Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 13

Monday morning found Curly Rogers choosing public transport instead of the usual 40-minute walk to work from his home in Middle Park. The same idea occurred to other foot-sloggers in the neighbourhood and, consequently, the tram was packed. They hadn’t been able to squeeze another body aboard since Albert Street, outside the old South Melbourne football ground. Curly, wedged between three suits and a student who refused to remove his bulky daypack, could still count his blessings. They were at least moving forward while the car drivers, stalled in a Clarendon Street jam, should have turned off their engines and saved the planet.

Like most on the tram, Curly was tuned out from the awkward commuter silence. He was plugged in to his iPod instead and to the sounds of vintage Santana. It was 7.55am and he was unaware that Hackett’s first meeting of the day was winding up in a ghost station. Curly’s thoughts hadn’t made the transition from weekend mode to work yet; he was contemplating the crayfish salad he shared with Janine at Erskine Falls on Sunday afternoon. It was a rare treat.

He had gilded the lily with the Chief of Staff about his wife leaving him stranded on the Great Ocean Road on Saturday. Curly had been married to Janine for 17 years and knew she understood the irregular demands of his job. She was a pragmatic woman. Curly was returning from the rock shelf where Tugga died when Janine texted him an update. The drama on the coast road attracted so many sightseers there weren’t any car parks available before Lorne. Janine wisely drove to the accommodation that overlooked the surf beach and put the wine, beer and nibbles in the fridge. She offered to return when he finished the story. Curly read between the lines – Janine wanted him to find his own way into town. It was easy enough for a gabby journalist to scrounge a ride and Curly arrived to find Janine halfway through the first bottle of sauvignon blanc. He grabbed a chilled Crown Lager from the fridge and texted O’Malley about having to appease his ‘grumpy’ wife. Curly knew he would never get paid for the extra duties, but he was going to guilt-trip O’Malley into buying more than a couple of beers after. Curly knew he’d take the money out of petty cash anyway and hope The Hatchet didn’t find out.

Santana had finished playing by the time Curly exited the tram at Park Street, so his thoughts drifted towards work. He had four stories lined up for the week, although the first wasn’t due on air until Tuesday night. High productivity was another vital skill in broadcast journalism these days; get your stories on the television or get shown the door. His gut instinct told him there was more to the Tugga Tancred cliff-diving story, but he doubted he would get the luxury of time to investigate it.

Curly reached the television station and steadily weaved through a rabbit warren of hallways and adjoining buildings towards the current affairs office. It was a long way from the management domain, which was both good and bad. Journalists never like being close to bean counters, but out of sight means out of mind for those who paid the wage bills. We keep getting time sheets from the south corner of the complex. Who lives down there?

The studios and facilities were built to cope with Australia’s first Olympic Games broadcast in 1956. No one had any idea what was required apart from walls, roofs, cameras and miles of electronic cables and other technical stuff. The original network expanded over several city blocks in the following decades before selling the premises and moving to bespoke facilities in Docklands. Curly’s employers hadn’t seen any need to mess with history. Why spend money upgrading studios, cameras, presentation suites, recording booths or news rooms? They were in the business of making money, not spending it. It was a miracle management agreed to dump the typewriters and install computers.

Curly was still 20 metres away from the office when he picked up the first sounds of battle – Jo. Another female voice – Kim. Then a male voice, the tone indicating he was under siege – Mac.

Bugger. Give up mate and just pay.

Curly slipped into the office and headed straight for his desk, hoping to fire up his terminal and take refuge from the combatants. The man under fire was David McKenzie, Melbourne Spotlight’s program producer, who was better known throughout media circles as Mac. Even his grandmother called him Mac. She could never remember his home address, so her Christmas card would be posted to Mac, care of whatever channel she thought was employing him. It sometimes took a longer trek, but everyone in Melbourne television newsrooms knew Mac and the card always ended up in pride of place on his office desk, usually with a few extra good wishes or ribald comments penned on granny’s envelope.

That industry respect wasn’t helping Mac at that moment as he was bracketed at the main production desk. The protagonists were Jo Trescowthick, production assistant and gofer extraordinaire, and Kim Prescott, the office researcher who was desperate to become a reporter. A showdown with the program producer at 8.23am on a Monday probably wasn’t going to help that career path. But there were principles at stake: the coffee and biscuit kitty had been raided, again.

