Double Take (22 page)

He felt Eden's glare and turned to him.

“That was a bit rough.” Eden's lip twitched as he attempted a stern look at Steel.

“Need to be. These damn reporters are like leeches. Give them even a whiff of blood and they latch on.” Steel said it loud enough for the woman to hear.

“Still a bit rough.” Steel felt like he was being admonished by his mother.

Internal Affairs were like leeches, too. They'd been all over his arse about the way he handled the operation. Especially as he was the only member of the squad who couldn't prove his whereabouts from the moment he left the police station until he met Eden at the front of the boatshed before the bust. Eden had been the only one who solidly backed him up.

Even Thomas seemed to be doubting him. And that was a hell of a thing, given their history together. Steel was grateful that Eden had stood by his side. He just hoped this wretched case didn't put a blight on his unblemished career.

To him it was blatantly obvious who had taken the money: Tiffany Black. They now knew it wasn't her real name. In fact, there was very little he did know about her. The woman was an enigma. Her driver's licence had turned out to be stolen. The real Tiffany Black was such a fruit loop she had no idea it was even missing. So the part of the story about living next to the robbers was a lie. And for the life of him, Steel couldn't make the pieces fit together.

It was still hard to believe they had all fallen for the story. But then again, most of it had turned out to be true. A bank had been robbed during the Melbourne Cup. The crew had returned to the boatshed as expected. But the rest was the stuff only gangster movies were made of. Not in a million years could they have predicted what went down.

The six offenders about to spend their first night in jail as convicted felons had nothing to show for the robbery. And none of them seemed to have any idea who the real mastermind was. They all blamed each other.

Steel might never find out where the fake Tiffany Black came from.

But he had every intention of figuring out where she'd gone.

T
he two women and four men who formed the parole board sat in a row behind a long temporary wooden table. Light from the narrow horizontal window behind them beamed in onto their backs. Jack sat opposite them on the darker side of the room. He hunched over to stare at his feet as the uniformed guard bent down and unshackled his ankle chains. When he was finished the guard moved to stand behind him.

The silver-haired man at the table stopped writing on the clipboard in front of him and adjusted his spectacles so they sat halfway down his nose. He looked at Jack and spoke in a quiet, almost patronising manner. “Please state your full name and prisoner number for the interview.”

“Jackson Leonard Rich, number 166293.”

“Hello Jackson. As this is your third time before us, I'll assume you know the procedure for the parole hearing. Is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, please speak up,” said the man with the spectacles. The rest of the panel nodded in agreement. “Shall we get started then?”

“Yes, please.” Jack spoke louder this time.

“Okay. Who would like to go first?” The man looked left and then right at the other members on the panel. “Mrs Thomson?”

The dark-haired woman on the end of the row nodded, glanced at her clipboard and cleared her throat. She avoided looking directly at Jack as she spoke. “Mr Rich, it's been six months since we last saw you. Have you had enough time to think about that disastrous meeting?”

“Yes, ma'am.” With little else to do each day, it was impossible not to reflect on that screaming match, and in particular, how crazy he must've looked.

“Would you like to comment on what happened?”

“No, ma'am.”

“Well, for the purpose of this parole board hearing, and for us to be able to conclude a positive outcome, and your ultimate release from prison, we need to ascertain your ability to acknowledge your part in the crime you committed.”

“Yes, ma'am.” This time he whispered his response. He was getting sick of dancing around the elephant in the room. It would come, though. It always came.

“Jackson, please give us your opinion of what happened to the money you stole from the National Australia Bank on Tuesday the third of November 1992.”

And there it was. Just two questions into the meeting and the elephant was free. “Well, as I've told you on the two previous occasions, and as I tell anybody who'll listen, the money was stolen from me by a woman!”

“Yes, yes.” The man at the opposite end of the row had pasty white skin and a full head of frizzy white hair. If Jack didn't know he was an insurance investigator he'd have guessed he was a crazy professor or something similar. “Don't you think it's time you came clean and admitted where you hid the money?”

