Saved by Mr Moriarty

It’s taken me forty five years to write this story, but it appears the Statute of Limitations in Victoria has now given me the green light.

I’m not proud of it and it’s only because of the insistent prying from my youngest daughter Mia that I have weakened.

I’ve made some seriously dumb and regrettable decisions in my life, much of it up until my forties but the worst were as a teenager serving in the army for six years.

At the ripe old age of seventeen I was sent to my first posting at the Army Aviation Centre about two hours west of Brisbane, in the small regional town of Oakey.

I worked as a technical clerk whilst waiting for a vacancy to do an adult apprenticeship in Wagga Wagga at the RAAF Training Base.

Shortly after arriving in Oakey, I moved off the barracks with an army mate Keith and into a unit in leafy Toowoomba, another half hour closer to Brisbane.

Upon my arrival at Oakey, a corporal named Glen got a hold of me knowing I was West Australian and signed me up to play Aussie Rules for The Institute, a club representing the Darling Downs Institute of Advanced Education, now The University of Southern Queensland.

Glen was president of The Institute and was always on the hunt for young, gullible soldiers from AFL heartlands.

This was 1981, and I was joined by another army buddy and Sandgroper Gavin who was a more than capable footballer. The Institute was a party club first, footy club second and definitely fun for a couple of loose seventeen year-olds such as us.

In late 1981, Glen was posted to Melbourne and I had just got my driver’s licence. I didn’t have a car and was relying on car pooling to get to work and home.

One day not long after Glen had arrived in Melbourne I received a phone call from him at work. He said he had a great opportunity for me to buy a new car at a special price.

He explained that he had a mate who was ex-SAS and was incredibly trustworthy. His mate could procure new premium vehicles at cheap prices and even deliver them interstate! Wow!

What was on offer was a brand new Volvo 2000 Series sedan for $5500, normally valued at approximately $10k. What a deal! And naturally I knew I could trust Glen and his impeccable character. The soldier’s creed, esprit de corps and all that.

A month later Keith and I were at our unit awaiting the arrival of the Volvo driven by the mysterious former SAS Sapper.

Instead of a Volvo, a brown Renault GTS 18 drove up the drive with one number plate only, a Vic plate, BAG 069. I will never forget it.

Out steps a man I can only describe as manifestly scary. So big he could barely get through the doorway and his eyes were like piss holes in the snow.

Whenever I have seen the brilliant Cohen Brothers film Raising Arizona, the mad biker from hell character reminds me so much of this guy. Massive, imposing and hairy.

At this stage I hadn’t even considered the car might be stolen despite my mates warning me that this could be an unmitigated disaster if I followed through.

Keith and I were very nervous and this monster who I will call Dave, knocked back an offer of a coffee or even a glass of water. He was genuinely wired on some stimulant having driven straight through from Melbourne and he genuinely looked unpredictable, not to be argued with.

When I asked about why I have just purchased a Renault and not a Volvo, he just shrugged and said that this is the best he could do. My friend’s suspicions were confirmed right then.

He kindly offered me a discount of $500 for the inconvenience and as I handed the $5k over to him it was like exchanging my innocence in that one single gesture. I had just bought a hot car.

He called a cab and disappeared, not to be seen for another five years.

A few weeks later I got notified of my course placement in Wagga. Ever since the purchase of the Renault, which was a super comfortable ride by the way, I had been looking at options as to how I could rid myself of this potentially unlawful nightmare.

Thinking in regards to registering the Renault, a friend in Toowoomba put me onto a dodgy mechanic who altered engine numbers but he only did Fords and Holden’s.

Driving a French car with one interstate number plate was an enormous risk so I was left with no choice. It was either go to the registration office or set fire to it. I needed to drive to Wagga within a week.

I pulled up at the registration office in Toowoomba shitting myself. Keith wished me well as I exited the Renault for what I thought would be the last time.

I entered the Dept of Main Roads building and filled out the required paperwork truthfully. “Next please” was the call.

I handed the paperwork over at the counter and the lady started entering the data into a large keyboard and screen that I couldn’t see.

She paused a couple of times, and every pause was accompanied by a loud ‘beep’ from the computer which set my heart racing but thankfully it was only to the computer acknowledging her input.

After five minutes of this gut wrenching non-verbal exchange, just eye contact, she told me she wouldn’t be long and disappeared into a back office that had a one way window that faced directly at me. Paranoia was now infiltrating every cell of my being.

Do I run now or wait for the sirens to approach down the street?

After a couple of minutes she returned with two fresh Queensland number plates and a registration sticker. It felt like I’d just witnessed ten consecutive St Kilda premierships, if only there was such a thing.

I couldn’t have screwed the plates on quick enough and within a week I was off to Wagga.

A year later I was firmly ensconced back at The Army Aviation Centre as a qualified Airframe Fitter and living in Toowoomba with two mates Danny and Ray.

It’s now 1984 and I foolishly decided to trade the Renault in for a Mitsubishi Express van that I planned to drive to WA and elsewhere. It made perfect sense.

