Grk Undercover (24 page)

The bullet smacked into the ceiling, releasing a handful of plaster, which fluttered gently over the audience like a sudden shower of snow.

No one moved. No one spoke. The entire audience remained rooted to the spot, watching the man on the stage,
waiting to see what he would do next. Some people thought that he was part of the show, an additional performance by the opera company. Others wondered if he was a practical joker. But a few of them recognized him and felt a sudden jolt of panic, wondering why such a notorious criminal should have come to the opera.

Red Jelly took another step forward and stood on the edge of the stage. He smiled. He didn’t often have the attention of so many people, and it felt good. Then his deep voice boomed around the auditorium.

“Good evening,” he said. “I hope you’ve all enjoyed yourselves.”

Red Jelly was wearing a microphone clipped to his shirt, and his voice echoed from speakers all around the vast hall.

He smiled as if he was the host of a magnificent party and all these people were his guests. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a chocolate-coated hazelnut and popped it in his mouth. The microphone amplified the sound of his chewing.

CRACK!

CRUNCH!

GULP!

Red Jelly swallowed the last dregs of chocolate, then smiled once more. “The bar is open,” he said. “They’ll be serving cold beer right now. I bet you want to go and have one. You’ve certainly deserved it, sitting through that whole long opera. But you’re going to have to wait a little longer, my friends. This is now a siege and you are all my hostages.”

For a second, no one moved and no one spoke. Then panic-filled screams echoed around the auditorium. A few people fainted. Many more pulled out their phones and called the police. Several hundred men and women surged in different directions, heading toward the nearest exit, trying to get away from the terrifying figure at the front of the stage …

 … but they immediately discovered that their escape routes were blocked. The doors were closed, and armed guards
in black uniforms prevented anyone from coming in or going out.

Red Jelly raised his gun again. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a couple of hazelnuts and tossed them into his mouth. They CRACKED and CRUNCHED again inside his mouth; then he GULPED them down and said in a quiet voice, “Let me give you a piece of advice.”

The audience fell silent. No one wanted to be shot. Everyone faced forward and waited to hear what the fat man was going to say.

“Don’t bother running,” said Red Jelly, chomping nuts as he spoke. “Don’t bother fighting either. My men are armed with guns, but they have another weapon too. We have laid explosives throughout this opera house and the trigger is right here.” He patted his pocket. “If I press this button, all of us—you and me and everyone else in here—we will all be blown to pieces. So, my friends, I suggest you keep calm, keep quiet and listen very carefully.”

On an ordinary Monday night, the staff of the Sydney Emergency Services Call Center receive three or four calls from idiots and jokers. They are the type of people who don’t seem to be worried about wasting valuable police time. Tonight, for instance, one man rang to complain that he had lost a sock down the back of the sofa and asked if the fire brigade would be able to help him find it. Another asked for directions from Tumbalong Park to Central Station. A third claimed that a fat man had taken three thousand people hostage at the Sydney Opera House and was threatening to blow them into a million pieces.

The Emergency Services did what they always did. They listened carefully and sympathetically to whatever the caller said. They noted down all the relevant details and asked appropriate questions. And they promised to investigate.

When you work for the Sydney Emergency Services Call Center, you know that even idiots and jokers have to be taken
seriously. Sometimes, they might be trying to tell you something important.

A few moments later, a second caller rang the Sydney Emergency Services Call Center and made the same claim that he was being held hostage in the Opera House by a fat, red-faced man with a gun.

A moment after that, yet another caller said the same thing. And then another. And another. Followed by a hundred and fifty-three more. The lines jammed. The operators couldn’t keep up. The Sydney Emergency Services Call Center was overwhelmed by callers claiming to be hostages inside the Opera House. All of them said that their captor was an enormously fat man with a bright red face, who was going to blow them up.

Were they all pranksters? Had they ganged together to play some kind of massive practical joke? Or were they telling the truth?