Jack looked squarely into his pale blue eyes. “I can't tell you where the money is because I never hid the goddamn money. As I keep saying, it was stolen from me by a woman.”

Frizzy Hair ran his hand through the mop, but stopped when his fingers snagged. “It's been an advantage for you to stay in prison this long, hasn't it, Jackson? Given that Jimmy Rich and Andrew Arnold are now dead, you only have to share the money with three other people. How do you respond to that?”

Even though Jack now knew Stubbs's real name was Andrew Arnold, it still took a second or two to match the name up.

He could barely comprehend that his younger brother was gone. “I loved my brother and Stubbs was a good friend. I'm still shattered by their deaths.” Jack shook his head. “It's my fault they were in here.” Jimmy died in a prison fight and knowing how fired up he was, it wasn't really surprising. But it was Stubbs's death that ate at him the most. Jack was certain that his prostate cancer would've been diagnosed and treated much quicker if Stubbs hadn't been in prison. Jack would never forgive himself for that. “But as I keep telling you, there's no money to divide up. It was stolen from me.”

“What about Donny and Pete? Do you think they're looking for the money?”

Jack shrugged. “How would I know?” As Donny and Pete were only the drivers, and didn't actually rob the bank, they each received a four-year sentence for their crime. Jack hoped to one day catch up with Donny and apologise in person for the mess he got him into. Pete on the other hand was someone he never wanted to see again.

“Have you been in contact with either of them?”

“No.”

Jack couldn't believe they were still asking the same questions. He felt like a test mouse on a treadmill, continually going forward but never getting anywhere. He wanted to stand up and scream it at them—to put his hands on that temporary table and look each of them in the eye and repeat what he'd said almost every day for over eight years. But it would be pointless. No-one, not one single person in this room, or anyone else for that matter, was interested in the truth.

“How many times do I have to say it?
It was stolen from me!
” He didn't quite yell. Not like last time anyway. He took a slow, deep breath. “I don't have the money.”

“Have you finished, Mr Rich?” It was Frizzy Hair who spoke.

Mr Rich.
There was irony in that surname. The one and only time he had been rich lasted for all of about sixty seconds, and it was the worst minute of his life.

Jack stood and the loosened chains rattled at his ankles. From the corner of his eye he saw the guard take a step forward, but the burly man next to Frizzy Hair waved the guard back. Jack nodded at the man who'd arrested him all those years ago. Steel made a point of visiting Jack every Melbourne Cup day. It had become a ludicrous ritual between the two of them. The cop would ask the same questions, Jack would give the same answers and eventually they'd slip into small talk.

Steel had aged an eternity in the last eight years. Less hair served to highlight the worm-like vein that pulsed along his temple, as if feeding that jagged purple scar. Jack remembered the aftermath of the arrest. He'd sat in the interrogation room and stared at that scar for hours on end, listening to an endless loop of questions to which he had no answers. By the end he almost wished he'd been caught with the cash in his hands.

“Did you know,” Jack continued, “every night that woman who stole the money comes to me in my dreams. She's laughing at me with those weird blue-green eyes, while she's sitting on a huge yacht in the Mediterranean.” He sighed.

“Is that what the money was for, Jack? Fancy yachts?” Frizzy Hair was putting his two cents' worth in now.

“No. You know it wasn't. I needed the money for my wife. For her heart operation. I've told you that a dozen times.” Jack knew his face was reddening. He sat back down and clenched hard on his teeth.

“We know that,” Frizzy Hair said. “And she got that money, didn't she?”

This was just another one of the fucked-up mysteries that haunted him. Three weeks after the trial, Candice had finally visited him. Watching her cry through the bulletproof glass and not being able to hold her was the most gut-wrenching experience of his life. After she calmed down enough to speak, she told him that $74,300 in cash had been delivered to the caravan by a complete stranger. The man who handed it over wanted to remain anonymous. He told her he felt sorry for her after the mess Jack had left her in.

