Hands off the Art.

Author’s Note
This mystery novel is set in the mid 1950’s before the invention of the internet or mobile phones. People
still read the news from print newspapers.

Prologue.
Noel Beasley lives with his elderly mother in a small terraced house in Carlton. When Noel was just a boy
his father, a proprietor of the Glenrowan Hotel in Northeast Victoria, died in mysterious circumstances
when the licensed premises was set on fire late one Sunday evening.
Noel managers a small book shop in Lygon Street by day, but at night, he moves in the night life of
Melbourne where he finds inspiration for his stories. You see Noel is a crime novelist, a creator of stories
about criminality in the early 1950s. The night is the time when he lives and breathes amongst the most
notorious of Melbourne’s criminals. Attending court cases, listening to the procedures, even visiting the
criminals in goal. While he has never been involved in any criminal activity himself, he loves to get inside
the criminal mind to find how it works. He is fascinated by it’s imbalance to the social norms of our society,
it’s twisted and irrational search for ways to achieve wealth by moving outside the law, and attempts to
avoid any due punishment by our legal authorities.
Noel is presently in the process of writing a novel about a group of art thieves who are planning to
steal some artwork from the National Art Gallery of Victoria in Swanson Street. The criminal act is called
‘art napping’. He decided to locate his story in Melbourne, being most familiar with its geography and to
the fact, it would appeal to his loyal readers. The idea for the plot came from a story he had read when
the ‘Mona Liza’ was stolen from the Louve by an employee Vincenzo Peruggia. Much like the 1911 art
theft, Noel’s characters would need to smuggle themselves inside the art gallery vaults where the
particular paintings are stored, and then work out a way to have the paintings removed without anyone
noticing. He began his investigations by visiting the Art Gallery to get a feeling of the layout of the building,
asking the curator a few questions about the vault area where paintings are stored. He then began doing
his own investigating of the Security System, how many guards there are, whether or not they are armed,
and what their schedules are. How close can you could get to art without setting off alarms or without
anyone noticing?
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 With careful planning, he thought he had worked out a way for his character to enter the building
during visiting hours, and find a place to hide until late in the evening when the gallery was closed to
visitors. However, even if the protagonist can get his hands on the painting, how is he or she going to get
out?
He began to work on the idea that if the painting were removed from the frame, they would then
be flexible enough to be slipped beneath a piece of clothing, maybe wrapped around the person’s body.
The frames would then be replaced back into their places, and nobody would know. All the art nappers
would have to do is to hide again until visiting hours, and innocently make his or her way out of the gallery.
Noel knew he would need to do a lot more research on how you would locate a particular set of
painting in amongst, maybe hundreds or thousands of paintings stored in the gallery. But hey, this was a
novel after all thought Noel, and I can leave the reader guessing as to how the perpetrator came to know
all the details.
He was in the process of checking out the layout of the gallery storage spaces, when suddenly he
had a flash of inspiration. What if the paintings in question were not stored in the gallery? What if they
were on the move, being relocated, transported to an interstate gallery? Now there is a scenario that
would make sense. Have the art heist take place somewhere during transit.
In the late 1950s road transport was just beginning to become a popular means of door to door
transport over the traditional rail, and companies concentrating on specialised forms of freight were
advertising their services. This would be the preferred mode of transport for the novel, thought Noel, as
Cobb and Co stagecoach notorious roadside robberies still informed much of Australian folk lore. However
rather than stop the truck on the side of the road and storm the vehicle with guns a blazing in traditional
bush ranger style, Noel preferred his art thieves to be a little bit more sophisticated, and would like them
to achieve the theft without the driver and guard even knowing. How could this be achieved? The thought
that has come to his mind was the possibility of the driver and security guard being drugged and needing
to pull over on the side of the road, for a quick nap. That’s where the perpetrators can carry out their plan.
To make it easier for the art theft to take place, the truck with its valuable cargo of art work would
travel overnight on route to Adelaide, arriving at its destination first thing in the following morning to
discharge its freight. Coffee and sandwiches being provided by the company for the driver and security
guard to reduce the security risk associated with having to stop at a town for refreshments.
Noel was becoming quite excited as he could now see how all this was going to create a great story.
All he needed now was to find a way to spike the coffee. With the truck stopped on the side of the road in
the dead of night, and the driver and security officer fast asleep, the thieves then have complete freedom
to transfer the paintings into their own vehicles. Better still; swap the crates containing the paintings with
the identical crates with some fake artwork. When the guard wakes up, and checks their load, they
continue their journey, none the wiser. The theft then only discovered when the crates are opened on
delivery, maybe days later.
Brilliant thought Noel. Now that I have the plot roughly worked out, I now have to go back and
create the characters who will pull this off. Just as he was thinking about this next stage, he opened the
Argus News Paper, and there was this article with the headline,
Sidney Nolan's Ned Kelly series Paintings on the Move.
There was a photo of the Art Curator of the National Art Gallery of Victoria, a rather large man
wearing a huge handle-bar moustache standing in front of the National Art Gallery of Victoria looking
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rather pleased with himself. The story related to a plan to relocate the Sidney Nolan’s “Ned Kelly” series of
paintings from the Melbourne Art Gallery, to a Nolan exhibition in Sydney beginning on the 25 th April. ‘Isn’t
that strange,’ thought Noel. ‘Here I am creating a detailed plan for an up and coming novel about the theft
of artwork in transit, and now here is the real thing about to happen.’
Suddenly, a little voice popped up inside his head, “Hey Noel, with these valuable painting on the
move, you could easily pull off an art heist in real life. You have already done the planning. You can easily
find out the dates in which it will travel. You have a friend in the industry who could soon find out name of
the transport company that will carry out the job. What’s stopping you?”
At first, he ignored the idea as stupid. “I may enjoy the dishonest activity for my novels, but I am
not a lawbreaker myself.” But the little voice would not go away, getting louder every day, keeping him
awake at night. “Go on Noel, you could do it. Just think. If you are successful, it will be the biggest art heist
in Melbourne. You know of a few trusted friends who could be persuaded to join you. Go on, you could do
it”
So Noel sent off a telegram,
Hi everyone,
I have been doing some interesting research for a novel I am writing. I cannot reveal the nature of
the plot just yet, as it would spoil it for my readers. However, the plot has some interesting side benefits
well beyond just me the author, and I am wondering if you would like to hear about it.
If so, I would like to meet you all next Friday 15th March at 7.30 pm in the upper room of the East Brunswick
Club Hotel in Lygon Street. Good food, so come expecting to be well fed.
I am sure you won’t regret it.
Noel Beasley

Chapter one
The regular Friday Rail Service to Albury steamed its way out through the Melbourne suburbs and was
soon climbing through the Kilmore gap and across the open paddocks of Northern Victoria. Although it
was the beginning of autumn, the past year of the paddocks was brown the crust dry and thin and short,
looking more like a stubble, the last few bales of hay lay sprawled out in the middle of the paddock.
Detective Inspector Stan Gorby was in very good spirit as he leaned back in his seat on the train. He was
humming a tune and from a Haydn string quartet. Classical music has always been important to him since
he had been taken to a concert as a boy by his father. He looked out of the window of his carriage and
watched a flock of sheep huddled in a corner under the shade of the tree. “How the sheep could find any
nourishment in those dry paddocks is beyond me?” the inspector thought to himself as he leaned back in
his seat enjoying every moment of the trip. However his two forensic officers, David Bond and Ian Morton
had little concern for the sheep, as they had their heads buried in a book. Stan reached over pulled out the
Saturday’s morning’s newspaper and read again the headlines.
“Valuable Boyd Paintings Missing on Route to Sydney. “
The Curator of the National Art Gallery of Victoria is accused of ignoring security advice
relating to the freight of valuable paintings, when a truck carrying the Sidney Nolan’s ‘Ned
Kelly series’ paintings failed to arrive at the Sydney Art gallery on Wednesday morning.
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 Rail has always been the preferred and secured means of transport for the transfer of art
within Australia, however the director of the National Gallery of Victoria Mr Alexander
Ashcroft was persuaded by a small road freight company to use their service for a cheaper
door to door delivery of the art works.
The truck departed the National Art Gallery of Victoria at around 4.00pm Thursday 19 th
April, and there has not been any sign of the ‘Moran’s Road Transport’ truck, its driver or
security guard since. Mr Ashcroft is very distressed as he is afraid the paintings may have
fallen into the hands of art thieves.
If anyone has seen the ‘Moran’s Road Transport’ truck or has any information relating to the
missing vehicle, please contact the Russell Street Police Station immediately.
Gorby was happy to leave behind this incident about the missing art. It wasn’t something that his
Department would get involved with. He was on his way to Glenrowan to interview the local sergeant who
had been called out to what appeared to be a murder scene just out of Glenrowan. Gorby, a clean-shaven
middle-aged man had worked his way up through the ranks of the Victorian police force after being
transferred from South Australia in his early years. He was made a Detective Inspector when transferred to
the Homicide Division at police headquarters at Russell Street just three years ago, and was highly
regarded by his staff in his unit.
Sergeant Ken Wallis and Constable Ron Haig were waiting on the platform of the Glenrowan Station when
the train arrived. Gorby introduced himself and his two forensic officers. ”My name is Detective Inspector
Gorby, and I will be in charge of the murder investigation. From now on, you will take your orders from
me.” Wallis stood to attention and pretended to give Gorby a salute. “Thank you Sergeant.” Said Gorby
with smile on his face. “Now Constable Haig, I want you give Sergeant Bond and Constable Morton some
lunch, and then take them to the site of the murders, and provide any assistance they may need for their
forensic work. Then take them to the burnt out truck. I need the engine number from the truck as soon as
possible.” Constable Haig led the forensics officers to the squad car and drove off leaving Wallis and Gorby
standing in the station carpark.
“I’m famished,” said Gorby. “Is there somewhere quiet where we can get a coffee and something to eat?”
“The Glenrowan Hotel is the place Detective. It’s just across the road.” As it was lunchtime, Wallis ordered
the coffee and some sandwiches, and they soon made themselves comfortable. “When did you get the call
about the murder?” said Gorby wanting to make some quick progress on his investigation.
“I had arrived back in my office yesterday just after lunch,” said Wallis pulling out his notebook and putting
on a pair of glasses. “I got a telephone call from a Barry Arnold, a farmer, who lives just off the highway
about a mile from Glenrowan. He told me he had a very distressed motorist who knocked on his door. The
motorist said he found what looked like two men who appeared to be dead tied up to a tree just off to the
side of the highway. I told Barry to take the motorist back to the site and wait for me, but don’t go near the
tree. My constable was seconded to the Benalla Police Station, and was uncontactable, so I was on my
own. I arrived about half an hour later to find the scene exactly the way he described it. Sitting up, hands
tied behind their back, heads drooped as if they were asleep were two males. I felt for any pulse but they
were both cold. So I radioed in to get the ambulance, while I cordoned off the area, and looked for any
evidence that could be linked to the crime scene.”
“Did you find anything?” said the Inspector

4
“The victims wallets and any identification they may have on them is missing, however one of the victims
had the words “Moran’s Road Transport” sewn onto his jacket. When I released the rope tying the two
victims to the tree, they both fell forward revealing a massive shotgun wound in their backs. They had
obviously been tied to the tree after they had been shot. Perhaps to cover the gunshot wound to their
backs to make it look like they were just two blokes having a rest. I scoured the area and soon found the
blood patterns that was obviously the murder scene. Shocking business detective. I took details of the
motorist who found the two blokes and let him go. Without my constable, all I could do was cordoned off
the scene.”
“It’s a pity the forensic couldn’t examine the bodies where they were found. Said Stan, “Although I
appreciate the difficulties.”
“It was impossible to seal off the scene from passing traffic.” Said Wallis. “And I couldn’t leave the bodies
overnight.”
“I understand. We need to arrange for the bodies of the victims to be sent to Melbourne for forensics and
to do a post mortem.”
“Already on to that sir. The bodies are on their way as we speak.”
“I presume you got plenty of pictures?“
“Yes sir. Good job I had a powerful flash. I have them all here if you would like to look at them.” He
reached down to his leather case and pulled out an envelope. “Not a good place to look at them now. Wait
until we go back to the car.”
“I will need to take them with me as part of the investigation. I suppose you interviewed the fellow who
found the murder victims?”
“Yes, I have his statement here. He is a young 20 year old trainee teacher by the name of Daniel Cooper
who is seconded to Springhurst Primary School. He was at home in Melbourne on leave for the school
holidays and returning to start on Monday. He was on his way when he realized he had an urgent need to
go to the toilet. Unsure where the public toilets were in and Glenrowan, he decided to pull over on the
side of the road and dart behind some bushes. He was standing there looking around when all of a sudden
he cited these two blokes sitting under the tree. At first he thought they were looking at him and he was
embarrassed and moved around out of sight. When he had finished he came back to see if they were ok.
As he moved closer, he saw that they were tied with a rope to the tree. That was when he realised
something was wrong. He got such a shock that he jumped in his car and drove across the railway line and
saw Barry Arnold’s house, stopped outside and ran in and knocked on the door. Barry rang me and I met
them at the site. At no time did the young lad touch the victims. I took him back home and my wife is
looking after him for a few hours, but then I let him go.”
“After I interviewed the young lad, I returned to the station to get photos printed, give you a ring, and to
write up my report. On arrival, the station clerk handed me a message from the local fire officer. That
morning, the fire brigade had been called to a small grass fire on a property out along the Greta Road at
Fifteen-mile Creek. The fire was contained within a small area, however the cause of the fire was the
remains of a burnt out truck that had ploughed through a barbwire fence and crashed into a tree.”
“Any sign of the driver?” said Gorby.
“ No sign of any persons in the vehicle. The fire officer said he would remain at the site until I arrived, so I
drove out there and found the fire officer still hosing down the smouldering tree. The truck wasn’t a local
5
vehicle as I know most of the trucks around here, Even with the registration plates removed, I’m sure it’s
from out of town. You don’t think that this burnt out truck and our two friends on the side of the road
could be linked?”
“A bit too early to link the two at this stage.” said Gorby. “I will need to get the engine number of the burnt
out truck and check it with vehicle registration first. Can you get the forensics blokes to phone it through as
soon as possible? When we have finished here, I would like you to take me to the murder scene.”