There was only one way to find out.

A message went to the Sydney Police, asking them to send an officer to the Opera House and investigate reports of a robbery or a siege.

Constable Bruce McDougall and Constable Bobby Kordellos had been strolling around Circular Quay, keeping an eye on the commuters heading back to Manly, making sure no one was drunk or disorderly. When they heard the message on their radios, they radioed back to say that they would check it out immediately. Then they started running.

Three minutes and forty-seven seconds later, Constables McDougall and Kordellos were running up the stairs and rushing through the main entrance of the Opera House, heading for the auditorium, determined to discover what was happening inside.

They reached the main door.

A carefully handwritten notice had been pinned to it.

Constable McDougall tried to open the door. It was locked. He rattled the handle, then pulled out his gun and looked at his colleague. “What do you think?”

“Might be a joke,” said Constable Kordellos.

“Might be, mate. Or might not.”

“Let’s call it in.”

They retreated a few paces. Constable McDougall kept his gun trained on the door while Constable Kordellos pulled out his radio and called the station. He explained what had happened and asked for instructions.

Chief Inspector Sam Somerville was lying on the sofa, twiddling his mustache and reading the latest issue of
Yacht Monthly
.

The kids were asleep. His wife had gone to bed for an early night. But Sam Somerville wanted to spend an hour or two
poring over the small ads at the back of the magazine. checking out the photos and comparing prices. He was planning to buy a new boat.

At the weekends, Chief Inspector Somerville went sailing around Sydney Harbor in his little dinghy. His three sons went with him. They were getting bigger now and the boat was too small for them. It was time to buy a boat that all four of them would fit in. (Mrs. Somerville didn’t like sailing. The waves made her feel sick.)

If they bought a new yacht, they could head off together on a real voyage. Round the coast to Melbourne, maybe. Or even as far as New Zealand. Looking at the photos in the small ads column, the chief inspector imagined himself and his three sons heading across the ocean, the sun warming their faces, the breeze blowing through their hair, the boat plunging through the waves. What could be better than that?

The phone rang.

The chief inspector picked up. In a quiet voice, not wanting to wake anyone else in the house, he said, “Somerville speaking.”

One of his junior officers explained what was happening. Sam Somerville listened for two minutes. He asked three questions. Then he said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” He switched off the phone and sprang up from the sofa. He grabbed his car keys, ran upstairs, woke his wife and explained what was happening.

“Be careful,” she said.

“I’m always careful,” said Chief Inspector Somerville.

He kissed her goodbye. Then he hurried out of the house, got in the car and drove to police headquarters.

As he sped through the streets, he couldn’t help smiling to himself.

He was worried about the hostages. Of course he was. He was worried about his men and women too, the men and women who would have to risk their lives to stop Red Jelly.

But he was also delighted.

Chief Inspector Somerville knew all about Red Jelly. He had put him in prison four times. Once for burglary, twice for armed robbery and once for escaping from prison in the middle of his sentence.

Six months ago, Red Jelly had escaped again. Since then, Chief Inspector Somerville had been waiting for the call.

Now, finally, he was going to get a chance to put Red Jelly back where he belonged.

Grk couldn’t wait any longer.

He’d been standing in the wings for ages, waiting for his cue. He had been peering through the thick curtains, watching what was happening onstage. He’d seen the fat man shouting at the audience. He had witnessed panic and pandemonium.

During all this time, he had waited for the perfect moment.

But the perfect moment never came. And now he couldn’t wait any longer.

He pushed aside the curtain and stepped onto the wooden stage.

A thousand unexpected smells swept into his nose, but he ignored all of them. He wasn’t interested in the men and women crammed into the auditorium. No, all his attention was focused on one man, Red Jelly, and the packet of chocolate-coated hazelnuts in his pocket.

Grk walked across the stage. He approached the fat man. And he barked.

Woof!