But no matter how many times he said it, she hadn't believed that Jack had nothing to do with it. “I don't know where the donation came from,” he said.

“Don't you think it's ironic it was exactly the amount your wife needed for her operation?” said Frizzy Hair.

“No. The exact amount we needed for the operation was a major part of my lawyer's testimony. Everybody in that courtroom heard it. It was all over the papers. Thousands of people probably knew we needed exactly $74,300 for her surgery. I thank God every day that a complete stranger heard about it. Because he saved her when I didn't.” Although Jack was eternally grateful to the stranger, it only added to his guilt.

He was tired, not just physically but mentally as well. The number of times he'd gone over these very same facts was verging on ridiculous. He might as well make shit up, because the truth wasn't appeasing them.

“Were you surprised that she handed it over to the police?” It was Steel's turn to talk.

“Of course she did. Even she didn't believe a woman stole the money from me.”

That visit by Candice had been crippling. She was as frail as a sick old woman. And she was angry as hell, adamant the money was poison. But no matter what he'd said, he couldn't convince her the money she received wasn't from him.

In desperation, Jack told her to hand it in to the police. If the money came back, then she could use it for the operation.

Fortunately for Candice, the mystery guy was legitimate. When Steel had visited Jack on Melbourne Cup day 1994, he informed Jack the money had been returned. Apparently there was no proof the money was stolen from the bank. Dozens of other people had tried to claim it, but no-one could prove it was theirs. The money was finally returned to Candice and two months later she used it for her operation. It was an incredible relief to hear that news.

Steel had visited Candice a few times over the years, and although he had his own motives, Jack was grateful he was looking out for her.

There was complete silence from the board members. Once again they'd learnt nothing new. He didn't know what they expected.

“Thank you, Mr Rich. We'll consider what you've said and you'll be notified of our decision in the next few days. Guard, please take the prisoner back to his cell.”

The guard came forward and put the leg shackles back on. He then helped Jack to his feet and directed him out of the room.

He felt the eyes of the parole board watching as he shuffled past. When he turned his back, he heard the unmistakable sound of the stamp thudding onto the paper. He glanced over his shoulder, and as the stamp lifted from the page, he saw the words NOT READY FOR PAROLE emblazoned across the middle in red ink.

So much for taking a few days to deliberate.

A
scattering of white fluffy clouds skipped along a backdrop of light blue sky and invisible birds chirped amongst the trees that swayed in the breeze. The scene would have been perfect if Trent wasn't also watching his father's coffin lower into the damp ground. A dull thud indicated it had reached the bottom of the pit, and moments later the white straps slithered out of the gaping hole. Trent counted the thirty-seven seconds it took for them to come out.

He flinched when the priest at the end of the pit spoke. The man was almost as wide as he was tall and his white robe looked lightweight, yet despite the breeze it remained still. His booming voice could've given Luciano Pavarotti a run for his money at the opera.

“Murray Andrew Hinds never recovered from the death of his beloved wife, Hazel, and so it's only fitting that they are now laid to rest together. I ask you to forgive God for taking Murray's life so early. Take faith in the knowledge that although God works in mysterious ways, Murray will be at peace now that he is reunited with the woman he loved.” The man drew an invisible cross with pale hands that were unusually small and completely out of proportion with the rest of his oversized body.

Trent walked to the edge of the grave and looked down at the pine coffin. It was the most expensive casket he could afford, and extremely disappointing. The pale polished wood seemed so primitive, so basic, considering what he'd paid for it. It would've been pointless to ask Max to contribute to the cost. His brother's financial situation was even worse than his own. Max had shown him the first pay cheque he'd received as the shift manager of Domino's Pizza. Although the after-tax amount was, in Trent's opinion, below average, he still believed Max could save at least twenty-two percent of his income. But he didn't seem interested in saving. Partying with his mates was a much higher priority.