Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 14

Camera crews and reporters wandered out of the Spotlight office in dribs and drabs after the production meeting, while Curly procrastinated about The Hatchet. He wondered what pertinent information the financial executive could provide; after all, the last contact with Tugga Tancred was 30 years before. Curly doubted he would even get to speak to The Hatchet, who was notorious for ignoring requests from journalists. It wouldn’t cost The Hatchet anything to share background information on Tugga. Phone calls to the financial caller were a waste of time, therefore Curly chose the cover-your-butt option – an email. That way there was proof he tried to establish contact.

Curly quickly bashed out a message to Hackett via the internal server, asking for a chat about his connection to Tugga. He briefly pondered whether to reveal the theory that a second vehicle might have been involved in the accident. That was the only reason for pursuing the story further, but Curly decided to keep that information to himself. He would share his suspicion that Tugga was pushed over the cliff if Hackett agreed to meet. He tapped the send button, then turned his attention to the cop who believed Tugga’s ute might have been whacked from behind.

The Victoria Police Media Centre confirmed the officer – Jim Laidlaw – was a constable assigned to Lorne. It was a small station and they suggested the officer might be on a day off after working the weekend.

The Media Centre wasn’t overly curious about Curly’s inquiry, especially after he spun them a storyline about staying alert on the Great Ocean Road over summer. Curly embellished the pitch with his first-hand experience of being at the crash site, noting the grim but heroic work of the police and rescue staff. Curly wanted to help prevent other horrific scenes, he said.

The former newspaper journo on duty in the Media Centre thought it sounded like a good PR feature. His office was busy enough with matters in Melbourne, so no one wanted to drive all the way to Lorne and back to hold a constable’s hand through a puff piece on road safety.

Curly decided to strike swiftly, in case the media office sent a message to the Lorne cop outlining the story they had approved. He dialled the Lorne station number and was rewarded with a prompt pick up.

‘Lorne Police, Constable Laidlaw speaking.’

Bingo! Curly was in luck.

‘G’day Constable Laidlaw, it’s Curly Rogers here from Spotlight, you know, the Melbourne current affairs show?’ Curly never used his real name – Christopher. Too many calls from outside contacts weren’t passed through because his own colleagues never knew him as anything other than Curly. If they couldn’t see a Christopher in the office, and the call didn’t relate to any of their own stories, journalists were inclined to send it back to reception – or lose it.

‘I remember you – the cheeky bugger with the mobile phone who scrambled down to the wreck on Saturday. The sergeant was spitting tacks when he saw the TV news that night.’

Curly was worried he might have blown this potential source already. He stayed silent, hoping it was only the sergeant who was angry about his rock visit and not Laidlaw.

‘Lucky for you we said it must have been one of the search and rescue mob who sent you the pictures. Saved us getting our arses kicked for letting you get that close. So, what further trouble are you going to cause me, Mr Rogers?’

Curly quickly decided Jim Laidlaw was a good sort: no mug and not likely to create trouble for himself or Victoria Police, but also not likely to sweat the small stuff. He decided against trying to bluff the country cop and went straight to the point.

‘Firstly, thanks for saving my butt with your boss and, secondly, hopefully, I won’t be causing any problems, but…’ and Curly paused a moment for the cop to digest his good intentions, ‘I am checking up on a couple of unusual aspects I noticed about the Tugga Tancred crash.’

‘Unusual?’

Curly didn’t want Laidlaw to cop flak from his sergeant for initiating the ‘second-vehicle theory,’ so, in case the phone call was recorded, he wanted it on the record that it was the journalist’s own diligence at the crash site that sparked the follow-up.

‘Look, I noticed fresh tyre marks and some broken glass in the layby. It suggests to me that the victim may have been trying to brake.’

There was a pause before Laidlaw responded.

‘And what do you think happened?’

Curly was encouraged. The cop wasn’t trying to steer him away from the theory he was about to put on the record.

‘I would’ve thought someone alert enough to realise they were heading for a cliff would throw out all the anchors. There would have been a continuous skid mark from the first to the second mark at least; if not all the way to the cliff-edge. And what reason would there be for broken glass at the start of the layby? Could another vehicle have been involved?’

The second-vehicle theory was now on the table and Curly waited for confirmation.

‘You saw me collecting the glass, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, I got pictures of the glass and you scooping it up.’

The line went quiet for 10 seconds.

‘Look, I won’t bullshit you. Sure, there are thousands of cars and dumb tourists looking at the view rather than where they’re parking – and anybody could have left the marks and glass. But we might need some help if we’re going to find out what happened to Tugga.’

That surprised Curly and he took the risk of taking a momentary tangent. ‘You knew him?’

‘More by reputation, but I had seen him around. He was a big fella, hard to miss in a bar. Usually cunning enough to avoid any breathalyser patrols. I’ve only been here a few months, but yeah, I knew who he was.’

‘And by saying you want to know what happened to Tugga, you also suspect another vehicle might have been involved – accidentally. Or deliberately?’

‘Back up the bus on your deliberately theory. I don’t want that out there – at the moment. But yes, I suspect another vehicle was involved.’

Curly contained his excitement, realising he had to get this information on the record. Again, time and distance were not going to help him, they needed to get the new angle on air that evening before one of the other stations or newspapers stumbled onto the story. Or, were they already ahead of him?

‘Look Jim, do you mind telling me if there have been any calls from other media asking about a second vehicle being involved?’

‘Not yet. I think most people took it at face value. You know, drunk driver falls asleep and drives off into oblivion. The final 15 minutes of fame for the big fella.’