The Renault had been a fantastic car, and hey, was it really hot anyway? I managed to get it registered so maybe Dave the psychotic former Sapper and trained killer was authentic and legit after all?

So after I convinced myself of my innocence and exceptional cognitive reasoning, I traded the Renault in for a bright yellow Express. In hindsight I should have just driven it to a natural death and cashed it in at a scrap metal joint.

I think the Express cost me $8k and the dealer gave me $3k for the Renault, so I took out a loan for $5k.

In Xmas 1984 I drove the Express to WA, then to Melbourne, Sydney and back to Toowoomba sleeping mostly on a thick piece of foam in the back which I had scrounged from work.

Only days after arriving back in Toowoomba, the car salesman from the Mitsubishi dealership was at my front door and a tad annoyed.

He said the Renault was shipped to a Brisbane car market and was found to be stolen. I looked aghast and feigned innocence but I was tremoring inside with guilt.

He took the Express off me, which meant I was up for another $3k owed and said he wouldn’t call the police which of course he already had.

I had a couple of interviews with the cops who charged me with receiving a stolen vehicle.

I managed to keep the ongoing drama away from the army’s knowledge and it was all a bit of a blur due to the guilt and stress. I was now playing football in Brisbane on weekends and the club organised a cheap 1971 HQ for me to drive back and forth on weekends and to get to work.

There was a committal hearing that sent me to trial but I can’t remember it. All I remember is that I had to attend my trial in Brisbane in August of 1986.

I had been honourably discharged on 29^th July 1986 in Brisbane and had moved in with friends in East Brisbane to finish the footy season before heading to Melbourne.

There’s a bit that goes on in one’s head when you go to trial. Your reputation for one, the shame, and the forfeiting of any right to a passport in the future. It’s a foreboding and helpless feeling.

I was now twenty three. After six years of military service, I had a second hand Ford Laser, a couple of thousand dollars in the bank and a likely stretch at ‘Her Majesty’s Pleasure’ to look forward to.

I had met a publicly funded defence lawyer prior to the trial but on the actual day he phoned the court and said he couldn’t make it.

Two hours till my appearance in the dock and he said, “don’t worry I’ve found a replacement. His name is Mr Moriarty. He’s retired but he’s doing it as a favour for me. He used to do murder and rape trials but I’ve briefed him so he should be up to speed.”

I’m fucked. I’m absolutely fucked and you deserve it you fucking idiot.

I followed the instructions to a tiny office where Mr Moriarty was stationed and entered. In front of me was a man well into his 70’s at the very least, wearing lawyer’s robes and sitting behind a small desk with a manila folder in front of him.

Next to the manila folder was a packet of Champion Ruby tobacco and a small metal ashtray housing half a lit durry polluting the room. Most noticeably Mr Moriarty had nicotine stained fingers and what appeared to be a cigarette burn in his jabot, the white collar barristers wear. All confirming yet again, I’m fucked.

Immediately though, Mr Moriarty put me at relative ease, told me to tell him the truth about the matter in five minutes, before we headed off to court.

In court Mr Moriarty chose his jury, then it was down to business.

The prosecution chose their first witness, and lo and behold who should turn up? The monster Dave himself. This time clean shaven but still barely able to squeeze into the witness chair.

It had been five years, but the sneer on his face when he saw me was unmistakable. He clearly wanted to see me go down given he had spent a few years in gaol and needed to inflict some pain and some recourse to justify his wretched life. Apparently he had advanced to stealing trucks before he was caught and sentenced.

His evidence suggested very strongly that I was fully responsible and lucid when I received the car. His manner was smug not unlike Ross Lyon at a presser and he didn’t come across as particularly intelligent.

Then it was Mr Moriarty’s turn. Mr Moriarty kept me right out of his questioning of Dave and focussed solely on Dave’s character. He calmly asked Dave about his alcohol and drug addictions which I knew nothing about and in a matter of ten minutes had Dave contradicting himself over timelines, names and places.

It was a masterclass by this humble, chain smoking genius. The judge then ordered Dave and the jury out of the court and brought both barristers to the bench. He asked the prosecutor if he had anything to go on after Dave’s woeful testimony, and he stated he hadn’t.

The jury were brought back in and the judge said something like, “based on what we’ve heard Mr Foreman, I don’t think there is enough to continue this case so with your blessing, I’m calling a verdict of not guilty.”

The foreman agreed and the jury walked passed me with many of them smiling and giving a thumbs up! I was free!

I met Mr Moriarty outside and gave him the biggest bear hug imaginable. Thank god for this diminutive man who had worked for nothing as a favour.

For Sherlock Holmes fans of course the name Moriarty will ring a bell. He was the criminal mastermind and arch nemesis of the great detective.

My Mr Moriarty was simply the nemesis of a ruthless car thief and defender of a numbskull of the highest order who’s naivety could have led to devastating consequences.

I will be forever indebted for his generosity and as far as my daughter goes…its now case closed.