Back in the 1950s, when senior constable and later chief commissioner Mick Miller wanted illegal gambling venues observed, his squad came up with several original tactics. They once dressed as abattoir workers carrying bins of offal next to an SP headquarters in western Melbourne.
On another occasion, one stood alone in a suit carrying flowers near a Spring Street target, pretending to be waiting for a date. When the girl didn’t show, he sadly placed the flowers in the bin but was able to report on the movements in and out of the building for a later raid.
When deputy prime minister Jim Cairns was a Victorian policeman (the first with a tertiary degree), he was assigned to follow people the chief commissioner didn’t like, including annoying reporters.
In November 1936, he was in a shootout with murderer and armed bandit Bill Cody. Gentleman Jim, an avowed pacifist, got his man without putting a bullet in him.
A few years ago, as part of a super-secret Australia Federal Police operation, they followed a would-be hitman on the way to a job, ready to grab him before he pulled the trigger. The crook had an anonymous-looking older sedan for the job — too old, as it turned out, as it broke down not once but twice on the way, meaning he missed his moment.
In the early 1980s, there was a series of small explosions at the homes of crooks recently acquitted in courts, with some witnesses identifying a yellow Ford Cortina in the vicinity. In a strange coincidence, the surveillance branch was using a similar vehicle, which means, of course, some mad bomber must have had an identical car (cough, cough).
Mr Sin, Abe Saffron, at Sydney’s Roosevelt Nightclub, 1951.Credit: Nine Media
When the tales of corruption in New South Wales were getting to mammoth proportions, Victoria Police quietly slipped over the border to confirm a few things.
The information on hand was that crime boss Abe “Mr Sin” Saffron was paying $750 per club to local police and $5000 a week to senior police. This was only a slice of the protection racket, with deputy commissioner Bill Allen in charge of the purse. Allen was as rotten as (vegans look away) a chop.
The mail was that once a week, Allen would leave headquarters and head to Parliament House to divvy up the takings. Sure enough, as Victoria Police watched, Bill left right on time and headed up Macquarie Street to feed the crooks.
NSW Deputy Commissioner Bill Allen: as rotten as a chop.Credit: Robert Pearce
While physical surveillance remains a key component of investigations, the electronic version is all the rage now.
Think of the massive An0m sting that allowed the Australian Federal Police and international partners to download 27 million messages from crooks who thought they were using a super-safe app.
There was a time when police illegally bugged telephones. NSW cops were the best, running a truckload on crooks that discovered corrupt relationships with politicians, lawyers and judges. They were eventually published as The Age tapes. Federal police had their own tapes and, after a hastily organised barbecue in Sydney, sent the tapes and transcripts to the bottom of the harbour, leaving the secrets to sleep with the fishes.
Victoria had a smaller unit known to a handful as the Broom Closet. The information from the tapes was laundered to appear as if it came from informers. The Closet was shut once senior police learned of its existence.
Many years later, police would drop stories in the media to excite phone chatter from crooks. When we wrote a story relating to a particular drug dealer, a police officer rang to say the suspect must be a Naked City fan.
That Saturday morning, a homeless person tried to sell the dealer’s phone to a St Kilda pawn shop. Apparently, on reading the column, the target had thrown his phone in a bush.
One crook only ever talked while walking his dog, so police bugged the pet’s collar. The subsequent tape contained much slobbering, grunts and the odd bark, presumably from the dog.
Snitches: changing sides
Crooks are sometimes made offers too good to refuse to become secret informers. Brian Latch, known as Mr X, was an informer in the 1960s. When a respected journalist ghosted his book, Latch dobbed him into the Tax Department for working an extra (unclaimed) shift at a newspaper.
A hitman who worked for now deceased drug dealer Carl Williams was turned because Williams had short-changed him and expected the killer to plead guilty. When Williams was asked to look after the hitman’s elderly mother, he sent her a paltry $1500. The hitman made statements to police and forced Williams to plead guilty to multiple murders. In 2010, Williams’ own plans to snitch hit a hitch when he was murdered with the stem of an exercise bike seat in Barwon Prison.
When well-known NSW armed robber Raymond John Denning was arrested at the Doncaster Shoppingtown about to pull a job, he decided to change sides and become an informer. At one hearing, an unimpressed ex-colleague threw a large bone on the ground, saying: “There’s your lunch, you dog.”
He died of a drug overdose six weeks after his prison release in what police believe was a hotshot.
Nick Cecil as The Great Pretender.Credit: Nick Cecil
One of the most successful snitches was a professional musician who was a trusted insider in Tony Mokbel’s drug empire. He not only provided information to police but bugged phones for the syndicate leaders, eventually sucking the guts out of the ring’s computer, providing police with rock-hard evidence of drug transactions. Rumour has it he received a $1 million reward and was relocated with a new identity and now, in all probability, is playing the saxophone with a cruise ship band working out of Venezuela.
Spies: actors without a script
To be an undercover cop, you have to be prepared to be hated. Crooks see it as the ultimate betrayal: you befriend them before turning them in.
Nearly 27 years ago, police launched Operation Barkly, an ambitious operation to infiltrate the Bandidos bikie gang. Two cops, given the names Wes and Alby, lived as bikies for 13 months and were involved in 30 drug deals in three states. They were so convincing, one was promoted to secretary-elect of the Ballarat chapter.
They were pulled out due to fears for their lives after three Bandidos were murdered, but not before they gathered sufficient evidence to make 20 arrests and disrupt plans to set up two nightclubs as drug fronts.
Probably Victoria’s first undercover cop was Nick Cecil, a natural entertainer who would strum his guitar in pubs back in the 1950s. But while he sang, he would identify the local SP bookmakers and then place bets with marked notes used later to prove the case. In Mildura, the squad had one of their detectives, a handy centre half forward, sign up with a local side. After a month of near best-on-ground performances, the cops arrived to lock up the SPs on the information he provided. The cop/forward may have been the best but not necessarily the fairest.
Slight and very young Queensland Police recruit Keith Banks was plucked with little training and no idea to go undercover gathering evidence on drug traffickers. “Being undercover is like being an informer: you get close to people to betray them. I met some bloody good blokes who happened to be drug dealers.”
I asked him if it was traumatic. He responded: “You could get on the gas, smoke weed and there was no supervision. You had guns and a s—load of cash. What’s not to like?”
Fair point, Keith.