Curly thought back to Constable Laidlaw at the crash site. He was about 30; too young to be so cynical about the public’s news attention span.

You’re too clever to be twiddling your thumbs in Lorne, mate.

‘Okay, so you’re investigating that angle, as in what caused him to brake, the two tyre marks and the glass?’

There was another pause before the country cop answered, as if weighing how much information he should be sharing with a journalist.

‘Yes. And we’re looking into what was found at his Apollo Bay property yesterday.’

Curly was momentarily stunned. ‘Found? What did they find at his beach house?’

‘To call it a beach house makes it sound grander than it is. It’s rustic you might say, not much above a shack. The location is close enough to town but still reasonably isolated. Apparently, he didn’t have many visitors. He would chat to everyone in the local bar, buy them drinks, but no one can recall visiting his place in the 20-odd years he lived there. The old farmer who sold him the land died soon after and the gullies weren’t considered good for anything. But it seems Tugga found a way to make money.’

‘Okay, you’ve got me on the hook. What did you find, not the old farmer’s body I hope?’

Laidlaw laughed. ‘No, the old boy’s pushing up daisies in town. It turns out Tugga had quite the green thumb. He might’ve spent all week chopping down trees but he made up for it on weekends by growing stuff. Tugga’s secret hobby was growing dope.’

Curly wanted to leap up and do a double fist pump. His hunch was correct, there was far more to this story and they needed to get to Lorne and Apollo Bay ASAP.

He waved to Mac and Jo and gave a thumbs-up. Curly then pointed at a reporter sitting at their terminal – a sure indication no story had been assigned to them yet – whirled his hand like a helicopter and mimed Lorne. That was enough to get Jo rolling. The chopper was a joint share between news and current affairs. As the Spotlight crew rarely worked on weekends they had first claim on the machine on Monday.

Curly turned his attention back to squeezing more information out of the extremely accommodating Lorne copper.

‘How much dope are we talking about? Was he supplying?’

‘I think he was small time, the local cops found 20 plants and two bags containing a kilo of grass ready for sale. He was clever enough to stay below our radar on the coast. Our guess is he was selling it back in Geelong. He had the perfect front for the operation. That ute was always full of vegetable matter and junk, no one would ever have suspected. Probably made more from dealing in the green stuff than grinding it up.’

‘Okay, so we could describe him as a small-time grower and dealer?’ ‘Looks that way.’

‘Is there a chance his death and the tap from the second car might be related, that it was drug related?’

Again, there was a pause on the phone, long enough for Curly to wonder again why this cop was providing so much detail. Usually pulling teeth was easier than extracting information from police.

‘On the record, I’ll say we can’t make any assumptions like that. Off the record, it’s one angle that we’ll definitely look at.’

‘You know I’m going to need what you can give me on the record, and to get some shots of Tugga’s property and the dope you’ve found up there. I can get a crew there in about 90 minutes. You happy to front for an interview?’

The delay wasn’t as long as Curly expected.

‘Yep, I guess I’ve kicked over the beehive, so I should do the right thing and front up.’

‘That’s brilliant, Jim. I’ll go brief my boss and get the reporter and chopper on the way. They’ll check in when they land and confirm your location. No doubt we’ll be talking more in the days ahead depending on how things go. Just a couple of final things before I go.’

‘Yep, fire away.’

‘Firstly, what made you curious about the tyre marks in the first place?’

‘I moved here from the Major Collision Investigation Unit. I spent a few years dealing with accident scenes, solving mysteries became second nature to me I suppose, until my wife decided she wanted the coastal life.’

‘And I guess that last comment might partly answer my next question. Why have you been so forward with information? Doesn’t happen too often in our business.’

Laidlaw laughed, he understood it was a rare situation. ‘Well, the dope angle would have surfaced in a day or two from one of the pubs down here. The surfies are pissed off they didn’t know about Tugga’s stash sitting up in the bush, otherwise they would have helped themselves to a few plants when he was back in Geelong. But you’re right, there’s something about this accident that doesn’t stack up, so I want answers, whichever way I can get them.’

Curly was fizzing at the bung after he hung up the phone. He quickly updated Mac on the new angle – the famous Kiwi landscaper was a coastal drug kingpin. And the local cop believed a second vehicle was involved. Mac wanted to go a step further and suggest the accident might have been a hit by a rival gang, but Curly knew that angle would risk losing his new best Victoria Police friend in Lorne.

They swiftly dispatched the reporter and camera operator to the chopper base with shot lists, questions, contact details and preferred locations for pieces to camera. It was agreed that Curly’s time would be better spent at the station, to script, commission graphics and source supplementary vision for when the reporter returned in a panic late in the afternoon. The reporter’s name and face would be on the story, but it would be Curly’s production.

It was good old-fashioned journalism – a gut instinct proved correct – and both producers were chuffed.

Then Mac had another thought from left-field. ‘Hey, do you know what would make this story even better?’

‘What? We’ve got two fresh angles the other stations don’t have. How greedy do we need to be Mac?’

‘Just imagine if The Hatchet is involved in the drug operation? Is he the Melbourne Mr Big?’

Curly looked up from his terminal to see Mac with a broad smile; teasing. Or was he?

The reference to Hackett reminded him to check his email inbox. There were the usual half a dozen corporate messages and a few from mates commenting on his weekend story.

Crap quality on the pictures mate, but good on you for getting so close.

But the email that caught his attention was the briefest. It was from Hackett.

‘Jeezus,’ Curly called out to Mac. ‘The Hatchet wants to talk to me – as soon as possible.’