Chapter two
Before leaving Glenrowan on the Sunday early morning train to Melbourne, Gorby phoned Sergeant John
Bergman “Meet me at Spencer Street Station on the arrival of the Albury train, and give Sergeant Garry
Bunting a phone call. Get him to set up an incident room straight away. Grab a room with phones and get a
board set up. I’m afraid we have got a lot of work to do. I’m sorry that it is Sunday, but we haven’t got time
to waist. Oh, and by the way, give Constable Barbara Ford a call; I want her in in this one too.”
It was well into Sunday afternoon before Gorby arrived at Russell Street Headquarters. Weary from his
long trip, he was sitting in his office with a cup of tea. Seated behind their desks, Sergeant Bergman and
Sergeant Bunting. Constable Barbara Ford boiled the jug to make herself some tea. Gorby strolled across
in front of an empty pin board full of coloured drawing pins. “Thank you all for coming in this afternoon. I
realise that this has caused some inconvenience to yourselves and family, however we have no choice. As
you know, yesterday, I travelled to Glenrowan to investigate a murder scene. The police officer at
Glenrowan, Sergeant Ken Wallis was called out to the murder scene at a roadside parking area just south
of Glenrowan on Friday morning. A passing motorist, a young 20-year-old trainee teacher by the name of
Daniel Cooper travelling to Springhurst Primary School decided to stop at the roadside parking for a leak
behind some bushes. He saw the driver and security officer propped against the tree trunk, thought they
were asleep, but when they did not respond to his voice, he stopped at a farm house where the owner
called it in. When Wallis arrived on the scene he discovered that the bodies were tied to the tree, almost
looking like they were asleep.” Gorby placed the photos on the pin-board taken by Wallis of the two
victims tied to the tree. “When the police officer released the bodies from the tree,” continued Gorby,
“they revealing massive gunshot wounds to their backs. Blood patterns several yards away would suggest
the murder scene.” Again Gorby placed two more photos of the victims with the gunshot wounds. “Apart
from tyre tracks from two vehicles, there is nothing left at the scene. Forensic have made a thorough
search of the scene, and I am hoping they will give us some evidence that would help us identify our
criminals. That same day, the police officer was also called to the scene of a burnt out truck that had
crashed through a barbed wire fence and hit a tree. We have yet to confirm whether this is the missing
freight truck, or in fact is in any way linked to the murder.”
Gorby turned and stepped away from the board. “So all that we know is that we have two men murdered
either late Thursday night, or the early hours of Friday morning on the side of the road just south of
Glenrowan. As you can see, one of the men is wearing a jacket with the name “Moran’s Road Transport”
sewn into his lapel, but no other identification. Who are they, how did they get there, and why were they
murdered?”
“As we have the name on the jacket that identifies the company, “Morans Road Transport” isn’t that
enough to ask the manager the name of their driver?” said John.
“There are too many unknowns, Sergeant. I don’t want to jump the gun. “said Gorby pinning up the photo
of the burnt out truck. “This is a photo of the unknown burnt out truck discovered in the Greta area Friday
6
morning. For all we know, the man with the jacket may have borrowed it from somebody else. And
secondly, until we positively identify the burnt out truck, we can’t be absolutely certain we can link the
two. In the meantime, let’s focus on the two murdered victims. Who blasted them with a shotgun and
why?”
“I had a phone call from forensics this morning with the engine number of the truck,” said Bunting. ”So I
phoned registration branch and do you know what? Went to a voice message. They don’t work on
Sundays.”
“Bureaucratic uselessness.” said Stan thumping his hand on the desk. “How are we supposed to do our job
if they only work week days? Two families waiting for news about their sons or spouses, and they have to
wait because nobody works on Sunday. Disgraceful.”
“If the purpose of the robbery was in fact to steal the art work,” said John. “The art work could be
anywhere by now. Interstate or even overseas.”
“Well Sergeant, I want you to go and I interview the management of the National Gallery. See what they
have to say about the theft.” Looking around to where Barbara was seated. “Constable, you can go with
Sergeant Bergman. And I don’t want to hear that they don’t work on Sundays. And Sergeant Bunting, I
know its early days, but go and see what forensics have come up with. Have they got anything that we can
work with?”

Chapter three
As he lowered the shotgun from his shoulder, the acrid smell from the spent gunpowder filled his nostrils
and he could feel his legs begin to shake uncontrollably. He looking up and saw the two bodies lying on the
ground. There was just enough light to see that one had fallen flat on his face by the force of the gunshot,
the other, having crawled a few paces, was lying on his side, his knees pulled up to his chest. As he held
the warm barrel of the shotgun, his stomach felt as though it was going to be sick. He stood there his feet
frozen to the ground, his heart racing nearly ready to explode. ‘What have I done? Why didn’t they stop?
Why did I agreed to be involved with this stupid stunt anyway?’
He slowly looked around, hoping naively that no one had heard the sound of the shotgun, but of course
they did. First whispers in the distance and then a voice in the dark. “What happened you stupid ass? I
only asked you to watch over them not shoot them. Are you crazy or something?"
"They were tied up to the tree." He said stuttering. "Blindfolded. I just sat down there watching them. It
was dark. I couldn't see what they were doing. Next I see them making a run for it. I called out “Stop or I'll
shoot”, as I lifted my rifle to the shoulder. “Stop!” I called out again, but they took no notice. I pulled the
trigger. I didn't mean to kill them, honestly."
The men walked over and shining a torch on the two victims giving them a kick to see if they were still
alive. “Well now we are in a right old mess." said the leader to the men. Looking around to make sure they
hadn't attracted any unwanted attention, he said to the men. "Right you men get back to work. My mate
and I will work out how we are going to clear up this mess."

7
Chapter four
It was early Monday morning, very little sign of human activity, roads were quiet. Inspector Gorby had
already arrived and was sitting in the homicide branch on the 4th floor of the Russell Street Headquarters of
the Victorian Police on the corner of Russel and Latrobe Street. The imposing multistorey New York style
tower built in 1943 sat opposite the Old Melbourne jail, and City Courts building like a family of buildings
for Melbourne’s crime
Gorby was reading the mornings paper when Sergeant Bergmann burst through the door, rubbed his face
with his hands and just sat down. “Not had too much sleep Sergeant?” Said Gorby by way of greeting his
sergeant.
“Kept thinking about those two unfortunate blokes just gunned down. Not good dreaming material boss.”
It was only a few minutes later that Sergeant Bunting strolled into the open office. Gorby placed the paper
on his desk. “Are we all here? Where is Constable Ford?”
“I saw her in the carpark sir. I think she is still putting on her lipstick.” said Garry making a sully remark.
John Bergmann chuckled to himself, but Gorby was not amused.
Just then there was a noise of slamming doors. “Good morning sir.” said Barbara bursting into the office.
“Sorry I’m late.”
“Take a seat constable. Please try and be here on time in the future.”
“Yes sir.” replied the embarrassed constable.
“First of all, thanks for coming in on the weekend,” said Gorby. “This case is not going to be an easy one,
especially if the murders are connected to the stolen art. And the only way we are going to know that is if
we can identify the owners of the burnt out truck. Sergeant, I know you were going to phone the motor
registration branch with the engine number this morning. Do you have an answer?”
“Yes boss. Finally somebody in that department answered their phone. And I am afraid it is exactly as we
thought. The engine number matches a truck registered to Moran’s Road Transport owned by Jack Moran
of Moonee Ponds. The same truck that was used to transport the art work to Sydney.”
The news left its mark on the small homicide department, as all eyes turned towards their Detective
Inspector Stan Gorby. “Thanks Sergeant. You are right. Not unexpected news I guess. However we at least
know where we are. We started off with a double murder, but now we also have an art heist thrown onto
a laps as well.”
“Forensics don’t have very much for us yet.” Said Garry. “I visited their offices yesterday, and apart from
the trucks tyre pattern, and the shotgun cartridges, they only have some fingerprints, and this gold plated
necklace with a small cross in a setting with a distinctive pattern. The necklace belongs to man with the
jacket with “Morans Road Transport” sewn on the front. From what they were saying, boss. I think we are
dealing with some professional thieves. Very little evidence to go on.”
Garry was married with three teenage daughters, and when he was off duty on weekends, Garry played
the organ for his local church. Not a big man, it took some effort to work the pedals that pumped the
bellows, but Stan enjoyed the challenge. Rocking backward and forwards and playing with such great
gusto, that even the angels in heaven sang along to music and joined in singing the hymns.
“Sounds like a bungled robbery I would think.” said Gorby, “The driver and his mate are ambushed while
they are taking their beak. Maybe tied up and blindfolded, and held at gunpoint. But I imagine that
8
sometime during the robbery, they tried to run away. The two victims had to be silenced. Somebody pulled
out their double barrel shot gun and killed them.”
Strolling over to the board, he stood staring at the photos pinned up from the day before. Turning to his
police officers he said. “So where are we Sergeant? You and Constable Ford interviewed the Curator of the
National Gallery yesterday. Do they have any news? “
“Not really boss. Curator doesn’t work on Sundays.” said John looking through his notes. “However we
talked to his off sider, a Mr Leonard Wand with the off chance they could give us the names of the driver
and security guard. Their names were written on the copy of the bill of loading, from Moran’s Road
Transport. Leonard Wand had spoken to them both on the day they loaded the truck. The driver, the
owner’s son was Michael Moran, and security guard, was Bruce Taylor. Bruce leaves behind a wife and
family, whereas Michael lives at home with his parents. Very sad.” said John as he turned over the pages of
his notes. According to Mr Wand, the artwork was all carefully packed in crates for transport and loaded
into the security vehicle Thursday afternoon at 3.00pm. The vehicle with a driver and security guard
departed a little while later, and hasn’t been seen since. The management are certainly not happy with
their curator for using a road freight company instead of rail for the transporting of the art. There are even
rumours that there was money handed under the table to secure the contract. No proof of this of course. I
wouldn’t be too surprised if he gets the sack over this.”
“We also interviewed several members of the staff,” said Barbara wanting to add her bit. “Couldn’t believe
what we were hearing. They have no concern about the two murdered victims or their families. All they are
worried about is their damn art. They are certainly a callous lot. But at least they have provided a £5,000
reward for its safe return.”
“Thank you both.” said Gorby. “We’ll need to check with Moran’s Road Transport to see if there was
money passed under the table. I’ll get you to keep a close eye on any developments at the gallery. Line up
an interview with the Curator this time. Follow up on how the contract with the road transport company
were made.”
John Bergmann’s real name was Johann, but desperately trying to distance himself from his German
heritage, he preferred the name John. Even though the war had ended over ten years ago, there was still a
lingering anti-German sentiment that made John feel quite uncomfortable. John lived with his parents
following the death of his wife in a road accident just over a year ago. It was not a conventional setup living
with ones parents at thirty five, with a three year old daughter and without a wife, but right now it was the
only thing that worked. The only way he could continue his job.
“May I make a suggestion sir.” said Barbara. She glanced around at her colleges and could see the raised
eyebrow. Turning her attention back to her boss she said. “Sir. Seeing that we have the promise of a
reward, I wonder whether we should advertise the £5,000 in the papers for any information that would
lead to the capture of the murders and return of the paintings. Someone might just know something, and
with an incentive to come forward, maybe that will be just what we need. “
“. Good suggestion. I’ll leave that with you Constable. Hopefully we will get a breakthrough pretty soon.”

9
Chapter five.
Having identified the families of the victims, Stan Gorby wasn’t looking forward to visiting the Moran
household, nor Bruce Taylor’s widow. He’d seriously considered delegating that to one of his team, but
eventually deciding it was a job he shouldn’t avoid , whatever excuses he could come up with. He owed
the families that much, and rank carried its responsibilities as well as privileges . It was something he had
to do himself. Michael Moran had been wearing a gold plated necklace with a small cross in a setting with a
distinctive pattern. If his parents recognised the necklace, it would guarantee an identification.
“Constable, I would like you come with me.” said Gorby picking up his bag. Turning towards her he said,
“Bring a note book with you, I want you take down all the information we can get.” His real reason for
having her accompany him was female support as he thought a female presence would soften their
meeting.
In the late 1950s, the Homicide Department of the Victoria police found itself undermanned. Detective
Gorby had seen the potential in a female Constable Barbara Ford, and promoted her to work alongside the
team in homicide, a fact that got up the noses of many in the force. Barbara Ford was short- about five foot
six. She would probably in her late twenties or early thirties, her hair dark untouched cut short in a no
nonsense style.
They pulled up to a weatherboard home in Moonie Ponds, and before they climbed out of the car, Stan
turned to Barbara. “Leave the interview to me. There will be times when you will wish to comment, but I
would prefer if you just listen.”
“Yes Boss.” Said Barbara.
They knocked on the door and being Monday, they didn’t expect the family to be all at home. Sure enough
John Moran opened the door. “Police is it? I hope you have news about my truck?”
“I wonder if we can come inside so that we can talk?” said Gorby. John led them into the small lounge
room. Mrs Moran had been doing some knitting which she placed it aside as she greeted the two officers.
Stan and Barbara sat on the couch, which faced the curtained window. “So what’s the news Detective
about my truck. They left for Sydney on Thursday afternoon, surely someone has seen them.”
“Yes I have some news of the whereabouts of your truck, but I am afraid it is not good news.” replied Goby
trying to search for the right words to say. “We found it burnt out on a property near Greta, east of Benalla
on Friday afternoon. We have checked the engine number and it is your truck.”
“Was there an accident of some kind. What happened to Michael and his security officer?” said John
Moran searching for answers.
“The bodies of two men were found alongside the Hume highway just south of Glenrowan. We believe the
two victims to be your son Michael and the security Bruce Taylor.” Stan waited to see the reaction of the
parents before continuing.
“What happened Detective if it wasn’t an accident?” said John Sergeant’s wife barely able to mouth the
words
“At this stage in our investigation, we believe Michael and Bruce pulled over off the side of the road for a
regulation break. The theives who were intent on stealing the art work must have following them, and
while well off the road, they dragged the occupants from the truck. We suspect they were tied up, maybe
blindfolded, but something went wrong and they were both shot. I have something I would like you both
to look at to see if you recognise it.”
10
Stan reached into his pocket and lifted out a plastic bag containing the gold necklace with the cross. He
handed it to the two parents and immediately the tears began to flow. ”We gave this to Michael at his
confirmation.” Mrs Moran said between tears, “Who would have done something like that. Michael was a
good kid.”
“That’s what we are going to find out.”
John Moran was speechless. Holding back tears, he said. “Did they suffer Detective?”
“The results of the post mortem is yet to be released, however as there is little evidence of a struggle, we
believe that they were both died instantly.”
After answering a few more questions, Stan and Barbara let themselves out promising to let them know as
soon as their son’s body was released from the coroner.
When Stan and Barbara shut the door of their car, Barbara turned to Stan. “It seems so cruel to me. We
just told them the most horrible news that any parent could hear about their child, a victim of murder, and
we just walk out and leave them to sort it all out. I just don’t know how they can cope with that. I just wish
we could stay with them.”
“I know how you feel Constable, and as cruel as may seem, it is not our job to be there to comfort them as
we have another visit to make. Much as I would have been happy to pass this visit of the Taylor family to
the other members of Homicide, I feel as officer in charge of this investigation that it is my responsibility
and privilege in a sense.” Stan started the car and drove down the road towards the Flemington Station,
not far from where the Taylors live. “Constable, the thought came to me as seeing we will be speaking to
Mrs Taylor, I was wondering if you would like to take centre stage and take the lead in this interview. You
heard what information we can pass on and what is best not said. I will introduce ourselves, and then I will
leave it to you. I will break in if I hear an awkward question. What do you think?”
They drove to the house, and Mrs Taylor let them in. Fortunately her sister was staying with her and was a
comfort as they passed over the terrible news of what happened to her husband.

Chapter six.
Just before 9:00am, Inspector Gorby was sitting in his office and reading the Tuesday edition of the Argus
Newspaper headlines
Missing Artwork Linked to a Murder.
Homicide Police in Melbourne believe that missing valuable art work on route from
Melbourne to Sydney is now linked to a double murder. The bodies of two men were found
by a passing motorist on the side of the Hume Highway.
Sometime during Thursday evening 19th April, or early Friday morning it is believed that the
driver and security officer pulled over on the side of the road for a rest. It is believed that this
is where the theft took place. The police were alerted to the murder Friday morning when
the bodies of two men were found on the side of the road a mile south of Glenrowan. Police
consider this was a well planned art heist, as there has been no trace of the art works. No
communication with the thieves has been received by the police to this stage .

11
Just Gorby received a phone call. A man who identified himself just as Tony, believed that he may have
information about the stolen art. Stan slammed his office door and with Barbara by his side, they drove to
the East Brunswick Club Hotel in Lygon Street to meet with the man employed there as a waiter.
As the door of the hotel was shut, Gorby knocked on the door and waited. Eventually the door opened by a
man dressed in a pair of dark trousers and a high roll necked long sleeve shirt . “Detective Sergeant Stan
Gorby and my college Constable Barbara Ford. We have come to speak with Tony.
“That’s me,” said the man. Tony Bernardi. “Come this way and sit down.” They walked into the foyer of the
hotel. It was still in darkness. “As you can see, we don’t open until later in the afternoon. Can I get you
anything to drink? Tea? Coffee? “said Tony.
“No thank you.” said Gorby. “Now what is it you want to tell us?”
Tony pulled out a chair but remained standing. “A man rang through to the restaurant on Wednesday 9 th
March and reserved the upstairs room for Friday night 11th March for himself and five guests. As I am
employed here are as a waiter, I was assigned to look after them. On arrival they ordered food and drinks. I
had to go in and out of the room several times during the evening, so it was not very difficult to pick up on
the conversation around the table.”
“Can you tell us the name of the man who organized the meeting? “said Gorby.
“Yes, I have his name and phone number in the book. I can get it for you.“
“And what were they talking about?“ said the detective.
“The man who reserved the room was talking about a plan he had worked up which involved the stealing
or some valuable art work while on route from Melbourne to Adelaide. Of course I didn’t hear the whole
story as I was only in the room for a few minutes at a time.“
“Yes we understand that,” said the detective trying not to be too impatient. “Just tell me what you heard.”
“Well he was telling his friends that the theft would be carried out somewhere remote on route to the
destination.”
“Did they say how the theft would take place?” said Gorby.
“He did say something about the driver and security blokes being drugged, and while asleep, the paintings
would be transferred into another truck. But I also heard him say that if the drugs didn’t do their job, they
would need to adopt plan ‘b’ and have the blokes tied up to a tree out of sight to the road. At one stage
when I went into the room, all of the men had their hands up after he had presumably asked them if they
would be in on it.” Tony sat back in his chair looking rather pleased with himself.
“You have certainly been able to gather a lot from just those few minutes you were in the room. I just
wonder if you may have been doing a bit of eavesdropping?” said Gorby.
Instantly the smug look on Tony’s face vanished as he realised he had been found out. “I think I may have
lingered at the door a couple of times. I was just intrigued with the whole story thing.”
“Well thank you Mr. Bernardi,”said the detective. “Are you sure that’s all you heard? I will leave you with
my card if you have any other information you can just give me a ring. Give me the name and phone
number of the man who organized a meeting; we will be on our way.”
“When do I get by £5,000 reward?” said Tony.