It was an odd sight, Curly had to admit. Jo would make a hobbit look tall. Kim towered over her colleague by 20cm, but even she had to look up at Mac who was a tad under two metres. Yet his wavy red mane atop a 110kg frame that looked more suited to the movie set of Braveheart was not intimidating the wee inquisitors.

‘Curly,’ Mac implored, ‘give me a hand here. These harridans are accusing me of raiding the kitty. Why would I do that?’

Curly weighed up the options. Who can I afford to piss off here? Mac ran the show, but Curly knew where the real power lay – behind the throne. Jo could provide reliable camera crews, creative editors and all the other important elements needed to get his stories to air in a timely fashion. And Kim could turn out to be a handy ally if he was going to get the Tugga Tancred story to develop. Pragmatism won the day.

‘The pub probably declined your credit card again,’ Curly said with an apologetic shrug and half smile to his boss and good mate. The ladies turned to Mac with triumphant smiles and rattled the tin kitty which contained a few coins.

‘Oh, you Judas,’ Mac wailed as if standing before Pontius Pilate. Tearing at his imaginary crown of thorns wouldn’t do any good either; everyone knew Mac was guilty, although there would be no need for a crucifixion.

Kangaroo courts, with Jo and Kim as judge, jury and executioners, were becoming regular events after another of The Hatchet’s cost- cutting measures – recalling all the executive credit cards. The tea, coffee and biscuit kitty had become Mac’s alternative to the ATM when his plastic failed at the pub. Two ex-wives and three kids in private schools never left much beer money by Friday. Strictly speaking, Mac shouldn’t have qualified for a company credit card as Richard Templeton held the title of executive producer. But Mac arrived at the station under a previous administration and it had taken The Hatchet almost two years to discover that oversight. Most times Mac managed to replace the cash before the guardians of the kitty went shopping. Jo and Kim had now sprung him three times in a month, and Curly thought he knew why.

‘Did you back that nag the sports guys were tipping at Flemington on Saturday? Surely you checked the form, Mac. That horse hasn’t won in two years.’

‘I know that, but they said their mate was the trainer’s cousin and he was setting times better than Phar Lap before the Cup,’ Mac replied with a guilty look. He pulled out the lone $10 note in his wallet and promised to find the rest by lunch time. Mollified, the guardians departed for the nearest 7-Eleven for a caffeine fix as the tea, coffee and biscuit containers were nearly as empty as the kitty.

Fortunately, Mac’s lack of horse sense didn’t extend to his news judgement. He knew there was a reason Curly let the girls eviscerate him. ‘So, what have you got up your sleeve that you need Jo and Kim’s help with?’

Curly smiled. ‘Did you see that news story on the landscaper who drove off the cliff near Lorne on the weekend, the one I scrambled together for the news guys?’

‘Yeah, just a drunk falling asleep at the wheel, wasn’t it?’

Curly baited the hook. ‘Could be a bit more than that.’

Mac raised a bushy ginger eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’

‘I managed to get right down to the wreck on the rocks,’ Curly elaborated. ‘Being out of a suit and not carrying a big camera can work in our favour at times. Anyway, I heard a cop questioning his sergeant about skid marks in the layby. It sounded like he’d spent time with one of those crash investigation units. He said another vehicle could have been involved.’

Mac absorbed the information for a moment before asking the pertinent question. ‘Did the cop think it was accidental involvement, or deliberate?’

‘Unfortunately, that’s when your citizen reporter was rumbled and sent back up to the road with the other ne’er-do-wells,’ Curly said, as he walked back to his desk to retrieve his mobile phone. He scrolled through to his picture gallery and presented it to Mac.

‘I went back to have a look at the skid marks after the news boys left.’ Curly tapped through several images. He then went back to the first of six pictures. ‘Initially I didn’t see anything strange. Looks like the drunk woke up as he started to drift towards the layby and braked to correct himself. You know, instinctive?’

Curly pointed at the first image which showed a short tyre mark. The next picture showed the angle of the skid in relation to the road. It seemed to support his hypothesis. Curly then moved through to another picture and another skid mark, this one on an angle away from the barrier and cliff. He then explained how he ensured he kept his alignment with the direction the car would have been travelling if the driver had woken up.

