command the most expensive operation in the history of the force, you will have much to tell us about these cunts.’
Mr Xavier Benedict Dance smiled, long medieval face, ice-blue cattledog eyes. He had his chair well back from the table, ankle on a knee, buffed Italian shoe, cotton sock. Villani knew Colby had always thought Dance was
‘The third one,’ said Villani. He took out the camera, found the image, offered the camera to Colby. ‘You might remember this bloke.’
Villani had served in the Armed Robbery Squad under Colby, they went to an in-progress at a bank in Glen Iris, he and Colby and Dance, arrived on the scene late, it ended with Colby jumping onto the bonnet of a moving yellow Commodore, the front-seat passenger stuck his gun out, a Magnum, wrong-handed, fired four shots, took away a big piece of Colby’s right pec, a bit of an ear. Colby crawled onto the roof rack, reached down, got his fingersinto the driver’s hair, pulled his head half out the window and banged it against the frame, repeatedly.
Doing around eighty, the Commodore crossed tramlines, clipped an oncoming tradesman’s van, hit a concrete bus shelter, broadsided into a tree, spun into a small park, rolled twice, came to rest beside a sandpit. Children were playing in it, chirping.
When Villani and Dance got there, the driver was dead, the shooter was dying, the third man, Vernon Donald Hudson, was unharmed, whimpering. Colby—skull fracture, broken arm, rib piercing a lung—was on his feet, face a blood mask, right arm hanging like a dead fish. He spat, blood and a tooth, looked down at himself and said, ‘Jesus, a brand-new fucking suit.’
‘Vern,’ said Colby, eyes on the camera screen. ‘Less hair but it’s Huddo. He’s a survivor. Was. Where’s the cunt been?’
‘We haven’t heard of him for a long time,’ said Ordonez. ‘He’s supposed to be in Queensland. Retired.’
‘Retired now,’ said Colby. ‘So what’s this shit about?’
‘Ivan’s an animal,’ said Ordonez. ‘Smack addict and animal. High on our list. We reckon he killed the SecureGuard bloke in Dandenong last October, executed him. Also shot the customer at Westpac at Garden City in March, no reason at all. There’s other bashings, one woman’s got brain damage, can’t speak. We reckon these boys have done seven, eight jobs in the last two years. Maybe eight hundred grand. Dandenong was two hundred but that was lucky.’
‘What a pity we couldn’t cull the boys when we took out the old man,’ said Colby.
The coroner determined that Dance and Vickery fired twelve shots at Matko Ribaric before Vickery hit him in the left eye, no skill, just luck, the slug came off the roof. It was not textbook stuff but then Matko was shooting at them in a shopping mall carpark with a Benelli M4 Super 90 semi-automatic shotgun, the pellets hitting the cars like steel hail.
‘Anyway, this is all helpful and also not helpful,’ said Colby. ‘Who would kill the pricks?’
‘No idea,’ said Ordonez. ‘These boys are just robbers.’
‘I should say here,’ said Villani, ‘that the brothers have been worked over like I haven’t seen since Rai Sarris. Noses, tackle cut off, hair burnt. There is pleasure involved.’
‘Our belief,’ said Ordonez, ‘is that the Ribs have done jobs with one Russell Jansen and one Christopher Wales, both serious hardcases. Jansen is a near-fuckwit but he’s good with cars. Stealing, driving. Wales is another druggy. Everything we know is here.’
Ordonez passed a folder to Villani.
‘The Oakleigh address is in there?’ said Colby.
Ordonez pulled a tight-lipped face. ‘No, boss. We did not have addresses for any of them.’
‘They lived there?’ Colby said to Villani.
‘At least four people lived in the house,’ said Villani. ‘That’s at a glance. Vehicles parked all over the place, that’ll take a bit of working through.’
‘Mr Dance,’ said Colby. ‘Since you command the most expensive operation in the history of the force, you will have much to tell us about these cunts.’
Mr Xavier Benedict Dance smiled, long medieval face, ice-blue cattledog eyes. He had his chair well back from the table, ankle on a knee, buffed Italian shoe, cotton sock. Villani knew Colby had always thought Dance was
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