12
“Maybe I need to jog your memory Mr. Bernardo. But the advertised reward would only be paid after a
successful apprehension of the thieves and the return of the paintings. However thank you for your time,
we will be in touch. “
“What do you think?” said Barbara as they climbed in the car. “The reward posted in the paper has
certainly paid off. I think we may have our criminals.“
Stan was still in deep thought as he started the car. “It is clearly obvious that one person couldn’t have
done the murder himself, as we have seen several times, careful planning and executed criminal activity
like this involves a team?”
“Well at least we have the suspect’s name.” said Barbara looking at the piece of paper given to them by
the waiter. “Noel Beasley.”
“The name rings a bell. But I can’t think where I have heard it.” said Gorby starring out the windscreen of
the car. “But there is something about this that doesn’t add up. If you were planning a major operation
like this with a team of criminals, you would hardly do it in a public place now would you?”
“ No, I hadn’t thought about that way boss. It does seem strange.” said Barbara. “However, we will still
need to follow him up. Do you want me to bring him in for questioning? We will need a search warrant for
his home.”
They were on their way back to the station, and Stan, who had not spoken finally said. “Constable, so far,
all we have is a witness who overheard a conversation. If we bring our suspect in for questioning and he
denies any involvement, we cannot charge him or even hold him. What we need is some hard evidence.
I’m inclined to let him sit for a while. Find out all we can about him. Has he offended before? The names of
his friends? If he has stolen these paintings, the truck and paintings must be hidden somewhere. Let’s just
keep an eye on him and follow his movements. He is bound to want to offload the paintings pretty soon.
If we are patient, he may let his guard down and lead us to them. As soon as we get back, I will organise an
unmarked police car to park in the street with a 24-hour watch on his movements.”

Chapter seven.

Noel Beasley was sitting at the desk in his second hand book shop when he picked up the paper again and
read the headlines.
“Valuable paintings stolen on route to Sydney.”
The National Art Gallery of Victoria has posted a £5.000 reward for any information that will lead to
the arrest of the murders, and the safe return of the stolen art works.”
“How could this be?” Noel thought to himself as he despised himself for even entertaining the notion that
he could pull off an art heist. “Why did I even think that it could be possible? And even worse, why did I
divulge my plans with the ones I thought I could trust?” That night Noel couldn’t sleep. He kept tossing
and turning, lying wide awake looking into the darkness, and thinking about the story he had told to his
friends. Towards morning, when the first faint glimmer of the morning came through his venetion blinds,
he fell into a sort of un-easy doze, haunted by a horrible dream. He was driving the getaway truck with the
paintings on board in the pitch dark, when rounding a band, he spotted the driver and security guard tied
up and lying on the road just ahead of him. He could see they were laughing and pointing to him. It was
13
too late to brake so he jerked the wheel to avoid hitting them. The truck skidded off the side of the road
heading straight for a tree. Just before it hit, he woke up, perspiration dripping from his brow. He climbed
out of bed, wandering into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee, but he couldn’t get the dream out of his
head. So he headed for the bathroom and had a shower. When he looked in the mirror, all he could see
was a tired old man with dark circles around his eyes. “I am an author, not a thief.” he said to himself.
“What if one of the fellows, eager to get their hands on the £5.000 reward, has told someone about the
plot for my book, and now they have squealed to the police, I would be the chief suspect? What nonsense
I am talking about, I am becoming a victim of my own imagination. There is nothing to connect me with a
crime, so why am I worried? But just to clear my mind, I’m going to have to call them all together again
and ask them. I will send off a telegram and have them come and meet me at my house at 8:00 PM on
Friday night.’
The plain clothes police officers who had been sitting in the car keeping watch over the house, was just
about to open his newspaper, when a car pulled up outside the house. A man wearing a jacket with its
collar pulled up around his neck climbed out and made his way to the front door. Very soon the door
opened and he disappeared inside. Moments later, another car pulled up further down the street. A man
exited the car, wearing what looks like a pair of overalls and heavy work boots. He looked around, waited
by the side of his car as a third car arrived and parked behind him. A third man, also wearing a pair of
overalls shook hands with a second man and together they made their way to the house. The officer made
a quick radio call to Stan. “It is happening boss. Three men have already a arriving at the home. I’m
expecting there may be more. What do you want me to do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything.” said Gorby. “I think it’s time we brought them in for questioning. I will
organize a squad car to accompany me. I will be with you in ½ hour. I will organize a search warrant and
see where we go from there.”
Noel Beasley was much relieved after having talked with his friends when suddenly there was a loud
banging on the front door. “Police here. Open the door.” Noel held his finger to his mouth indicating a
silent ‘sh’. Again the door rattled. “Police here. We know you are inside. Open the door or we will force it
open.” Noel got to his feet and made his way to the front door and on opening it; there stood two
plainclothes police officers and two uniforms. “Good evening sir.” said the male officer. “Are you Noel
Beasley?”
“Yes that’s me.” said Noel standing in front of the doorway hoping they wouldn’t come inside. “What can I
do for you officer?”
“My name is Detective Inspector Stan Gorby, and this is Sergeant Garry Bunting. May we come in? I have
some questions I would like to ask you and your friends.” With that the two detectives pushed their way
past Noel and made their way straight into the room where the meeting had taken place.
While the two uniformed officers waited in a hallway, Noel introduced each of the men in the room. “Now
what is it you would like to know?”
“We are investigating the murder of two men during a raid on a truck carrying some valuable paintings
while on route to Sydney. We have reason to believe that you were involved with organizing, if not carry
out the crime. What have you to say for yourself?”
Noel had rehearsed over and over again what his response would be to the police, as he knew that sooner
or later word would get out. “I am just as shocked as you are when I read about the murders.” said Noel.
“But who did at and where the paintings are now, I honestly do not know. I was not involved.”
14
Mr. Beasley.” said Stan standing with his feet well apart and arm across his chest. “We have an witness
who overhead a conversation at a meeting you organised with five men in the East Brunswick Club Hotel in
Lygon Street on the night of the 11th March. Although our informant wasn’t present at the meeting, he
heard enough to know that you were planning on carrying out a crime to steal valuable paintings on route
to Adelaide.” The detective stopped at that point staring right at Noel as he knew he had him in a trap.
“Do you want me to continue on with more of what our informant had to say?”
Noel was taken aback. His mind doing somersaults as he tried to think. “Inspector, I did have a meeting
with these friends of mine as I wanted to talk to them about the idea I am making for my novel which
involves an art heist. However, I am totally innocent of the crime that you seem to be a accusing me of.”
“Thank you Mr. Beasley. That is all I need to hear from you at this stage. We would like you to leave
everything as it is and accompany me to the police station for further questioning. Can I presume that the
three men here are the three that you met at the hotel?”
“Yes they are. There are two more, but they are presently overseas. But I can vouch for all of them. Like me
they are completely innocent?”
“You can leave that decision with me. But I am sure your friends won’t mind if they would accompany you
to the police station and each one can give his own version of the events. We have a search warrant for
your house.”
The men were placed in a cell overnight as the police offices sifted through the evidence retrieved from the
house. The following morning, each of the men were led into an interviewing room where they were
interviewed by one of the police officers. Detective Gorby sat opposite Noel whose red eyes showed how
little sleep he had had. “I’m sorry Beasley that the beds in the cells are a little uncomfortable, but that is all
the tax payers seem to be able to afford for our guests. Now where are we?” Gorby opened his folder and
shuffled with some papers. “Mr Beasley, you certainly have a meticulous mind. My officers have been able
to retrieve an almost complete manuscript of your plans to steal artwork on route to Adelaide. All the
details are there. You have even obliged us with the names of your each of your accomplishers. Where
were you, and what were you doing on the night of 19thApril?”
“I was home with my elderly mother.”
“What were you doing at home on the night in question?”
“I am a novelist Inspector,” said Noel. “I manage a small book shop during the day, but it is a night when I
do most of my writing.”
“If this was just a manuscript for a novel, why did you hire an upstairs room in the East Brunswick Hotel on
the 11th March, and invite five of your friends to join you so you could tell them about your plans to steal
some artwork? said the inspector watching Noel’s reaction to this new revelation. “A writer usually keeps a
novel under wraps until after it is published, am I right?”
“I had come to the stage of having to develop the characters, and rather than pull some names out off the
top of my head, I thought I would use the names and characters of some of my friends instead. Naturally I
had to seek their permission, and for an incentive, I was offering them a share in any royalties I will get
from the sale of the novel.”
Gorby looked straight at Noel in the eye. “Are you sure you are telling me the truth?”
“My friends who you are interviewing will collaborate what I have told you. I will have to admit that the
thought did cross my mind. But then I despised myself for even entertaining the notion. No. No. I thought. I
15
am not a criminal, I am a writer. So I decided that I would stick to the craft I know well, and let the others
provide the story line for my novels.”
“What was the meeting about last night? What were you discussing with your friends?
“When I read about the art heist, and the murder, I wanted to satisfy myself that none my friends were
involved in a crime which I had carelessly outlined for them. However, I am more than satisfied that each
one is innocent, and have verifiable alibis for the night the crime was committed.”
“We will make that judgement ourselves. What about you? Have you someone who can verify your alibi
for the night of the 19th April?”
“Yes, my mother and I had our evening meal together at 6.30pm. After we had cleaned up, I retreated to
my study and remained there until I went to bed.”

Chapter seven
It was late in the evening when John arrived back at his parents’ house. As he let himself in, the first sound
he heard was his little girl crying. Entering the lounge room he found his mother walking around
desperately trying to pacify the child. “Now you come,” growled his father as he sat in his favourite chair
looking as angry as he had ever seen him before. “Your mother has been trying to pacify your little one all
day. Look at her son. Look at her. She’d worn out.”
“No it’s all right Johann. It’s just that she doesn’t seem to want a settle today no matter what I do.”
“Give her to me.” said John as he placed his bag on the floor. “There sweetie, now what is there to cry
about? Daddy’s here now.”
“Daddy’s here now?.” said he’s angry father. “It would have been better if daddy was here a little earlier.
What sort of life is this for us? Did you ever think of that? I have been looking forward to my retirement,
and now what do we do. Stuck at home with a crying baby.”
“Enough of that dear. We agreed to look after our grandchild for Johann. It just that it has been a bad
day.” John could see the problem. But what else could he do. His daughter had stopped crying, and now
cradled in his father’s arms exhausted, it looked as if she would soon go to sleep. He climbed the stairs
that lead to his daughter’s bedroom, and lay her on the bed and tucked her in and gave her a kiss. Her
eyes closed and she was soon fast asleep. As John stood in the quiet that had now extended over
household, he wished he didn’t have to go downstairs and face his father on again tonight. They will have
prepared his meal and would want to talk. Slowly he made his way down the stairs.

Chapter eight
“All right.” said Detective Gorby as they met together the next morning. There was a chalkboard on the
wall, and he began to write the names of each of the interviewed men. “Where are we? You first Sergeant
Bergman.”
“I interviewed Lorry Manton, and he certainly was not involved in the murder. He is a shift worker at the
Spencer Street Power Station and I checked his alibi. He was working that night.”
“Right, we can cross him off our list.” Said the inspector.

16
“I interviewed Brain Cox.” Said Garry. “He is also a maintenance shift worker at the Royal Melbourne
Hospital. His alibi stacks up. Began working at 10.00pm on the night on April 19th.”
Gorby picked up the chalk a drew a line through the second name. “ The third member of the team is
Graham Gasby.” said Barbara. “He is a school teacher and had a school concert on that night, so I think we
can cross him off our list too.”
Gorby drew a line through the third name. “I interviewed Noel Beasley, and although he was at home with
his elderly mother on the night of the murder, I am confident he was not involved either. He has finished
writing and his book that is at the publishers ready for printing. Could be an interesting read. The other two
members of the group are overseas. One, a research scientist in England, the other, a contract worker who
is presently working on the manganese mine at Vanuatu.”
“So where now?” said Garry leaning back in his chair.
“I don’t think we should be too quick to rule out Mr Beasley just yet.” Said John. “He clearly couldn’t have
stolen the art himself, as we have seen several times that careful planning and executed criminal activity
like this involves more than one person?
“Yes, he would enjoy planning it from the comfort of his bed.” Laughed sergeant Bunting.
“If anybody could work out this clever scheme, it would be him, after all he does it for a living doesn’t he?”
said Barbara
“Well he certainly got the brains for it.” Said Gary.
“I agree.” Said Gorby. “He would still be our main suspect.” And turning to John he said, “Sergeant, you
were going to follow up on the National Gallery in Victoria. Find out how the contract with the road
transport company was made.” Said Gorby. “Any news?”
“This time, I was able to talk to Alexander Ashcroft, the curator himself. Strange bloke, looks like a giant
beetle. He wears a waistcoat that barely stretched over his huge stomach. Shiny black hair that seemed to
be soaked in perspiration. With everyone firing arrows in his direction, it’s no wonder he is sweating, poor
bloke.”
“Ok Sergeant,” said Gorby getting frustrated. “I think we have all got the picture of what he looks like. But
I am more interested in what he says rather than his looks.”
“I get the impression Ashcroft is a bit more progressive than his colleges.” said John. “The people who work
at the gallery tend to be a fairly conservative lot. I suppose it comes with the territory. They tend to stick
with what they know, and reluctant to try anything new. When I spoke to Alexander, he was visibly upset
with the missing artwork and now having to come to terms with the two driver’s murder. He told me he
was only trying to reduce the cost and time that the artwork spends during transport. He was telling me
that he had done his research, on alternate means of transport, and found that road transport was not
only more convenient but quicker and cheaper. “Doesn’t that make sense?” he said to us as if we were
part of the establishment. Evidently, Alexander argued his case so strongly that the management final gave
in and gave permission to proceed. Now that the artwork has gone missing, the management now wish
they had never backed down and quite unfairly point their finger at their curator as being the one
responsible. Now he has to wear it poor man.”
“Did he have any idea who has stolen it? What sort of people are we looking at?”