‘He’s braked twice,’ Curly pointed out to Mac, who was now listening intently. ‘Wouldn’t you think someone – even a drunk – who’s just woken to a nightmare on the Great Ocean Road would stand on the brakes once he realised he’s headed for the cliff ? There should have been a 40-metre-long trail of rubber there. Depending on his speed, he might even have slowed enough to be stopped by the barrier?’

Curly allowed his producer to mull that information for a moment before suggesting his possible scenario.

‘I think he’s been given a couple of nudges at speed.’

Still no response from the boss as he flicked back and forth between the pictures.

‘My suspicion is that Tugga Tancred wasn’t asleep when he was tapped the first time. See – that first skid mark is right at the entrance to the layby.’

Curly retrieved the appropriate picture on his phone to help them visualise the scene. He then progressed to the wide-angle photo of the second skid mark close to the cliff.

‘From what I heard about this Tugga, he was a big guy, not likely to be pushed about. I think he jumped on the brakes when he felt the first whack at the start of the layby. Then the ego kicked in – you don’t tangle with Tugga Tancred. He planted the foot on the accelerator to outrun the idiot causing him grief.

‘That’s when he was hit the second time. Tugga suddenly found himself heading straight for the cliff, he stood on the brakes again, but it was too late and he went flying into Bass Strait.’

Mac didn’t say anything for another 20 seconds as he flipped back and forth between the pictures. Finally, he broke the silence as he heard more reporters and camera crews arrive for their first planning session. He handed back the phone. ‘Interesting theory, mate, but it’s thin.’

Curly was undeterred. Mac hadn’t dismissed him outright. ‘Well, there is more potential evidence.’ He found another picture from his Saturday sequence and turned it around to show Mac. It revealed red brake light fragments on tar seal.

‘See that? It was scattered around the first skid mark.’

‘Yeah,’ Mac sighed. ‘But that could have been from any car – at any time.’

‘Well, that cop who raised doubts about Tugga’s flying act thought it was important.’ Curly held up his final picture, a profile shot of the policeman with the glass in an evidence bag.

Mac rubbed a hand through hair that looked as if it would require shearer’s clippers to cut. ‘Did you get that cop’s name?’

‘Yep. I think he’s based in Lorne but I’ll get the Media Centre to confirm that.’

‘How are you placed for your stories this week? You know we have to keep churning it out to justify our existence.’

Curly sensed he was winning the battle. ‘Tuesday’s story is almost in the can, I need a couple of finishing edits tomorrow. And Kim is helping line up interviews for the other stories. She could even do one or two of them if this takes off. So, I’m under control. I think it’s worth digging into Tugga’s story. If this is murder, not an accident, we’ll have the jump on everyone.’

‘Okay, you’ve got today to find something solid, otherwise you owe me another four and half minutes of scintillating television,’ Mac said. He headed towards the conference room to get the meeting underway.

Curly did a little fist pump as he returned to his desk to retrieve a notebook for the production meeting. The elation was witnessed by Kim who had returned from the coffee run with Jo.

‘What’s got you so excited today?’

Curly knew there was no need to be circumspect about the story. It was time to share the information with his colleagues as he was going to need their help. He joined Kim and the crew as they shuffled their way into the small conference room. ‘I have a new angle on that landscaper who plunged off the Great Ocean Road. I think there was a second car involved.’

News ears are highly tuned to random comments and several heads swivelled towards Curly; eyebrows raised in silent demands for more information. However, it was 35-year-old senior camera operator Dugal Cameron who sideswiped the discussion.

‘Maybe it was The Hatchet,’ Cameron suggested as he slung an armful of camera cables onto the table.

All conversation stopped for a moment. No doubt, for a few in the room, Dugal’s comment fleetingly raised hopes the penny- pinching Hackett might be found guilty of murder and banished from their TV station, forever.

Curly was a realist and knew they could never be that lucky. More chance of winning Tattslotto!

But everyone was curious about The Hatchet’s implied involvement in Curly’s story. They all looked at Dugal and waited for him to back up his bombshell comment.

