““It’s the same calibre bullet, Scobie. A .243 fired from the same rifle as the other three. You wanna come up and have a look?” Malone told Clements to wait on a call from Wal Dukes out at Randwick, then went up to the fifth level of the Centre. He waited to be admitted by Clarrie Binyan himself, who came and operated the security lock. There were over seven thousand confiscated and surrendered weapons, from tiny one-shot pistols that could be hidden in a woman’s hand to weighty submachine-guns..., kept here in Ballistics; there were also countless flick-knives, decorated daggers, kris, bayonets, rapiers hidden in umbrella sticks, machetes and a medieval battle-axe, a treasure commonly known as The Wife. Binyan locked the door behind them and led Malone through to his office. Clarrie Binyan was part-Aborigine, a twenty-six-year-veteran who had started as a fighting street kid in the Police Boys Clubs. Without changing his name to something Irish and romantic he had made good in a white man’s racist world, but not within fifty million dollars of Brian Boru O’Brien.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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