17
“He was telling me that there are three types of people who steal valuable paintings. “Said John as he
looked down at his notes . “The most common type is ‘The delusional’. These are people who think they
can actually sell a paintings on the open market, or hoard them for later sales. However the auction houses
regulations make that almost impossible these days. “
“From the little I have seen of the paintings, they are so unique, you could never sell them on the open
market.” said Barbara.
“The second type is what she called ‘The Nutters’. Some people are so taken by a particular painting that
they just want it to hang in the privacy of their home. They have no interest in making any gain from the
painting, just as long as it hangs on their lounge room wall.“
“You can buy printings of famous paintings to achieve the same result. Why go to all the risk of stealing it?”
Said Garry .
“Yes keep going Sergeant. What else. We’re wasting time.” Said Stan
“The third type of which I think is the area where our art thieves fits. It is what she calls the ‘opportunists’.
These are people who make their living by trading valuable artwork for all types of collateral. It may be
money, or anything from favours to large drug deals. However there are also people who seal for the
purpose of making a political statement.”
“Was there some inducement, a sweetener for Alexander from the road transport company to win the
contract?” said Gorby.
“I have spoken to Jack Moran, the owner of Moran’s Road Transport,” said John. “They deny any bribes
made to secure the contract.”
“Good work Sergeant.” Said Gorby stepping up to the chalkboard and writing Alexander’s name. “While I
agree that it may be unfair for the gallery to point their finger at the curator, I don’t think we can dismiss
him from our suspects just yet.”
“Or any other of the other staff members of the gallery.” added John.
“Yes that’s true. But see what you can find out Mr Ashcroft. We need to know as much as we can about
him. Where does he come from? How did he get that position as Curator?” Turning to face the room he
said, ”Do we have anyone else that we should have on our list?” There was silence as everyone looked
around. Finally Barbara raised her hand. “Yes Constable,” said Gorby. “What have you got?”
“I have been going over the transcript of the interview with Tony Bernardi, the waiter at the East
Brunswick Club Hotel. There seems to be an anomaly.” said Barbara as all eyes turned towards her. “He is
reportable overhearing just snippets of a conversation at a table he is serving, but remarkably, remembers
an awful lot of detail about how the victims of the art heist are not only tied up, but tied to a tree. Looking
through the manuscript of the novel by Noel Beasley, the story has the driver and security guard tied up,
but no mention of being tied to a tree. In fact, in the story, they manage to crawl over to the road a wave
down some help. So how did he know about the tree?”
“Maybe he read about it in the papers.” said Stan.
“No I checked that out too. The papers that have reported on the scene of the murders do not mention the
tree. So how does Mr Bernardi know that small detail? Did he make it up, or was he there at the scene?”
“Right, let’s add his name to our list.” said Gorby taking up a piece of chalk. While writing on the board and
without turning around he said. “Actually you were with me at the interview. What do you think Barbara,
is Bernardi capable of murder?”

18
Barbara quickly took the smile off her face as she wondered how to respond. Was this just a casual remark,
or was Gorby setting her up in front of the others. “He could easily have been involved as he had all the
details of the plan.” She said hoping this would satisfy her boss.
“That’s not what I asked Constable. What I want to know is what do you think? Is he capable of murder?”
There was a deafening silence in the room, Barbara could feel the tension. She had no illusions as to why
she was there. She knew that she was never going to win their respect no matter what she said or did. ‘I’m
a novelty. A side show freak.’ She thought to herself. Looking around the room, all eyes focused on her. “I
remember feeling very uneasy during the interview. For a person who was merely telling us what he
overheard, he seemed very edgy. He wouldn’t sit down, paced up and down as he talked. He was certainly
very keen to get his hands on the reward money. But a murderer? I don’t think he would have the brains or
the guts.”
“Well I would like you to follow up on Bernardi.” said Gorby. “Find out all we can. You will need to set up
another interview and find out his whereabouts on the night of the 21 st. Take a uniformed officer with you.
I don’t want you going alone.”

Chapter nine
Constable Barbara Ford and uniformed officer McIntyre strolled into the East Brunswick Club Hotel. The
two constables opened the door of the pub and strolled into the bar. Even though it was still early in the
afternoon, there were a few patrons at the bar, and a couple sitting at one of the tables. Tony Bernardi was
pulling a glass of beer and didn’t notice the two standing at the end of the bar. When he finished he moved
down to serve them and Barbara showing her identification card said. “Mr Bernardi, my name is Constable
Ford and this is Constable McIntire. We met a week ago you may remember.”
“Yes, I remember. It struck me at the time, the cops must be desperate. A tough talking sheila – whatever
next?”
“I have some more questions for you, Mr Bernardi.” Said Barbara ignoring his sexist comment. “Can we
have a talk somewhere private?”
“I’ll just check with the boss. Should be ok. You just choose a table and I will be with you in a minute.”
“As Tony walked away, Barbara turned to face her uniformed officer. “I would like to have this interview on
my own. However, I would appreciate it if you could wait at the bar. I may need your assistance at any
time.”
Tony Bernardi soon joined Barbara at a corner table. He sat back with his arms across his chest.” “What is it
you want to see me about? Is it something to do with the reward?”
Barbara had no wish to prolong this conversation, so she got straight to the point. “Mr Bernardi, the
reason for our little chat this afternoon is to check out a comment you made to Inspector Gorby and
myself concerning your recollection of the conversation that you overheard at a table you were serving
on the night of the 11 th March. You told my college, and I quote “that if the blokes didn’t cooperate, they
would need to adopt plan ‘b’ and have the blokes tied up to a tree out of sight of the road.”
“That’s it lovey. That’s what I said. Any rate, the story has been all over the papers. Everyone knows what
happened now.”

19
Barbara wanted to keep the pressure on Bernardi. “And tell me Mr. Bernardi, where were you on the night
of the 19th April?”
“What is it about you women, always jump to conclusions. You are accusing me of bumping those two off?
You have a cheek. What would I want with stolen art? “
“You haven’t answered my question Mr. Bernardi.” said Barbara. “Where were you on the night of the 19 th
April?”
“Well here of course. I’m here every night. That’s my job. I can even show you where I have signed in the
book just to prove it.“
“I’d like to see that if I could.” said Barbara.
Bernardi got out of his seat and walked over behind the bar and into a small office. Within a minute he
was back with a hard covered ledger with the lists of dates and names of the staff and their working hours.
Barbara traced her finger down through the list of dates until she came to the date of the murder and
there was a Tony Bernardi name and signature. Began at 11;00 am- 8;00pm. Closing the book, she pushed
it across the table to Tony. “Now are you satisfied?” he said. “I don’t know how long Victoria is going to
hang out on this ridiculous six o’clock closing. Most of the other states in Australia have abolished it years
ago. But as you can see, I work through to 8;00 pm to clean up and restock ready for the next day.”
Barbara refused to be diverted from her interview, “Mr. Bernardi , you gave us some details about the
murder that wasn’t part of the conversation you over heard, nor was in the papers. I don’t think you are
telling me the truth.”
“Look lovey, I know that being a woman you don’t understand what happens at the bar. That’s why I’m
surprised you’re not at home looking after the kids. Surely there is washing to do and other jobs around
the house rather than coming here accusing me. But if you really want to know what happens when I work
the bar, I get to hear all sorts of stories. So you ask me how I knew so much about the murder, well that
must be where I heard it.”
If Bernardi were hoping to get a rise out of Barbara he would have been bitterly disappointed. “Well Mr.
Bernardi,” said Barbara. “Who exactly told you about the murder? Can you give me a name? “
“No, and even if I did know, being a barman, I am not and liberty to repeat it. It’s a level of confidentiality
that comes with the job. For my own safety, I keep my mouth shut.“
“Mr. Bernardi . May I remind you that this is a murder inquiry, and if you are holding back any information
relating to this murder investigation, I would happily charge you with obstructing the course of justice and
hand you over to the magistrate. You will do time, I can guarantee that.“
“Tony Bernardi pulled himself up and away from the back of his chair and lent across the table so that his
face was only inches away from constable Ford. “I think I have had enough of your unfounded accusations.
If you want to charge me, they can send out a real police officer, not some silly slut who should be at home
doing something useful. Oh, I see by the ring less finger, that maybe there are no kids at home. Then let
me make a suggestion. If you want to really find out what I know, why don’t you come back to the hotel
just after 6:00 and we will have a chat and few drinks together. Then move off somewhere a little bit more
discreet where I can show you what really makes me tick. I think you would quite enjoyed it.”
Just then, Constable McIntire strode up to the table as he was watching Bernardi’s threatening finger. “Is
every ok here Constable?”
20
“Yes, thank you Constable,” said Barbara pulling herself away from the table and standing looking at the
barman. “All okay. I think I’ve learned everything that there to know about Mr. Bernardi .” She smiled at
him “It only took 10 minutes.” She turned her back on him and together with uniform they walked out the
door.
Neither of them said a word until they climbed into the patrol car. “I hope you didn’t mind me interrupting
your conversation, but I just thought Mr. Bernardi was getting a little bit too close.”
“Thank you Constable. I appreciate your observation. I think he thought I was little hard of hearing,
however we had just about finished.

Chapter ten
Noel Beasley’s book ‘Hands off the Art’ was published with great fanfare. Crime mystery reviewers hailed
the novel as one of Noel Beasley’s best writing. However questions were still being raised about the timing
of the novel, and it’s close resemblance to the art heist in Northeast Victoria. When questioned, the author
Noel Beasley denies any involvement in the theft of the Ned Kelly paintings. Making a point that his novel
was inspired by the art theft of the Mona Liza in 1911.

Chapter eleven
Stan Gorby looked tired as he entered Russell street police station on Monday morning. This case was not
going to be easy. Pressure from his seniors to find the stolen artwork and capture of the murders kept Stan
awake at night. His mind going over and over every detail of the case.
Throwing open the door off his office and sitting down in his chair, he was surprised as he noticed Barbara
Ford busy at her desk . As he wandered over she looked up with a cheeky look on her face. “I thought I
would make sure I was in early this morning boss. I wanted to finish writing up the report of my interview
with Tony Bernardi.”
“And how was our friend Mr. Bernardi? Do you think he was involved?”
“A little bit too friendly for my liking. Make a good barman. I think he knows more than he’s telling. Said
he has to keep a level of confidentiality. Have you heard such nonsense? His alibi for the night of the 21 st
checks out. I don’t think he’s got the brains to organize something like that. “
“So we can dismiss him from our list Constable? “
“Yes. I think so.” she replied.
“You can place your report on my desk when you’re finished Constable. He turned and took a couple of
steps towards his office then stopped and turned around. “There is something that I want to say to you..
You are probably aware that your deployment to my staff has ruffled a few feathers. You understand it is
only temporary.“
“Of course sir.”
“There are people above me who think the homicide is no place for a woman. I don’t happen to agree
with them.”
“Thank you sir.”
21
“I am off to visit out friend Alexander Ashcroft at the Art Gallery this morning. I have a few questions I need
answering.”
Deciding to walk rather than take the car, Gorby strolled down Latrobe street to Swanson Street and was
alarmed at the traffic jam in the street. Due to blocks of Elizabeth street being closed off due works on the
tramline, all traffic had been diverted to Swanson street, and cars were held up as far as the eye could see.
The sounds of idling engines, irritated drivers sounding their horns, and traffic policeman blowing their
whistles filled the air. Fortunately he only had a short distance to walk to the Art Gallery, climb the massive
steps and enter through the doors to shut the noise of city traffic away. As it was still early morning Gorby,
was pleased to find the crowds of visiting art lovers had yet to arrive. He made his way over to the
information lady. She was a tall thin lady who peered down on her enquirers from her high stool behind
the open window. With large pink floral glasses and an imitation smile she said. “And how can I help you
sir?”
Stan produced his ID card. “My name is Detective Inspector Stan Gorby from Russell Street Police. I would
like to speak to Mr Alexander Ashcroft if I may.”
“Do you have an appointment Detective Inspector?” she said as if she was mouthing a recorded voice.
“The answer is no,” said Stan beginning to feel a bit annoyed at having to listen to the floral pink glasses
asking the questions. “However, if you could just give me the directions to his office, I sure he would be
only too pleased to see me.”
“She turned and pointed across to her left, “If you make your way over the glass doors on the left that
indicate ‘staff only’, someone will come and open the door and take you to his office. However in future Mr
Detective, it might be better to make an appointment first, as I know Mr Ashcroft is a very busy man.”
Stan was about to reply, but thought better of it as he made his way to Ashcroft’s office.
Knocking on the door a female voice from inside called out, “Come In”
Stan peered around the door, and was surprised to find a smartly dressed lady sitting behind the desk. Stan
showed his ID card, “My name is Inspector Stan Gorby from Russell Street. I was expecting to speak with
your Curator, Mr Alexander Ashcroft.”
“My name is Beverly Thompson Art Director.” She said as she got up from her chair and walked around to
shake hands. “I am afraid Alexander is unable to speak with you, he has taken some leave. He has been
under an enormous amount of stress lately. Would you like to sit down? I hope you have come with some
good news.”
“I am afraid not.” Said Gorby a little taken back by the female presence in the room. “It is still early days. As
you know, we have not just the stolen artwork to find, but we have a double murder that is linked to the
case. I have a number of questions that I was hoping your Curator could help me with.”
“I can understand your reticent to speak with a female, Inspector.” said Beverly with a knowing smirk
spread across her face. “ However I think I am quite capable of answering most of your questions.”
“As you will understand, we are trying to get a feel of what kind of people would want to carry out this
crime. Can you think of anyone or any group of people who would have an interest in stealing this art
work?”
“Look Inspector, if I had the answer to those questions, I wouldn’t be sitting here with my stomach tied up
in knots wondering how it could have happened.”
“I appreciate that madam. Are you sure there been no demands made by the thieves?”

22
“In my time as Art Director, we have never experienced a major art heist as this. And you will have to
believe me, Inspector, that if I had any inkling, or any information to names of the people involved, you
would be the first to know.”
“Mrs Thompson, I am trying to get a picture, a feeling of which way to go, and so I looking for you to give
me some guidance, as my knowledge and appreciation of art is almost zero. But can you think of any
group of art critics who would be so fanatical of the artist, or style of art work that would want to steal and
destroy them.”
“In this business where art is concerned, appreciation is always subjective, so there are always critics.
However, as we are talking about the particular style of the stolen artwork created by Sidney Nolan. Yes
since it has been in display in Melbourne, it has had mixed success.”
“And why is that?”
““To answer that question you will have to let me talk about modernism. Modernism emerged overseas
particularly in France in response to a variety of social changes and events over the last century. The rise of
industrialisation, the growth of modern cities, and widespread moves away from traditional rural
industries; and later the violence and destruction of WWI. Because of these massive changes, modernists
began to question whether society’s old rules, assumptions and even religions were still relevant. Aristotle
once said that the aim of art work is to represent not their outward appearance, but their inward
significance. So naturally this new way of thinking flowed into a style of art form that captured their
thinking.”
“And where does Sidney Nolan fit into this scene?”
“Sidney Nolan was captivated by the modernist movement. Between 1945–1947, Nolan painted 27 works
featuring an abstracted Ned Kelly form. Let me show you some prints of the stolen art work.” The Curator
opened a book with large coloured photos of the artwork. “You will see Inspector, the way Sidney Nolan
has pictured Ned Kelly, it is almost like a child would draw a picture. Ned Kelly’s armour always black and
square flat against the bold coloured landscape. You can see, Inspector, unless you understood the
modernist movement, you would find Sidney Nolan’s paintings almost childish.” As she closed the book,
she said. “To answer your question Inspector, we have our critics, and for some, performing an outrage is a
bonding activity for them. Gives them serotonin hits. But would that be a motive to kill two men to steal
the paintings? I don’t think so. There has to be another motive.”

Chapter thirteen
Stan Gorby was sitting at the table with his wife Janet at their evening meal. With the work load from the
investigations, Stan had spent most evenings at the station. So on this rare occasion, Janet had cooked up
a roast, which she knew would place her husband in a good mood. He was telling her of his interview with
the director of the art gallery. Early in their marriage, he had held off from talking about his work, but she
got quite annoyed when he refused to answer her questions. He had pointed out that strictly speaking, he
ought not to tell her anything, but Janet was insistent "we promise not to keep secrets from each other
when we got married didn't we? She said
Gradually Stan began to tell his wife all that happened that day. She would often take notes, which was a
bit concerting at first, but eventually he had come to realize that she was really interested in what came
up, and with questions and theories sometimes well ahead of his colleagues at the station. She had an
uncanny ability to make and some connections missed by those whose job was to make them. " Why do
you think Alexander Ashcroft has taken leave?" She asked tapping her pen on some notes in her notebook.
23
“He is under an enormous amount of pressure, not just his staff, but also from the press. They have been
relentless in their criticism of his decisions on the road freighting of the artwork. Even the public have sent
letters, one anonymous writer sending a death threat."
Do you know where he is now?"
"No, we just expect that he is hiding low somewhere until the criminals are caught. Why do ask?"
Janet was deep in thought until finally she said, “It is certainly understandable that the curator should
distance himself from the pressure in his office, that I have a feeling that there is more to it than that."
"In what way do you?"
“I have a feeling that he may have orchestrated the whole thing." Stan tried to break in but she said, "Now
listen while I finish what I was saying. First of all we know that he persuaded the directors into using a
road freight instead of the traditional rail. Second, from what you have been telling me, the curator and his
staff have been very slow in setting up an internal investigation into the art theft. If the thieves are trying
to sell them off, or illegally exporting the paintings off shore, the gallery would have links to art dealers and
art collectors who knew people who would love to get their hands on these paintings."
“Are you suggesting it might be an inside job?”
“It certainly be a line of inquiry I would think worthwhile.”
Stan and sat back in his chair rubbed his chin as he thought through her preposterous theories.

