This photo was taken yesterday at the Aspley Tavern in Brisbane.
See the bloke on the phone on the right?
That’s Wayne Innes.
He’s a former NSW cop who rolled on his mates and sent them to jail in return for an immunity from prosecution during the Royal Commission.
Then he conned his way into a job as the construction manager for Eagle Boys back in the days when pizza franchises were all the rage, and new shops were being built all over the country.
Innes set up a secret third party company and skimmed a slice off every invoice without his boss’s knowledge. He ripped off hundreds of thousands, and punted a large part of it.
He got a couple of years jail for that one.
When they let him out he came up to Queensland, where for years he pulled all manner of rorts without getting caught, including knocking off the TAB at the Brothers footy club on Crosby Road at Albion for about ten grand.
Then he set up an earth moving business, and wormed his way in with the worms who run the Brisbane Race Club. They sold him a life membership, even though he was a jailbird thief who had only been in town for five minutes.
Birds of a feather flock together I guess, but most are still wondering if the BRC brass knew that he paid for the membership with dough stolen from Racing Queensland, and are many are keen to know whether the BRC handed the black money back to the people of Queensland from whom it was lifted.
The good times were really rolling back then, which was a only a few years ago. Innes was buying horses for his best mate Kelly Schweida to train, he was swanning around at trackwork at Eagle Farm every morning buying his great mates Kel and Chris Anderson flash coffees and scones, he was sponsoring races by the bucket load with money stolen through his dodgy company Landfill Logistics, punting up a storm at tracks and TAB’s all over town, and at the urging of his drinking buddy the invisible Chairman of the Creek David Fowler he even sponsored the Winter Carnival at Albion Park, although of course he never paid the bill.
Wayne Innes never paid anything out of his own kick. It was all dirty money that he made from corruption and frauds.
You see he’d teamed up with Billy Shuck, son of the well-respected former track manager and starter Alan, and now the boss of procurement at Racing Queensland, and the pair of them were hooking up dodgy contracts for jobs that made Innes millions without even lifting a finger other than to count the folding.
At the same time the jailed fraudster was pulling huge rorts over at the Ipswich City Councoil, copping contracts for million dollar jobs from the CEO Carl Wuulf in return for battleship sized backhanders paid under the table to he and the Mayor, old honest as the day is long during a winter in Norway, the dishonourable Paul Pisasale.
Most of the dough Innes stole went on the punt of course, $400 first fours plucked by number on every race going from Geraldton to Gilgandra and in between being the fraudster’s preferred form of gambling fancy.
Innes got sprung eventually of course. Dumb pieces of thieving shit always do.
But the cops who put the collar on him for the Racing Queensland rorts – ever wondered why the Eagle Farm track cost so much, and was so flawed in its construction? – had no idea about the ripoffs he was pulling out at Ipswich.
Not until Innes offered up a deal to tell them in return for a light sentence, that is.
The jacks jumped at it, and Innes said you beaut, and for the next 18 months we wore a wire everywhere he went and taped everyone he talked to, and he had his phones and computers all rigged up and rerouted to CIB headquarters too.
I twigged to it the first time I met the prick, which was the night I drove to his house and stood in his driveway waving a baseball bat as I rang him and asked if he’d like to come down and have a chat about the threats of bodily harm toward me that he was making all over the town to anyone who’d listen. Funnily enough he declined my polite invitation, and threatened to call the constabulary.
“You don’t need to you dog” I somewhat aggressively replied. “They’re already listening you scumbag”.
Of course Innes immediately went running around telling everyone I was a loon the next day, and not to listen to anything I was saying about him.
The smart folk who know my form as a good judge of a crook took my sage advice that we was wired up like a cyclone fence, which I imagine saved many of them a good deal of unwanted bother later, but the feckless fools who fell for his sucker punch story had to find out the hard way when they themselves got called into star chambers and cop shops for a rather nerve wracking please explain.
Innes’s wired up chats sunk Pisasale and the CEO, and their long-time bent Labor mate and lobbyist Wayne Myers, a sharp grifter who had never in the 20 years I’d been loosely acquainted with him through politics failed to spot a slick, quick easy earn. They copped their due and are serving lags. The dog even sent the CEO’s wife to jail too, which tells you everything that you need to know about the character of the rat posing as a man.
Wayne Innes own appearance in court was rather curious, because the charges were cut down by a tenth, and so were the sums rorted, and the prosecutor forgot to hand his criminal history up to the judge, instead slipping the wig a little envelope marked POLICE INFORMANT – PLEASE GO EASY.
Easy the judge went too, especially after Innes beak – paid no doubt with blue money or black cash – got up on his feet and told a sad tale about a good man ruined by a gambling addiction, who was full of regret and remorse. The only thing they forgot was the truth and a violin.
Innes copped a ridiculously light twelve months, and served it in style under protection, and they even say that he undertook and completed gambling addiction courses in between watching races on the free to air TV in his hotel room cell while inside.
It worked great didn’t it?
Innes got out 8 weeks ago, and headed straight back to the Aspley Tavern and the TAB.
And here he is sitting there in front of the Sky Racing screens with his prick of a mate and co-owner in the horses ‘Dirty’ Neville Brownlow yesterday afternoon, with a thick wad of pineapples in his hand, and first fours flying around like fairies.
If guts were garters, and honesty was a handbag, and principles were petticoats, and remorse and reform were red raincoats, we’d all be looking at Wayne Innes sitting there in the nude.
The back of his head is a far better view.
Me though? I’d rather just see the back of the wretched rat who stole a fortune from racing, lagged up his mates, thieved from his boss, ripped off honest battlers, and sent a woman to jail.
We don’t need his type in this town.
Tabcorp are a disgrace for having him.
I wonder where got the wads from though?
Which poor sucker Wayne Innes is ripping off now?