‘I was chatting to Ciaran O’Malley on the way into work. He said The Hatchet knew the guy who parked on the rocks at Lorne. Maybe the guy owed him $10?’ Dugal finished with a shrug.

A collective sigh of disappointment escaped the room. Several staff were secretly fantasising about The Hatchet taking up residence in Barwon Prison with an over-sexed 300-kilogram cellmate.

Mac snapped them back to the business of the day. ‘Thanks for that, Dugal. I guess you don’t want to tag along with Curly when he pops upstairs to inquire whether The H– um, whether Hackett, was driving to Lorne on Friday night?’

A quick shake of the head was Dugal’s only response while Curly blanched.

‘Fuck, Mac! Do I have to talk to him? I’ve got enough to work on. There’s the cop, the skid marks and the brake-light glass. Plus, I’ve got a wife, kids, mortgage and tickets to next year’s Grand Final to save for. He doesn’t know I exist down here.’

Mac joined in the laughter as he took revenge for the lack of support during the coffee kitty kangaroo court. ‘Yep, your idea mate, so you have to chase down any potential angles. No palming it off to Kim either. And I would suggest you don’t start by asking him for overtime on the weekend.

‘Right, people. How are we going to fill the gaps between those incredibly well-paid and important commercials tonight?’

June 30, 1986

Greece is boiling – and the locals say it’s not even the hottest month of the year! If the temperature got to 25 degrees in Te Awamutu everyone would hop on their ponies and go chill in the river. Jump in the water in Greece and it’s more like a bath. I guess us Kiwis don’t handle the heat.

Athens is different from Corfu. Lots more crumblies, which is like Italy I suppose, but the locals are even more laid back.

The Acropolis is majestic as it towers over the city, but I can’t understand how they let things get this way. Dad would have a fit at the lack of maintenance throughout Greece. Maybe it’s the economy, or the oppressive heat. Either way, vast swathes of the country look like they need a change in farm management.

The Greeks were the centre of the civilised world and now they are history’s backwater (okay, I admit I heard a tour guide say that bit).

Corfu was very touristy – Denise and I loved the B52 cocktails at Ipsos Beach – and our camp site was close to the water.

We were a bit jealous watching the Top Deck passengers cruising around on their yachts for four days. We still caught up with them at tavernas and restaurants thanks to rented scooters and bikes. There have been some excellent parties and I’ve developed a big appetite for calamari. It’s so tender and tasty compared to the rubbery squid one of the Hamilton pubs used to dish up every Friday night. Send their chefs to Greece for training. The food’s a positive for Greece, but there’s not much else I would recommend about Athens to other backpackers.

The city beaches look shabby by comparison to Italy and the camp site pool is empty. It’s not flash at all. No wonder the other tour companies aren’t here. We’re off to the sound-and-light show tonight at the base of the Acropolis, so we’re hoping that will be special. I’m looking forward to seeing Gallipoli in a few days as well. I must take lots of pictures for Dad as Poppa fought there for several months. I still have the list of battle zones – somewhere.

Funny how I’m looking forward to getting out of Athens, whereas everywhere else I wanted more time. There’s more history here but either it doesn’t appeal to me or they haven’t packaged it properly for young tourists. I guess most visitors just want to go to the islands and enjoy the sun, sea and sex.

Speaking of which, I have to be more careful. I’ve lost a packet of my pills and I have no idea how to get more. I might have to revert to my good convent girl habits again. Or be more careful.

Mind you, the Greek men don’t get me as giddy as those Italians – or another lad closer to home, or rather, the bus.

Ha ha. God, I can never let anyone else ever read this! Well, maybe Charlotte when I get home in a couple of years. And only if she promises never to tell Russell.

The diary holder always felt angry when reading that entry. A potential problem was identified, yet Judy didn’t treat it seriously. What happened to the sensible woman everyone loved at the pharmacy? Judy was so attentive to their prescriptions and requirements, yet a few weeks travelling made her careless about her own needs. The hands holding the diary trembled as a twinge of guilt swept through. Was it too harsh to judge from a distance, not being privy to the morality, influences and passions of those times? But all acts and oversights have consequences, the diary holder believed. The diary was once again laid to a silky rest for another time. The final pieces of the puzzle were coming together and new plans had to be finalised.