Chapter fourteen

””As the team sat around the office the next morning, detective Stan Gorby entered the room. “We finally
have our first demand from our art thieves. It comes in a form of a typewritten letter addressed to the
Manager of the Art Gallery. The letter is made up of two parts. The first page is very clear as it forms the
basis of their demands, However, the other page is quite difficult to read. It is also written by someone
unhappy with his lot in life. However, I will read just the first page.
Dear Sir,
We are members of the newly formed wing of the Democratic Party called the “White Activists”.
Our involvement in the theft of the Sidney Nolan’s Ned Kelly Series artwork, and the unfortunate
deaths of the driver and security guard is aimed at the government, to draw the their attention to
the growing number of concerned Australian residents of the government’s decision to relax the
white Australia policy thus allowing people of colour and Asians to enter Australia. For over fifty
years, Australia has applied strict conditions on people wanting to enter our country. If these people
are allowed in this country, and become citizens, they would receive award wages and work under
award conditions. However, the problem arises due to their squalid living standards and political
immaturity which would have the effect of changing the culture of Australian. We demand the
immediate cease of the abolition of the white Australia policy and a referendum for all Australians
for their voice to be heard. Failure to act will mean and this iconic art work will be destroyed.”
I won’t read any more of it will leave it to you all to read ,”said Stan as he passed the letter and around
amongst his colleagues for them to pursue before making any comment .

24
“I don’t know what to make of it Inspector. Said Gary after having glanced through the pages. “Who are
these “White Activists”? Have you heard of this political party before? And from what I can see from the
other page of the letter, it is a threat of some kind. The last lines says, ‘I do not wish to give the order full
force without giving timely warning but I am a Widow’s Son, outlawed and my orders must be obeyed’ .”
“The first thing it tells me,” said Gorby “Athough we have the problem of solving the murders, we need to
concentrate our attention on who these people are who have stolen the artwork. Now I know the two are
linked, but at least now we have a motive. The second thing it tells me, that thieves are not just common
thieves, ‘delusionalits’ as your art curator called them, hoping to make some quick cash, no these are
‘opportunists’. Here we have a carefully planned political group who want to make a statement. Who are
they? And who is the leader or spokesperson? “
“I know this is not going to be a very helpful comment,” said Garry. “but after attending the book launch of
Noel Beasley’s “Hands off the Arts “, I bought a copy, and I must say, it is a very good read. But what I
found interesting, the plot to steal the art work is also sectarian motivated . Among the art works stolen is
a religious icon of the Virgin Mary and child, stolen by an Irish terrorist group in revenge for something that
happened in Ireland years ago. “
“What is the point you are making Sergeant?”
“To solve the crime, the detective in the story had to do some research into Ireland’s political history to
make any sense of the art heist. What I am suggesting boss, we may need to get to grips with the whole
history of the White Australia policy to get any idea of who these people are. Why is it now being
abolished? Who are the groups of people who are benefiting from the changes and who are the ones who
imagine themselves losing out? “
“And if we take that a step further,” said Barbara, “The particular art work that was stolen, does that tell us
anything about who these people are?”
“Good thinking Constable.” said Stan “I would like you and Sergeant Bergman to start work on this whole
White Australia Policy. Check with media. I’m afraid it’s not very exciting, but you will have to look through
the newspapers for the last twelve months or so.” Turning to Garry he said, “Sergeant, I would like you to
do a research on the curator, Alexander Ashcroft. See what you can find? Is he linked to this “White
Activists” party? If he is not at work, where is he?
“And while we are doing all this research, What about you doing boss? “said Bergmann. He was peeved at
having to spend the rest of the day with his head buried in the basement of the police headquarters.
“Thank you for your concern Sergeant.” Said Gorby trying not to show his annoyance. “I am quite intrigued
by the writing of page two in this letter. There is something familiar about it, not so much from what it
says, but about the style, wording. I’m going to get a literature expert’s take on it. That may give us a lead
to the type a people who communicate in this strange manner. Does that satisfy your curiosity Sergeant?“
Stan didn’t wait for an answer, “In the meantime, I’m just going to sit and think for a bit. Use those little
grey cells as Agatha Christie’s Poroit says in the stories. All great detectives spend time reflecting on their
cases, and I know just the place to do it. Remember Sherlock Holmes played his violin far into the night?”
“I didn’t know you played the violin sir.”
“No you are right. The similarities between myself and Sherlock Holmes are few, apart from our brilliant
perceptive minds.”
“And exceptional modesty.” Laughed John
25
Stan Gorby didn’t have to walk very far to St Patrick’s Catholic Cathedral in Melbourne. His appointment
with the assistant Priest Father O’Brian was not until 1:00pm, he could take his time, and give himself
plenty of time to think. It was a beautiful autumn afternoon in Melbourne. The day had begun overcaste,
but by 11.00 am, the sun had lifted the cloud and with light winds, it was a beautiful afternoon for a walk.
Stan walked up Lonsdale street and crossed into the parliament gardens at the back of the parliament
house. He found himself slowing down as he wandered along the path towards the cathedral. The noise
of the city traffic being absorbed by the shrubs and trees, just the sound of the wale from a siren still
penetrated his space. This is where I will stop and think, he thought to himself as he spotted a park bench.
He lit a cigarette and watched as the smoke drifted above his head.
Arriving at the church, Stan entered through the two huge doors, and made his way down the central isle
and sat in one of the pews near the front, his back turned against most of the ornate opulence of the
furnishings. He wasn’t a particular religious man, the protestant in him was far more comfortable in the
spartan white washed churches with a simple wooden cross. It was only there that he occasionally felt the
shadow of the presence of that simple carpenter from Nazareth. His grandfather had taught him that he
didn’t need the ancient gold and silver artefacts or precious jewels to evoke the Holy Spirit to find peace, a
lesson he couldn’t shake off.
Stan’s mind was in another world when he caught sight of Father O’Brian appear from one of the
vestibules. Although wearing a clerical collar, he was dressed in a fawn pair of slacks and a high neck
jumper. Gary O’Brian had a PHD in literature and had worked in the Australian History Department of the
Sydney University before heeding to a call to become a priest. The Victorian police had their own literature
department, but that would take time. With Gary, Stan knew he could most likely get an answer on the
spot. Beside Gary owed Stan a favour after a successful investigation into a recent spate of thefts in the
churches coppers.
“Good afternoons Stan, or should I call you Inspected Gorby? I hope none of our congregation have fallen
by the wayside that has elicited your visit today?“ he said with a welcoming smile.
“Good to see you too.” said Stan standing up from his pew “No nothing of that. There is no need to worry.”
“Well that’s nice to hear. Now are you happy here in the chapel or would you like to see me in my office?”
“Perhaps your office would be more appropriate as I have a document I would like you to examine for me.”
“Come this way Stan.” Father O’Brien led the way back into the vestibule area and just off to the left he
opened a door into quite a spacious office. There was a heavy wooden desk just below the only window in
the room. The other walls were stacked from floor to ceiling with books. Two upholstered chairs helped
filled the floor space, and Gary invited Stan to take one while he sat on the other. “I’m sorry I can’t offer
you any tea or coffee, the kitchen is located on the other corner of the building and our only kitchen staff is
having a sick day.”
“That’s fine, “said Stan. “This may not take long.“ He pulled the envelope from his inside pocket. “You will
be aware that we are investigating an art heist involving the murder of two workers. Until now we have
had no demands from the thieves until yesterday, when the director of the art gallery received this letter in
the mail. “There is something about the wording of page two of the letter that seems to ring a bell, but I
can’t think what it is. I wondering if you could cast your expert eye over it and see what you think?”

26
 “Yes terrible business that.” said O’Brian holding out his hand to accept the envelope. “We have been
praying for the families of the two victims that they will find some measure of peace.” Father O’Brian
opened the envelope and removed the letter. Stan watched him closely as his eyes scanned the page,
getting a feel for its contents. “They have certainly made a strenuous effort to maintain their unanimity as
they seemed to have borrowed heavily from other literature. Just give me a moment while I read it
carefully.” He turned around and placed the letter on his desk. Stan sat quietly hoping his friend would be
able to make some sense of what was in a letter. Finally, he turned around holding the letter in his hand.
“You will obviously have picked up on their demands for the government to cease the abolition of the
white Australia policy. Even to the extent of forming a new political party. However, Stan, the other page
of the letter contains a famous ‘manifesto’ and ‘confession’. And do you know where they have borrowed
them from?” He looked at Stan with a smirk on his face.
“I have no idea father,” said Stan. “It doesn’t make sense to me”.
“The words are from the last page of a 39 page letter written by Ned Kelly now called the famous Jerilderie
letter In 1879 .You may have noticed that they have even signed the letter N.K.” he sat looking at Stan
waiting for some kind of reaction.
“You mean the bush ranger Ned Kelly of Glenrowan? I didn’t know he wrote a letter?”
“Yes, just weeks before the Glenrowan incident when he attempted to derail the train from Melbourne, he
wrote what has become known as the Jerilderie letter. Named it after the town of Jerilderie where the
Kelly gang carried out an armed robbery, the handwritten document dictated by Ned Kelly to fellow Kelly
Gang member Joe Byrne in 1879 is one of only two original Kelly letters known to have survived.”
“He was angry at the mistreatment handed out by the police to him and his family. Isn’t that correct?” said
Stan.
“In the captured documents, Kelly defends his bushranging actions, condemns the people he believed had
wronged him and warns people not to defy him. Ned Kelly planned to proclaim north-east Victoria a
republic, with Benalla as capital, and as president-Ned Kelly himself. If a certain police commission had not
been late in delivering his orders, this might have changed the whole history of Australia, might have
brought civil war and certainly unequalled lawlessness.”
“So he had plenty of support?”
“Ned Kelly is portrayed as a person of incredible physical strength and a champion of the working man.
Kelly was contemptuous of authority, supported an egalitarian ideology and was fiercely republican.
Over the years of being on the run from the police, he attracted a huge amount of support. For many
people, he was their hero. On the day of his execution, thousands of people rallied to save his life. “
“Are you suggesting that we have a copycat Ned Kelly running free? “said Stan
“You must remember Stan that I am a priest not a prophet, however it certainly looks like someone who
sees Ned Kelly as a hero type, and has used his writings and sentiments to publish their demands.”
“Thank you Father, you have been most helpful.” As the detective rose from his seat to shake the priest’s
hand he said, “Oh there is one more thing I need to ask you. I need to get my head around why this group
are so concerned about the government’s abolition of the white Australian policy, that they feel that by
stealing this art work and murdering two innocent men on the way, their concern will be heard. Can you
recommend a government senator who would be happy to give us an interview?
“You couldn’t do better that Senator Frank Mc McMillan. A member of the Democratic Party, he is also a
great supporter of the church, and a personal friend of mine.”

27
As Stan strode back to Russell Street, he began to piece together the whole saga. He would need to brief
his team on his findings his first priority on his return to the office. And then make a phone call to Victorian
Government offices.

Chapter fifteen
While Gorby was out, Stan made a phone call to the Gallery for the phone number and address for the
curator, Alexander Ashcroft. There were no police files on curator, so Stan knew he would have to speak to
the man himself. After several tries on the phone, there was no answer, Stan decided a visit to the house
was his next recourse. Maybe the curator was just not answering his phone. Taking his car out along
Studley Park road, as Stan crossed the Yarra River, he knew he was now entering one of the most
prestigious suburbs in Melbourne. The Kew address was not very hard to find, and as Stan expected,
Alexander Ashcroft’s house was a picture in itself . It was of an Edwardian architectural style home, built
from red brickwork, with steep, hipped roofs and front-facing gable ends. The picturesque front garden set
out each side of a path that led up to the charming veranda adorned with fretwork for ornamentation.
Stan pressed the doorbell button at the front door and stood back. He tried again and pressing his ear to
the door, listened for any movement, but there was nothing. He walked through a side-unlocked gate and
walked around to the back door. Peering in through the glass windows of the kitchen, there was very little
to see. Everything was neat and tidy, curtains drawn in most of the other rooms. It was obvious that
Ashcroft was not at home.
Gorby returned to the police station a little more optimistic than he had felt for a long time. As he turned
to enter his office, he saw his sergeant sitting at his office desk. “Good afternoon sergeant.” He said as he
opened the door. Garry looked up and noticed that there was a smile on his bosses face for the first time
for many weeks. “You’re looking very pleased with yourself boss?”
“Yes you are right sergeant, I think I have finally made sense of that letter. I’ll tell you about it all when the
others get here. How did you get on with Mr. Alexander Ashcroft?”
“I have had no answer from his telephone.” Said Garry, “so I obtained his home address from the Art
Gallery and went out to the Kew address to visit him. A beautiful house set in a beautiful street as you can
imagine boss. But there was nobody home, and by the way the curtains have been pulled across the
windows, I would say that there has not been anybody living there for some time. I can only think that he
is hiding away somewhere where he cannot be found or contacted.”
“Well he is certainly not being very cooperative. We will have to leave him as a suspect until we can
positively remove him from our list. Have you seen Sergeant Bergman and Constable Ford?”
“Not since I have been back. I can only presume that they are still down in the dungeons.”
“Can you go down and get them as I have some interesting information that will help with our inquiries.”
” It wasn’t long before John and Barbara were seated at their desks. Large pieces of newspaper cuttings
spread over their desks. “Well you two must have had an exciting time down in the dungeons.” Said Stan
with a smile on his face. “What were you able to find?”
“It would seem that the White Activists have been very busy publicising their cause in the media.” said
Barbara holding up several sheets of newspaper cuttings. “As you can see we have found several articles

28
condemning the abolition of the White Australia policy. One of the articles finishes with these words
which I think sums up their position.’ :……
"We inherited the White Australia policy from our fathers and grandfathers. We have in large
measure been saved by it during this war. It is our responsibility to see that it is there to be handed
down by the grand-children to our great grand-children. In other words, this policy is a sacred trust,
a dogma, which must not be questioned.”
“Thank you both of you. I think we will have more to say about that tomorrow. I have I have set up an
interview for us all with the Democratic politician, Frank McMillian tomorrow morning at 9.00am. I think if
we can get a background briefing on this White Australia Policy, and why the government is trying to
abolish it, we will have a better idea of who we are dealing with. Are they just common thieves, or are they
a serious wing of a political party trying to make their voice heard?”
Gorby walked across to his office and returned with the letter of demands. “As you all know, I took this
type written letter with me to a friend of mine who has a PHD in literature and had worked in the
Australian History Department of the Sydney University. Having showed him the documents, I asked him if
he could identify the author and the meaning of the second page of the letter.”
“Whoever it was is certainly not very happy with the world around him.” said John
“That certainly seems to be the case” said Gorby. “Can anybody guess who was the author of this part of a
letter?” there was silence as they all looked to Stan knowing that he was about to give them the answer.
“It is none other than Ned Kelly.” He looked around at their astonished faces.
“You mean Ned Kelly the notorious bush ranger?” said Garry. “I had no idea that he even wrote a letter.”
“According to my friend, Ned Kelly, wrote two letters, and the one in question is called the Jerilderie letter,
a kind of Manifesto and Confession of all his activities. The page that we have sent to us is the last page of
a thirty-nine page letter, and it is a summary of the threats that he is about to make to the authorities.”
“But what has Ned Kelly of the 1890s got to do with some valuable paintings that have been stolen and
the death of the two drivers?” said Barbara.
“It is all now beginning to make sense.” Said Stan. “We have a group of people calling themselves the
White Activists, who in an attempt to attract the attention of the residents of Australia to their cause, have
taken the image of Ned Kelly as their hero. And like bush rangers of old, have raided a truck carrying
expensive artwork on the side of the road south of Glenrowan, at the same place that Ned Kelly was
hoping to carry out a derailment of a train from Melbourne. “
“Not forgetting of course carrying out the murder of the driver and security guard.” added John.
“Whether that was there intension or not will need to be discovered. However what is also interesting, the
location of where the truck crashed and burnt out is on a property that contains the ruins of the house
where the Kellies is used to live. What is most important is that the art that was stolen is in fact a series of
paintings called the “Ned Kelly series” painted by Sidney Nolan. Whoever these ‘White activists’ are, they
are portraying themselves like Ned Kelly and his gang, victims of the Government’s mismanagement of
Australian society.”
There was deathly silence in the room as each of the team tried to absorb all this new information. The
question on everyone’s lips were the obvious ones. Who is the leader of the White Activists? And where
are they?
29
“What is our next move boss.” Said Barbara.
“As I have already indicated, we have an appointment with Senator Mc Millian tomorrow, with the object
of discovering who this newly formed wing of the Democratic Party who call themselves the “White
Activists’ might be. What is the issue that is behind their violent activity? And even who might be their
leader?