The fat man took no notice. Perhaps he was deaf. Or perhaps he was a selfish pig who wanted to keep all the nuts for himself.

Only one way to find out.

Grk barked again, louder.

Woof! Woof!

This time, the fat man turned to look at him.

So did three thousand people.

They stared at Grk in silence and astonishment. A little white dog, in the middle of the stage of the most famous opera house on the planet, barking at an enormous, notorious and thoroughly wicked criminal. What did he think he was doing?

Grk knew exactly what he was doing. He was barking loudly to attract a fat man’s attention. Now he did it again.

Woof! Woof! Woof!

He lay down and waggled his paws in the air. Then he sprang to his feet, sat up in a begging position, put his head on
one side and let his tongue hang out of his mouth. He looked pathetic, silly and very cute.

Red Jelly stared at the little dog.

He could have shooed him away. Or shouted at him. If he had been in a very bad mood, he could even have pulled out a gun and shot him.

Instead, Red Jelly frowned.

Then he opened his mouth and said a single word.

“Bingo?”

When Red Jelly was a boy, he owned a dog.

A cute little puppy named Bingo.

Bingo was a small dog. Not too small, of course. But not too big either. In fact, he was just about the perfect size for a dog. He had black fur with a few white patches and a perky little tail, which wagged when he was happy and slumped between his legs when he was sad.

Red Jelly had loved Bingo more than anyone or anything else in the world.

Every day, he and Bingo had played in the yard. Every night, Bingo had slept on the end of his bed.

Bingo was the best friend that Red Jelly had ever had.

In fact, he was just about Red Jelly’s only friend.

Of course, Red Jelly wasn’t called Red Jelly then. He hadn’t suffered his terrible accident. His body wasn’t red. Nor was his face. His frame hadn’t yet swelled up to an enormous size. He was just a miserable kid, living a miserable life with his
miserable family. He was small and skinny and quite ordinary. No one thought he would ever amount to much. No one could have guessed that he would grow up to become the most famous criminal in Australia.

Now, Red Jelly looked at the little dog on the stage of the Sydney Opera House and found himself transported back in time to the days when he shared his life with Bingo. He remembered how happy they had been together. He thought back to long afternoons when they had rolled in the dust, or chased rabbits in the paddocks. Then he remembered the way that Bingo would look and beg and bark when his belly was empty and his mouth was dry.

This little dog looked strangely similar to Bingo.

He wasn’t Bingo. Of course he wasn’t. Red Jelly was sure of that. He had buried Bingo himself many years ago. This dog was just another dog who happened to look a little like him.

But what was he doing here?

Red Jelly smiled.

He knew he shouldn’t be smiling. He should be concentrating on his work. When you’re burglar or a bank robber or a kidnapper holding three thousand hostages, you shouldn’t allow yourself to be distracted by cute puppies or pretty girls or anything else. You should just think about your job.

But Red Jelly couldn’t help himself. He remembered Bingo. That cute little puppy. And how happy they had been together.

Red Jelly leaned down and looked at the dog. Then he unclipped his microphone so the audience couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“I know what you want,” said Red Jelly. “You’re hungry, aren’t you?”

Grk wagged his tail.

“I thought so,” said Red Jelly. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a hazelnut and threw it up in the air.

Grk watched the progress of the hazelnut very carefully. At precisely the correct moment, he sprang forward, opened his mouth, caught the nut and swallowed it in one quick gulp. Then he sat down, put his head on one side and begged again.

“You want another?” said Red Jelly.

Grk wagged his tail.

“Then you’d better have one.” Red Jelly tossed a second hazelnut into the air.

Grk caught it and ate it.

Around the vast auditorium, a few people laughed uncertainly. Some of them started to wonder if the whole thing had been a joke. Perhaps this wasn’t really a robbery or a siege. Perhaps it was actually a piece of performance art. They weren’t in danger at all. They were just getting an extra show, which had been included in the price of the ticket.