Chapter sixteen
Senator Frank McMillan office was just a shop front in the main street in Maribyrnong. He had agreed to
meet them at 9:00 AM the next morning. The crime squad arrived early and were sitting in the waiting
area, when a door opened and out stepped up tall thin man, impeccably dressed in a designer suit.
“My name is Frank McMillan.” said the senator. His rich cultured voice having an air of authority as he
reached out and shook Stan Gorby and each one by the hand.
“Detective Inspector Stan Gorby and this is Sergeant John Bergman, Sergeant Garry Bunting and Constable
Barbara Ford from Russel Street Police. Thank you for taking the time to see us."
"Come into my office please, find yourself a seat and sit down. As you will understand, I have a busy
schedule today. However, I have an hour before I need to be anywhere. How can I help you?"
“As you know," said Stan. "There has been a major art heist carried out just south of Glenrowan on April
19th where the driver and security guard were murdered. We have had no contact or demands with the
perpetrators of this crime until just this week, when this letter arrived at the Art Gallery. They immediately
passed it on to us. We have a number of questions relating to the letter and we're hoping that you might
be able to help us identify who these people are."
“Stan pulled out an envelope from his inside pocket and withdrew the typewritten letter. “I would
appreciate it if you would read the opening page, as the demands come from a group who identify
themselves under the name of the Democratic Party."
Frank McMillan took the letter and put on his glasses, and slowly read through the letter "As you know I
am a long time member of the Democratic Labor Party in Victoria, but I'm afraid I had never heard of these
“White Activists”. These people who claim they are a newly formed wing of the Democratic Party. Not only
that, but seem prepared carry out this appalling crime to achieve their purpose. We would never carry out
such a horrendous crime as this to get the government to change their mind.”
"What do they mean when they say they want to stop the government from abolishing the White Australia
policy." Said Stan “I have always thought that it was set in concrete from federation in 1901."
“You are correct in one sense," said McMillan " It is written into our constitution in 1901, and for the last
50 years or so, has been strictly applied to our immigration policy through the dictation test. However,
since the end of World War 11, and because of our relative small population and vulnerability to the Asian
countries to our north, it was Arthur Caldwell who boldly said, ‘Populate or Perish’. Over the last decade,
the government has actively engaged in subsidising skilled migrants and their families to come to our
shores from Europe. However, as immigration from Europe has begun to dry up, and Australia still short of
skilled workers, there is a push to open our doors to Asian countries and those of the so called coloured
races."
“But haven't we already allowed Asian students to study and Australia under the Columbo Plan?" Said
Garry
“Yes, The Colombo Plan is best remembered for sponsoring thousands of Asian students to study or train in
Australian tertiary institutions. And during the Australian military occupation of Japan after the 1939–45

30
war, a series of ‘unauthorised’ relationships between Australian military personnel and Japanese women
occurred. Though for many years the Australian military and the federal government discouraged any type
of personal relationships, in 1952 Immigration Minister Harold Holt finally granted entry applications to a
number of Japanese women who had married Australian men (mostly servicemen) thus allowing them to
join their husbands and settle in Australia. The next major step was last year when non-Europeans with 15
years residence in Australia were allowed to become Australian citizens.”
"So this is what these “White Activists” are trying to stop, I suppose.” said Stan
"And what's more, they have the support of more than half of the Australian population a recent poll
suggests. Look at this article in the daily mirror. McMillan opened his desk and extracted a file, opened it
and thumbed through until he found a newspaper article and handed it to Stan. “There is a growing
number of letters such as this opposing any opening of our borders to non-whites.”
Stan took the news paper article and began to skim through its contents. The title of the half page article
was called “White Australia must stay.” Sighting countries such as the United States, South Africa, and the
countries of the East where there is a mixture of races, the author raises the problem associated with half-
castes causing race riots, and general unruly behaviour. The article continued looking at a change in the
standard of living that would exist with the influx of people of other cultures, through their squalid living
standards, the political immaturity, the lack of education. ‘These problems,’ says the author, ‘we do not
want and are determined not to have.’
“The democratic labour party has always fought against the Communist party and its growing fascism and
its anti-Semitism ideology in this country, and to maintain the white Australia policy,” continued McMillian .
“Communists are of course eager to see every country in which they seek to destroy with a racial problem,
because there is no greater pretext for civil war than inter-racial differences.”
“However we would never resort to a crime such as this. Political Parties are non violent.” McMillian
picked up the letter and handed it back to Stan. “ Just the same, I have agree with you, this doesn't look
good for our party when we have people committing such a dreadful act under our name. Thank you for
showing me this letter. I will authorise an internal investigation and see if we can find out who these
people are."

Chapter seventeen

The following morning at their meeting, Stan gathered his officers together. “ I think we all have a general
picture of who we are dealing with now. These so called ”White Activist” are taking the Ned Kelly figure as
the guide and hero. I have a feeling that they are hiding out somewhere in the north-east of Victoria, not
too far from Glenrowan. As a result, I have booked two rooms at the McDonells Hotel in Glenrowan for
you Sergeant Bunting and Constable Ford. You will leave first thing tomorrow morning in a squad car. We
will move our investigation there. Work with Sergeant Wallis and Constable Haig, and see if you can sniff
them out. Garry I will join you in a few days as I have to follow up on an interview.”

Gorby wasn’t ready for bed, and it wasn’t just the heat, although that wasn’t helping. He and Janet were in
the living room playing a game of cards. “What kind of person just kills two innocent people for the sake of
art work.” Stan asked.
“Maybe something it got out of control. Two people in the wrong place at the wrong time I suppose.”

31
“I just hope that we are quick enough to catch them, I don’t want to put any of my team in danger.”
“What about the female constable?”
“Barbara Ford? She’s more astute than almost all her colleagues. I am going to send her up to Glenrowan,
with John. Although, I’m not really happy about putting her in the way of these people. That’s one of the
things that’s bothering me.”
“Is it bothering her?” Stan
“Not that she’s letting on.”
“Leave the bothering to her, Stan. She’s a policewoman, and you’re not her father.”
“I’m trying not to let the fact that she’s a woman get in the way.”
Janet reached across and took his hand. “Try harder” she said. The words were spoken gently “you need
Helens help. She can’t do if you’re busy being protective.”

Chapter eighteen

By the time John and Barbara had arrived in Glenrowan and set up a space in the office of the small police
station, there was little else they could do that day. Sergeant Wallis and Constable Ron Haig had been
snowed under with another case, but finally at the end of the day, as a means of getting to know each
other, the two officers joined them for their evening meal in the pub.
Sergeant Wallis found a table in the corner away from the noise at the bar, and made themselves
comfortable. Drinks were ordered and while they began to enjoy the relaxed style of the pub, Wallis drew
himself up, and loaded like a shotgun, looked straight at his two visitors. “So what’s brought you two up
here to this neck of the woods? Don’t they think we can cope with the workload in our little area? He said
with a snigger in his voice.
John was caught off guard and wasn’t sure how to answer. Surely Stan Gorby had communicated with
Wallis about the reason for their deployment. Looking around at Barbara for support he said, “The boss
has a feeling that whoever has stolen this art is living somewhere in this area.”
“Does he now? Well I can tell you now, he can think again.” Said Wallis showing his irritation. “They are not
here, not in my patch. And I think I would know. But you city cops just think that you know everything, we
know nothing up here. But go ahead, tramp all over my territory. But you are on your own.”
John was shocked from this out burst from Wallis. He looked across at Barbara and watched as she rolled
her eyes. Why hadn’t Gorby make an effort to explain to Wallis what was going on. It would have made it
so much easier for them both. All it needed was a phone call, or was there something else going on? “I
think he just thought that as you are very busy, he has sent us here with the hope of sniffing them out.”
“Well I can tell you now, it is a waste of your time and mine. But go ahead, do what you have to, but don’t
expect any help from me or my Constable. Is that clear?”
There was a deadly silence as no one knew what to say. Constable Haig excused himself to go to the toilet.
Just then the waitress brought the drinks over on a tray, and they took there first sip, Barbara tried to
change the mood by asking a personal question.

32
“What made you decide to become a cop, sergeant?” she said looking across the table but immediately
she had asked the question she wished she had kept her mouth shut. He was still fuming from his outburst.
Wallis picked up his beer and drained the whole glass in one gulp. Banging the glass back down and
pushing himself back from the table, and looked up at Barbara. So you want to know why I became a
copper, do you? Trying some of your smart psychology on me, I can tell.” He leant back and crossed his
arms as he stared her down. “Well if you want to know, I was a plumber working in the western suburbs of
Melbourne. I was often called out to clear sewer pipes, or digging around in filthy soils where a sewer pipe
has leaked. There must be something better than this, I used to think to myself. Any rate one day, my mate
had all his tools stolen in an early morning break-in on his property. The police came and found fingerprints
on the lock on his shed. They matched them to a bloke who had already been convicted of theft. They
raided his home and found all my mate’s tools. They even brought the tools around to his house. Very
friendly copper he was. I was so Impressed by the way he helped him that I decided to swap my career as a
plumber and train for the police force. It is the best move I ever made.
Both Barbara and John and Ron Haig all shared their stories about their reasons for being in the force, but
it wasn’t long before the conversation turned to bloke talk and Barbara began to feel uncomfortable.
“I think I will call it a day and get an early night, if you will excuse me.” She said gathering her bag.
“Are you turning in already?” said Constable Haig as he moved his arm over her shoulder. “We are just
started to get to know each other.”
“Well there is nothing more to know about me.” Said Barbara. as she quickly pulled herself away and stood
beside her chair. “It is such a beautiful evening; I think I will go to take a walk first. Get a feel for the place.”
“Are you sure you will be ok?” he called to her as she made her way to the door. Barbara just turned
around and gave a brief wave. She could feel the anger build up inside. She was so fed up with this
condescending nature of the language towards women in the police force. ‘Would she be OK? I am a
single women, I happen to live on my own, go shopping on my own. Why don’t they treat me like an
equal?”

Chapter nineteen
She wasn’t sure where she was going to walk, but then right opposite the Pub was the Loin’s Park. From
there she would walk across the railway line and follow the road to the other side of town. It was lovely
and quiet, but she was still fuming from her last conversation when all of a sudden, she felt a hand planted
firmly over her mouth. The person who came quietly from behind her said with a deep and menacing
voice. “Now just take it easy and everything will be fine,” Barbara’s first instinct from her training as a
police officer was to bring her elbows back as hard as she could into the assailant’s stomach in the hope of
winding him. But he was too strong, and deflected all her efforts away. She struggled a little but felt herself
held by a powerful grip. Her stomach turned as she felt the cold steel blade of a knife placed against her
neck. “Don’t do that or I’ll cut right through your throat.” His tone became more threatening so she went
still. “There’s no one here to help you. Now just walk where I direct you, stay calm and quiet.”
He pushed her towards the park. Her legs were weak, but she managed to keep walking. They wound their
way through the park until they reached a car parked well away from any lighting. He stopped, took the
knife away and gagged her mouth with a thick cloth. She tried to break free, and he hit her hard on the
head with the handle of the knife. She groaned and fell to her knees. He produced another cloth and
blindfolded her. He pushed her forward again roughly, and she felt herself falling over some kind of barrier
and then was forced to climb inside a small space. Her bag was pulled off, and rope bound round her legs
and then her wrists. A door slammed. She was in the boot of a car! A few seconds later they drove off. The
movements of the car told her that they went quite a long way before turning off along a winding, unmade
33
rough road. Finally they stopped. By this time, she felt carsick. Her assailant opened the boot, untied the
rope around her legs and helped her out. She tried to cry out, but the sound was muffled, and he slapped
her over the head again.
She was pushed forward into a building. A chain was placed around her wrist, and it felt as if this was being
tied to something. She collapsed, and found herself lying on a gritty wooden floor. Then, as suddenly as he
had appeared, her kidnapper left. She was alone, wherever she was. She tried to move but she was
definitely tied to something, and she was still gagged and blindfolded. Her mind raced and she could feel
her heart beating fast. It was all a massive shock and she started to cry. Time passed painfully slowly and all
she could do was lie there on the cold floor. Her head ached and she felt blood running down her face. She
was being held captive somewhere quiet and empty. There was a strong smell of either cattle or horse
manure; She could hear sheep bleating and birds calling in the distance. What would happen now?

Chapter twenty
Sergeant Wallis had just arrived home from the pub when his phone rang. “Sergeant Wallis. How can I
help?” There was a scratching noise at the end of the phone, then a muffled voice. “Your Partner has been
kidnapped. She is well for now. She stays here until you leave the investigation. Enough people have died;
don’t let her be the next. You’re being watched.” With that the phone hung up.
Wallis stood looking at his phone. Who was that? Was that some kind of a joke? He quickly rang the hotel
and was put through to John Bergman. “Hey John,” Wallis here. “Have you seen any sign of Barbara? Could
you knock on her door of her room to see if she is there? “
“What’s this about? Hasn’t she come yet?
“I just got this phone call that said that she has been kidnapped. Gives me the creeps. Go and knock on her
door please.”
“Kidnapped.” Said John, “That’s terrifying. I knew I shouldn’t have let her walk out there alone.”
“Yes, well it’s too late for that now. Don’t hang up, just go and knock on her door now.”
Wallis waited. He could hear some noises, and then he heard Bergman’s voice calling out. “Barbara, are
you there? Open the door. John here.” He waited as he felt his legs begin to shake, so he sat down. Soon
John was back on the phone again. “No answer. What do I do, force it open?”
“No I will ring the manager. Get him to open the door. Goodness, what’s happening. Wait for the manager
and then meet me at the police station. I will make a phone call to Gorby.”
John stood by the door wishing her to open the door. Where was she? He didn’t believe in telepathy, but
he found himself trying to communicate with her: trying to tell her that he loved her; that they would find
her; that she must hang on and try not to lose hope.”
Stan Gorby had settled into an early night when his phone rang. “It’s Sergeant Wallis from Glenrowan.
Sorry to wake you up, but I just had this phone call. Constable Barbara Ford has been kidnapped.” There
was silence at the end of the phone as Gorby sat himself up in bed.
“Kidnapped did you say?”
“Yes, I just had an anomalous phone call. I will tell you the message as I remember what he said. ‘Your
partner has been kidnapped. She is well for now. She stays here until you leave the investigation. Enough
people have died, don’t let her be the next. You’re being watched.’”
“Have you tried her room?” said Gorby striking out at the obvious.

34
“Manager opened the room for us. She’s not there. She decided to leave the hotel and go for a short walk
before turning in.”
Stan Gorby sat up on the bed and tried to control his feeling of panic. His heart was pounding. Why had he
not considered that Ford could be vulnerable when there were dangerous people around? Why had he
sent her to the scene of these terrible crimes? Members of his family had been in jeopardy before in
connection with cases he was investigating, but they had never been targeted directly because of him
personally. For a moment he loathed his job and wished he’d never become a detective. Then with a
supreme effort he got up off the bed and sprang into action. It would not help Barbara if he gave in to
despair; she would be relying on him to do whatever he could to rescue her. He had to get help. He
instantly knew who he was going to see.

Chapter twenty-one
Gorby pushed open the door of the small second-hand book store and walked in. It had just gone nine in
the morning . A bell hanging on the inside of the door announced his presence. The book shop was a
legendary place, a rabbit warren of dusty shelves and passageways. No point in looking for a bestseller or
romantic novels, most of his stock comprised of old editions of local history, encyclopaedias and the like.
As the shop was mostly deserted, it was a mystery to Stan how Noel made a living. Perhaps it was his
novels that payed the bills.
Standing still, and allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light, his eyes followed the rows of book shelves.
There was a musty smell in the store that made Stan feel very comfortable. In his younger days he had
spent many hours looking through the second and books, he loved the warm feeling they gave him. But
today he was in no mood for nostalgia. One of the shelves of books provided a corridor down towards the
counter where Noel Beasley had his eyes buried in his computer.
“Hello, what can I do for you?” said Noel before he looked up, well aware that somebody was in the shop.
Stan Gorby stood quietly waiting, he was in no mood for small talk. “Oh Detective Sergeant Stan Gorby.
I’m sorry I didn’t recognize you as you entered my shop.” Picking up his latest novel, “Hands off the Art”,
he continued “I have a signed copy of my latest book, I would be happy to sell it to you for half price.”
“Thank you for your offer, but I have already had the privilege.” Said the Inspector “Congratulations Mr.
Beasley it is a good read.”
Beasley put the book back on the desk. Gorby remain standing his face expressionless.
“I am humbled that you have come all this way to offer congratulations on the success of my latest book
Inspector, but somehow I don’t believe that this is a social call.”
“I have a problem Mr. Beasley, and I need to talk to you in private.” Noel stood up from his desk, “Come
this way Inspector to my office at the back. Make yourself comfortable while I lock the front door of the
shop.”
The office was quite small, another desk with what looked like letters and invoices piled high in trays. Two
large filing cabinets, and two wooden chairs filled the room. Noel Beasley returned and closed the door.
“Take a seat inspector, we are quite private here. Now how can I help?” he sat back in his swivel chair
feeling very comfortable with himself.
“Mr. Beasley, your latest book has been so successful that my boss the Superintendent has bought a copy
and has read it from cover to cover.”

35
Noel Beasley watched his face carefully before he raised his next question. “I assume by the look on your
face inspector that this is not necessarily good news, am I right?”
“Perfectly correct, just like everyone else who is investigating the stolen artwork at Benalla, we are
surprised by the uncanny likeness your fictional story has with our case.”
“Yes, I am dreadfully aware that the plot has distinct similarities, however as you yourself have discovered,
neither I nor any of the men whose names appear in the book have any connection with your case.”
‘And that’s it exactly where the problem arises.” Said the inspector The Superintendent, unlike me is not
convinced of your innocence, and has contacted me to reopen the investigation into you and your friends.
This time it would involve search warrants, disclosure of the phone records, the whole lot, in this premises
and in your home. You see, the Superintendent happens to remember the fire that engulfed the
Glenrowan hotel in 1928. He was one of the investigating officers. He is still convinced that your father
still alive.”
“What has this got to do with my novel?”
“Just answer the question Mr. Beasley, is your father still alive?” Stan knew that this was a ridiculous
question, but it had to be asked to move the interview in the direction he was hoping it would go.
“I’m afraid we have been through this before Inspector. My father died in that hotel fire at Glenrowan
when I was still quite young. I have lived with my mother ever since.”
“And where were you and your mother when the fire broke out in a hotel? How did you escaped when
your father didn’t?”
“My mother and I were in Melbourne at the time visiting her family.”
“So your father died in rather mysterious circumstances Noel? His remains were never found in the burnt
rubble of the hotel?” Stan knew that he was feeling his way now. He wasn’t sure where these questions
might lead.
“That was the official report from the investigation,” said the bookshop manager. “However that doesn’t
prove anything. If the heat of the fire consumed his body, there would be nothing for the investigators to
find.”
“Are you sure you or your mother had never seen or heard of your father since the fire?”
“No, of course not. What are you suggesting Inspector. That my father is still alive. That is a preposterous
idea. You don’t tell me that you believe that?”
“What I believe is none of your concern, however, as I said, my boss was one of the investigating officers
when the fire broke out, and I don’t think he is convinced that your father died in that fire. You see Mr
Beasley, as you well know, the hotel your father managed has quite a history?”
“You mean in relation to Ned Kelly and his gang? It was good for business. People would come from all
parts of Australia and want to see and relive the story at Glenrowan………..” Noel Beasley sat back in his
chair and picked up a pen and began to twiddle it between his fingers.
The inspector was now groping through thick fog .“Your book “ Hands off the Art” Mr Beasley tells the
story of a modern day bush ranger, holding up a truck in the dead of night with a valuable artefact on
board. Exactly the same scenario happened just south of Glenrowen in the dead of night. This time two

36
drivers were killed and valuable art stolen. Do you think that the legends of Ned Kelly are still alive at
Glenrowan?”
“Now I can see where this is going,” said the bookshop manager. He had lost his jovial tone and seemed
almost rattled. “Your boss is convinced that my father is still alive and is part of the group that held up the
truck. What is it you want from me Inspector? What is it I can do for you to prove my innocence?“
Inspector Gorgy felt quite pleased with himself. Noel was now on his knees begging for mercy. Gorby sat
back and chose his words very carefully. “When I first came to interview you Mr. Beasley, you told me you
had connections with the underworld. May I quote you from my notes, ‘you live and breathe amongst the
most notorious of Melbourne’s criminals’ You asked me what you could do. I need information Mr
Beasley. I think you are the only one who can find it. One of our young officers has been kidnapped in
relation to this investigation, and I want to find her before anything happens to her. Where is she? And
who is holding her? Someone must know.”
“What is it in for me inspector?” Beasley sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “What do I get out of it
if I get the information you are so desperate to find?
Gorby rose from his chair as he felt his anger rising from within him, “You find out where my constable is,
and I will squash any further investigation into your involvement. That is a deal. Here is my card. Ring me
any time.” He picked up his hat opened the office door and quietly let himself out of the shop turning over
the sign on the door which read ‘closed for business’.

Chapter twenty-two
That evening, Noel Beasley had his evening meal with his mother, and after clearing up the dishes and
making sure his mother was comfortable in bed, he put his coat on and let himself out through the front
door. The notorious ‘6:00 evening swell’ was still in place in Victoria, however if you were in the know,
there were places where you could easily get a drink at any time of the night. Noel made his way along
Lygon Street until he came to a laneway. He turned down the dark lane which was littered with rubbish
and stagnate water they lay in between the cobblestones, hardly ever seeing the light of the day. Just over
half way along the brick wall there was a door.
After several knocks on the door indicated a code, the door opened and Noel went inside, climbed the
stairs that wound themselves up to the second floor. There were just a few drinkers sitting around the
table. Noel made his way over to his usual table ordered himself a beer and sat down. Very soon, Noel was
joined at his table by a thin faced, under nourished looking young fellow, with short mousey brown
coloured hair. His name was Tony Hunt, although he went by the name ‘ferret’ by those who knew him.
Tony was in his late twenties and with little fat on his body, he seemed to be all bones. His hair was cut
short, which made his ears appear prominent, his head oval shaped, more like a football, and with his large
protruding nose, a long neck and huge Adam’s apple, it's no wonder he gained the name and nickname
‘ferret’. Only his mother called him Anthony.
During Tony’s younger years, his father had gambled most of their income away, so Tony had to leave
school as a child and work doing deliveries for a local grocer. " Before you sit down Ferret," said Noel
fishing his hand in his coat pocket. " Here's a few bob. Get yourself a beer and come and sit down, I need
to talk with you." Tony's eyes lit up as he put out his hand to accept the cash, and quickly made his way to
the bar. Finally seated opposite Noel, taking a few sips and wiping off the foam from his mouth with the
back of his hand, he said "What do you want to see me about?"
37
"Noel looked him straight in the eye. “What do you know about the kidnapping?" He left the question
blunt as he wanted it have its maximum impact. Tony said nothing for a second or two as he fidgeted
around in his seat." “Kidnapping? I don't do that shit. Who do you think I am?. A criminal or something?"
Nolan knew exactly who he was. He was a petty thief, and an errand boy for some of the more notorious
criminals on the Melbourne scene.
“The reason I asked you ferret. I was just thinking about my next novel. I have an idea for a plot to be
based around a major kidnap. I was just wondering what you know that would help me with some ideas?"
“That’s heavy stuff Noel. You know I don't mess with that stuff."
“Oh yes, I know that. But I was just wondering whether you may know someone who does?"
“What’s in it for me?” said Tony leaning forward and quickly looking around to see that no one was
listening.
"I will look after you ferret like I always do especially with the last job. It turned out to be one of my best
novels. You were a great help."
Tony was still leaning across the table, he placed one hand alongside his mouth and said with a whisper,
“You know there has been a kidnapping occur just out of Benalla?"
"Yes" said Noel. "I read about it in the papers. Bad business. What do you know Tony?"
“I only know what I saw in the papers just like you" said Tony.
Noel knew he was lying. Tony is a literate. “Sounds to be an interesting case that, what do you know?"
A female policeman was grabbed in a park not far from the hotel in Glenrowan Monday night. She was
bundled into the boot of a car and taken away."
"Who would do such a brazen job like that, and for what purpose? Said Noel.
"Now you sound like a policeman asking questions like that. Is not my job to know the who’s and why’s.
That's why I have a clean sheet. The police have nothing on me"
" Noel knew that with a bit of buttering up, he would get young ferret to do whatever he wanted. Ferret by
name. Ferret by occupation "I know you have a clean sheet, but then you are just that little bit smarter
than the rest that hang around here. That’s why I like you and rely on you for my help me."
Tony's face turned into a big grin. "We do work well together don’t we Noel?"
Noel put his hand inside his coat pocket, and pulled out his wallet, and took out a wad of notes. Flicking
through, he watched Tony’s face light up as if he had never seen so much money. Finally he picked out a
£20 note and handed it to Tony. Tony quickly raised his hand to take it, but Noel had not let it go. "This is
yours Ferret.” said Noel, "but just a down payment on some information. Do you understand?" Noel
gently released his grip and Tony pulled the note away and buried it in his coat pocket. "I need to know
who has carried out the kidnapping, and the place where they are keeping her. That's all I need. Do you
think you can do that?"
“You are asking some hard questions there Noel. Who is going to give me that kind of information?"
“You’ll find them Ferret, you always do. And as you see, there is more money in my wallet.” With that Noel
got up from his seat, made his way to the door and walked slowly home.

38
Noel visited the clubrooms every night at the same time. However, there was no sign of the Ferret. But
then Noel knew he wouldn't see him until he had all the answers, and if that was how it was to be, Noel
had no choice but to wait.

Chapter twenty-three

Barbara woke feeling stiff everywhere. Her arms and mouth were numb. The sunlight was pouring in
through the windows and cracks in the door. She could hear the sheep again outside, and it appeared to
be a fine day. But she felt that shivery and miserable, cut off from the world outside and in a dismal place
of discomfort and anxiety.
She'd had to use the bucket earlier. Now it stank, and she was thirsty and hungry. If she didn't get water
soon, she would become dehydrated. She worried about John and wondered what they were doing. If
only she could communicate with him. Suddenly that she heard the noise of footsteps and the door swung
open. Her captor appeared with a new toilet bucket, another duvet, and a carton of water bottles and a
bag containing some food. Her suddenly turned towards her and pulled off her gag. She winched with
pain.
"So, I'm going to leave these off. Don't bother shouting, no one is going to hear you." If you don't behave,
we'll put the gag back on you. Here are a few things to keep you amused." He dropped another plastic bag
next to her and taking the used toilet bucket, he left as quickly as he came. There was a rattle of the key in
a lock.
At least now she was able to look around at the place of her imprisonment. It looked like an old faming
shed. Above her were the rafters and several swallow’s nest were built into the apex of the ceiling joists
just below the iron roof. Around on the floor were pieces of old farming machinery, some planks of wood
and a pile of tiles left over from some job. Dust covered everything, it had obviously not been used for
some time. Barbara followed the length of chain attached her waist and found it clipped to a large ring in
the concrete floor. She still couldn’t move around, but she found by moving herself closer to the ring in the
floor, at least she could stand up on her feet. She looked at the bag of stuff. There was some magazines
and a copy of a cheap thriller. Suddenly she heard voices. She listened carefully but couldn’t make out
anything except maybe a word or two. Were the kidnappers arguing about her, maybe the other person's
didn't want her here.
The idea that there might be some discord between them gave for a glimmer of hope on which to survive.
Perhaps this other person would regret what they're doing and let her out. It didn't sound as if this game
was going according to plan, and it suggested that they were generally afraid that they were going to be
tracked down. But how was anyone going to find out where she is? It was a depressing thought. She
forced herself to concentrate on the comfort of being at least able to stand and do some exercises to stop
her muscles from seizing up entirely.

Chapter twenty-five

39
It was on the third night as Noel sat with his beer that he was joined by Tony looking extremely pleased
with himself. It would have been so easy if Tony just handed all he knew on a piece of paper, but with
Tony, it had to be passed on verbally.

With no more new information from forensics to go on, and every effort to find Alexander Ashcroft
drawing a blank, Stan Gorby was sitting in his office looking through the folder of articles that appeared in
the papers when the phone rang. "Inspector Gorby, what can I do for you."
“It’s Noel Beasley Inspector. I have some information for you that you may find interesting."
"Gorby straighten himself in his chair, taking a fresh piece of paper and pen. “All ears Noel. What have you
got?"
“Just let me make it clear, Inspector. Any information I tell you, you have never heard it from me or
anybody associated with me. Do I make myself clear?"
“Perfectly clear. Now what can you tell me?"

Chapter Twenty-six

When Detective Inspector Gorby and sergeant Bunting arrived at Glenrowan, they lost no time in setting
out to find the criminals. Sergeant Wallis drove while Gorby gave the directions from a map. Sergeant
Garry Bunting and John Bergman sat in the back.
“Where is Constable Haig when you want him?” said Gorby
“He rang in sick again this morning” said Wallis.” I can’t be too hard on him. He comes from a very poor
family. He lives with his wife and small child with his parents in the one house. His father is an alcoholic,
so things at home are not very pleasant.”
“But that’s no excuse for not turning up for his shift sergeant.”
“I know what you’re saying.” Said Wallis. “But sometimes when he rings in sick, I tried to imagine what life
must be like for him and his wife, so I give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“Well we will just have to put up without him.” Said Gorby showing his annoyance
After about 30 minutes they turned on to a gravel road that was sign-posted as Coats Road. The road
finally ended at a track that led down into a gully. They left their vehicle in the gully, and set out on foot.
The track followed an avenue of young eucalyptus to a small house, built close to the track on the other
side of a small creek and boarded by clear paddocks. A majestic gum tree, a remnant of the forest of these
now empty, paddocks must once have supported, grew close to the track.
“Do you know who lives here? Stan whispered to Wallis.
“I can’t say I do. I have always thought it was an abandoned farmhouse. Never anybody living here in my
time.”

40
“Well there is somebody here now. And they have got my constable. And I want her unharmed.” He said
clenching his hands.
Arriving at the edge of the creek, and well out of sight from the house, Stan stopped and gathered his small
party together. “Sergeant Bergman and Sergeant Bunting, I want you to stay out of sight behind the bush,
but move around the back of the property. Barraba could be in one of the houses, but more likely held in a
barn or shed. See if you can locate her. Sergeant Wallis and I will approach from the front. We will keep
ourselves hidden as much as we can, but we will see if we can determine who is here, how many, and what
they’re doing.”
As soon as Garry and John had departed out of sight, Gorby and Wallis began to move slowly along the
track towards the house. As they crossed the small creek, the track turned to the left, and just over a small
rise in front of them, the house appeared. It was not a large house but it had a large veranda surrounding
it, and alongside, partly hidden by the bush, a motor vehicle.
Suddenly, there was movement at the house. The front door opened. Somebody was about to exit.
Gorby and Wallace stepped back well hidden by the trees. Gorby looked across to see if he could see his
two sergeants, but they were well out of sight. Have they seen the movement at the front door? Probably
not.
Emerging from the front door ever so slowly and standing on the veranda was the strangest creature they
had ever seen. Whoever it was was covered with a metal armour that covered his chest and face. Gorby
couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Was this Ned Kelly returned in the flesh? Is this the leader of this
new democratic party “The white activists?” The group of people who carried out the theft of the art and
killed the two drivers? Is this the man who wrote the letter to the art gallery signing himself NK.
As the man stepped down slowly from the veranda, he had a pistol and each hand, as if ready for a gun
battle. Neither Gorby nor Wallis was prepared nor willing to engage in a gun battle, so they carefully
hedged their way back along the path to the creek. “How did he know that we were coming?” Gorby
whispered to Wallis.
Suddenly a rifle shop rang out through the silence of the bush, and then again. Gorby and Wallis fell down
on their stomachs as they tried to see where the shots were being fired from. It wasn’t the Ned Kelly
figure. He remained stationary like a statue, almost daring to be shot at. Gorby raised his head just
enough to see the house, and to his horror, he saw the barrel of a rifle protruding from the side of the
house through an open window, and pointing in the direction his two sergeants had moved. Had they
been under cover at the time? There was no sound.
Gorby realized that they were grossly undermanned, never expecting an armed confrontation. He would
have to get backup quickly. Just then, there was some noise in the bush behind them. Hiding as best they
could Garry Bunting appeared and threw himself down beside them. “It’s John,” he said trying to get his
breath. “He’s been hit in the shoulder. Can’t move. We need to get him out.”
Gorby suddenly felt the whole weight of the responsibility of his two offices. How could this have
happened? The constable kidnapped and now one of his sergeant shot in the shoulder. Gorby was
furious. He grabbed to Sergeant Wallis by the scruff of his collar, and pulled him towards him. “Do you
know where your constable is sergeant?” Said Gorby trying to control his rage.
Wallis was shocked by what was happening. “Of course I know where he is. Now let me go.” Said Wallis as
they rolled over in the grass. Gorby wasn’t about to let go, and pulled himself closer to the sergeant and

41
looked him in the eye. “That’s him firing that rifle. That’s the man who just shot my sergeant. That’s your
Constable Wallis.” With that he shook him and rolled away in the grass.
Wallace was astounded as he sat up and straightened his collar. He looked across at the house. All was
quiet. The rifle had been pulled back. How did Gorby know that it was his constable pulling the trigger?
He was at home sick. Well he said he was. Wallace was still trying to piece it all together when Gorby
moved up beside him. “Right sergeant. We need backup, and we need an ambulance. I don’t know
where, but it is time you took some responsibility to what is happening here. Get on your way. I’m going to
rescue my sergeant and maybe even find my constable. Now make it quick.”
Gorby rolled away and worked his way towards a large tree and stood up as he beckoned Sergeant Bunting
to join him. “What say you lead the way, but keep your head down.” Keeping themselves out of sight of
the house, they made their way around to a small clearing. They found John Bergman sitting up with his
back against a tree holding his shirt against his shoulder looking as white as a ghost.
“How are you John?” Said Gorby taking up his hand away so he could see the extent of his wound. It
seemed that the shirt had stemmed the flow of blood.
“I’m all right detective said John. “Leave me here I’ll be all right. It’s Barbara I’m worried about is sir. She
more important than me.”
“We are going to have to move you out of this clearing and into the bush, as you are still in danger where
you are sitting. Sergeant and I will help you to your feet, and see if we can find a comfortable place well
hidden from the house.”

Chapter twenty-seven
Barbara was dozing, half awake and half asleep. She knew John would be anxious for her. If only she could
communicate with him. She felt so terrible to be alone with no one to talk to. Just then she heard the
gunshot ring out across the valley. She listened to hear if there were any voices, but it was all quiet.
Sounds like somebody knows where I am. She thought to herself getting her hopes up.
Just then there was a noise outside. The lock was unlocked and a man came running in. Barbara began to
cry when she saw his face. It was Constable Haig. At last she was being rescued, the end of this nightmare.
But something strange was happening, and she didn’t like it. Constable Haig did not attempt to look at her,
nor had he said anything.
“Sit down and don’t move.” He said. “The bush is full of police looking for you, and we can’t let them find
you can we?”
“Haven’t you have come to rescue me constable?” She said almost pleading with him to say yes.
“No. Not me. Not this time sweetie. I got more important things to do than worry about you.” With that
he placed a gag around her mouth, put on a blindfold. He unlocked the chain from her waist, and dragged
her to her feet. Then he pushed her stumbling out the door. She felt the warm air in her face as she was
lead across a paved area that she thought was probably a yard. They entered to another building, and she
was helped down some stone stairs. The temperature dropped and the sounds muffled. He pushed her to
the floor, and pulled the gag and blindfolds off again. She saw she was in a cellar with a stone floor and
white washed walls. “You will be safer in here love” he said. “We can watch you better.” With that he
climbed the stairs and locked the door.

42
At least she wasn’t gagged. She could move around, but she was in semi darkness, no sounds of birds or
animals. She knew she would probably in our house. Suddenly she heard some raised voices. At least the
house was inhabited. Were the kidnappers arguing about something. It gave her hope. If there were
police moving about in the bush somebody was looking for her.

Chapter twenty-seven
“You stay with John, Garry. Use your firearm if necessary. These people mean business. I’m going off to
find Barbara. If she is being kept in a farm shed, I will need to get to her quickly.” The farm was
positioned in a small valley. The main house close to the creek at the bottom. Gorby climbed higher up
the hill to get a better view of the layout. Out houses were spread up the hill and further up again the
sheds. Working his way around the valley still out of sight of the main house, Gorby finally arrived in the
bush behind one of the sheds. To enter the shed he would be exposed, but it had to be done. He made a
dash for the door and fortunately, it was unlocked. There in the corner was a chain, bottles of water, some
magazines. “This is where she has been kept.” Gorby said to himself, turning over one of the magazines
and feeling the disappointment of being so close to finding her. As he looked around he spotted a hair clip.
Picking up he said “this looks like hers”
“Looks as if she was only moved a little while ago.” he said to himself. “At least I know that she is still alive,
but where is she now?” There hadn’t been any car leave the property, so Gorby assumed she was still on
the property. Maybe they have her in the main house.
Gorby knew that he would have to wait for backup before they make an attempt to rescue her, so
reluctantly, he carefully opened the shed door and made a dash for the bush.
By the time Gorby had returned to where his two sergeants were hiding in the bush, it was well into the
afternoon. Well out of breath, Gorby threw himself down beside his comrades. “Any sign of Barbara?” said
Garry.
“They have been keeping Barbara in a shed at the back of the property,” said Gorby stopping every now
and again to catch his breath. “They must have moved her when they knew we were on to their hideout.
Nothing we can do until we get backup. How’s John?”
“Not good. He keeps lapsing into consciousness. I try to keep him awake, by talking to him. He stays with
me awhile, and next I see him unconscious again. He needs to get to a hospital.”
“The only way we can move him is on a stretcher. Have you heard any sounds from the house?”
“Occasionally I think I can hear voices. I duck down behind the tree, but nobody has been out looking for
us.”
“I’ll need you to stay with John until the ambulance arrives. I’ll go back to where we have left our cars and
wait. I hope that Wallis has organised some armed offices soon.

It was well after dark before any backup arrived. Armed officers as well as two ambulances from nearby
towns began to converge well out of sight of the farm.
When they were all together. Gorby briefed the offices in what to expect. “We have a real live Ned Kelly
figure complete with body and face armour who I think is ready for a gun battle. Our Constable Ron Haig is
also inside, and is equipped with a rifle and is a prepared to shoot.
43
I would like Sergeant Wallis and two armed officers to attract ‘Ned Kelly”, in the hope that he will come to
the front of the house. If there is a light on in the veranda, you will have a good view of him, but you will
be concealed in the dark. The rest of you will make your way around to the back and attack from the rear.
Gorby led the two ambulance offices to the site where John and Garry had been hiding and leaving the
ambulance officers to attend to John, Gary and Stan made their way to the back of the property and waited
hidden by the bush. A shot rang out and echoed the through the trees. Another and another. This was a
sign to make a dash for the rear door.
Barbara heard the shots, and moved to the corner of the room well at of sight of the door. But then she
heard the lock being unlocked. The door swung open, footsteps and that a voice she knew belonged to Ron
Haig. “Where are you my dear? We are going to get out of here.” Barbara pulled herself closer to the
corner, but to no avail, as she felt him give her a kick in the stomach. “There you are, now stand up. Don’t
try anything as I have a knife ready to push straight into your back. What I want you to do is to walk slowly
out the back door. You are my insurance policy for our escape. They won’t touch me while you are with
me. Don’t make a sound now, together we are going to walk to my car which is hidden in the bush.”
Slowly they opened the back door of the house. Haig pushed Barbara in front of him and just as he turned
to close the door, Garry Bunting, hidden behind the door, immediately brought his left foot up and kicked
the hand with the knife. The knife fell to the ground, and as Haig bent down to pick it up, Gorby was on
top of him, punched him in the face so hard he knocked him flat on the back. Gorby stood over him, one
foot on his chest. “If you have hurt my Constable, I will have no hesitation in putting a bullet through your
head. You are a bend a copper, the lowest of the low. Now get up on your feet. Put him in handcuffs
Sergeant and take him away and charge him for the murder of the driver and security guard.”
When Barbara heard Gorby’s voice, she knew that it was all over. She staggered toward him, but the shock
of it all was too much and she fainted and fell to the floor.

The gun battle continued, bullets bouncing off the armour-clad man like stones against a brick wall, as he
fired into the dark unable to see his targets. It wasn’t long before he ran out of ammunition and the battle
was all over. Exhausted with the weight of the armour, the figure tried to return inside the house, but
tripped on the edge of the veranda and fell on his floor. Wallis ran over, his revolver drawn in readiness,
disarmed him, turned him over and began to remove his metal armour. Putting handcuffs on him, he tied
him to a veranda post and went inside. The officers stormed the house from the front and rear finding
several men hidden in one of the rooms. They were all unarmed, and immediately put their hands in the
air. Searching the rooms they found beds and clothing belonging to the men, but what was most
astonishing. All of the paintings from the stolen art were hung from every available space on the walls of
the house. It was like walking into an art gallery.

Chapter twenty-eight
One of the rooms was obviously the office. Gorby opened the door and stood at the door way and
surveyed the room. Opposite the door was the window, and to the right, a desk that faced one of the
walls, and on the wall hung the huge Sidney Nolans’s painting of the slotted black squared Ned Kelly atop a
horse. Several book shelves and dark stained wooden cabinets filled the room. “So this is the organising
hub of all the activities of the “ White Activists” thought Gorby itching to get his hands on the documents
44
sitting on the desk, but knowing that he must not touch anything until after the forensic fellows have done
their work. As he stood motionless in the doorway, he began to feel the whole strain of the last few days
begin to seep through his bones. ‘It was all over’ he could feel himself saying to himself. However, there is
one last thing I would like to do. Slowly walking across to the desk his eyes scanned the papers strewn
across the desk. It wasn’t long before he found what he was looking for. On one sheet of paper in neat
handwriting were the words,
“Men and women of Australia, to fulfil the dream of our hero Ned Kelly, a new government, The
New Democratic Party assumes control of Australia from its central location in the town of Benalla
in Victoria. After tonight the government will know that the new democratic party of the white
activist is a force to be reckoned with, the momentum will carry us eventually to the point where
we are a viable alternative government. this will happen.”

He could hear his name being called but it wasn’t registering in his brain. He was almost numb with relief.
It was Sergeant Bunting calling, “Where are you sir? I just found the rifle that was used to hit John. It was
hidden behind one of the beds.” Gorby made no effort to reply, he just stood in the room if. “Are you ok
sir?” said Garry.
“Yes sergeant.” Said Gorby finally accepting responsibility that there was still a lot of work to be done. “Yes
Sergeant I’m ok. Lets just leave all this for forensics to go over. We will take our prisoners back to the
station lock up, but we need to secure the property. Can you organise that? We’ve got a long night ahead
of us sergeant, so we better get a move on.”

Twenty-nine
It was now quite late when the team finally arrived back at the police station. “It has been a very long day
gentleman,” said Gorby as he looked across at the weary faces of his two sergeants. “I think we will leave
the members of the new political party in the lockup overnight and interview them in the morning. I know
that they will not be very comfortable, however they have caused me a few sleepless nights over the last
couple of weeks so they can enjoy the same experience for themselves. But first I would like to thank you
all for your part in the success of today’s operation. But for now I think it’s time we all had a good night’s
sleep, I know I will.”
“Before we go, I want to know how you knew that it was my constable who was involved in this whole
drama?” said Wallis placing his arms across his chest. “I had no idea of his involvement.”
“Gorby looked up and said, “I guess I owe you an explanation. If you will remember that when I arrived at
the railway station with the two forensic officers, I ordered Constable Haig to take the two officers to the
murder scene and then to the burnt out truck. I was presuming of course that he was with you on the day
you were called out. When you later told me the story of the day, you told me that you were on your own
as Constable Haig was on loan to the Benalla branch for the week and could not be contacted. I wondered
then if I had made a mistake by sending Haig with the forensic officers.”
“However on our return to Melbourne on the train, the forensics blokes told me that Constable Haig had a
complete picture of the murder scene, the exact places where the blood was still lying on the ground, and
45
the place where the victims were tied up to the tree, including which way they were facing. He also knew
the exact location of the burnt out truck and its significance to the Kelly Property. My suspicions that he
was somehow involved was confirmed, however I knew that I needed some concrete evidence before I
could arrest him, so I decided to play my cards a little while longer before I pounced.”
“I suppose that is why you failed to inform me of your two detectives arriving on my doorstep wanting to
begin an investigation from here.”
“Yes I thought it best not to inform you as it would give Haig time to organize his cronies that we were
closing in. By the way have you got a shotgun here on the premises sergeant?”
“Yes,” said Wallis standing up and pointing in the direction of the back room. “It is stored in a locked
cupboard. We very rarely use it. Mainly for putting down lame or sick animals injured on the road or
sometimes on a farm. I’ll just check if it is still there.” He and quickly moved across and opened the door
and turned on the light. “Yes sir. It still here.”
“Tomorrow morning, can you wrap it up for me. I will take it to Melbourne with me and see if the shotgun
cartridges match with this shotgun.”
“Do you think Haig used our shotgun as the murder weapon?”
“I’m sure of its sergeant. I assume that only you and Haig would have access to the weapon?”
“That’s correct.”
“If the cartridges match. We have our murder.” Said Gorby wiping his hands together. “Now as I said let’s
get some sleep, and tomorrow sergeant can you organise three interview rooms?”

As was expected Haig denied any involvement in the ambush on the side of the road, and any involvement
in the murder of the two. He claimed he was at home with his family. He did confess to firing the rifle that
hit the sergeant in the shoulder, however claims he was not firing with any intent to hit, just firing to warn
the police off. According to Haig, he was approached by one of the members of the political party with a
reward of a large amount of cash if he would arm himself to protect the farmhouse from any intruders.
Haig claimed that the cash reward would be enough for him to move out of his in law’s house and be able
to pay a deposit for a home for himself and his family. It was such a tempting offer, he couldn’t refuse.
In another interview room a man identifying himself as Alexander Ashcroft was also being interviewed. He
admitted as being the man behind than Ned Kelly like armor who appeared on the veranda of the
farmhouse. However he remained completely silent and wouldn’t answer any questions without a lawyer.
The other men all claimed no involvement in the murder or an events surrounding the ambush of the truck
and the stealing of the paintings. They all claimed they were merely part of this new political party called
the new democrats. Gorby wasn’t too surprised with the results of the interview, however they were all
charged with receiving stolen goods and were transported to Melbourne for fingerprinting and remain in
custody.
Constable Barbara Ford was admitted to the Wangaratta Hospital for trauma, dehydration, and bruising,
but after several days of rest, she was transported to Melbourne. Sergeant Bergman was taken straight to
Melbourne in the back of an ambulance to the Royal Melbourne Hospital in Melbourne for surgery to
remove the bullet from his shoulder blade.
The press were very quick to snap onto the news that the stolen art work had been found.
46
“Sidney Nolans’s Ned Kelly series of paintings stolen from a road transport vehicle on route to
Sydney sometime during Thursday evening 19th April, or early Friday morning have been found in a
derelict farm house near Greta In North eastern Victoria. Although removed from their crates, they
remain unharmed much to the delight of the assistant Curator at the Victorian Art gallery. There
are no names of the thieves arrested at the farm house all remain in custody in Melbourne. ”

47