Читать книгу Tugga's Mob - Stephen Johnson - Страница 16

The butterflies in Curly Rogers’ stomach struggled to keep up with the lift as it ascended rapidly to the executive offices on the tenth floor. He had been a journalist for 21 years: 15 working in television and the last 10 with this station, but he had never reached these heights before.

Most newsroom employees summoned to the upper levels rarely returned to rejoin their workmates. The lucky were permitted to collect their personal possessions, arrange a wake at the nearest pub and then depart the building with some dignity to search for a new network. The unlucky were escorted from the premises by a security guard, or two, only stopping long enough to retrieve their briefcases from the newsroom. Sometimes it was handed to them outside the front door.

That was the standard early departure for heads of news, executive producers and senior producers who had outlived their usefulness. The occasional female presenter who survived long enough to reach her 50^th birthday might be allowed a final broadcast if she promised not to cry on air.

The hoi poloi – producers, reporters, editors, directors, camera operators, technical staff, engineers, media ops, librarians and admin staff – didn’t need to go to the top of the cliff to be pushed off. A senior manager would sweep into the newsroom to declare a new cull was imminent because of poor ratings, budget blowouts or dwindling advertising revenues.

Thanks for your efforts; TV is a tough business; good luck out there.

The unfortunates would find out their fate from Human Resources in a few days. That usually stifled newsroom protests as no one wanted to put their heads above the parapet: the bullet with their name on it might not be fired in that skirmish with management.

Curly noticed in recent years that the Human Resources department took on extra staff to handle these company purges, yet their temporary positions became permanent after the newsroom bodies were removed.

The lift doors opened to a corporate world of white opal walls, plush dark carpet, floor to ceiling windows that framed vast swathes of the city, a two-seater sofa and a solitary receptionist who looked like she was recruited straight from a fashion shoot. It was the amazing views of Port Phillip Bay that reassured Curly he hadn’t emerged from the TARDIS into a multi-national headquarters in London, Paris or New York. He didn’t have time to decide if the décor was meant to welcome visitors, or intimidate them, before the receptionist greeted him.

‘Good morning, are you Mr Rogers from Melbourne Spotlight?’ She emerged from behind a long rectangular desk. ‘I’m Zara, the Executive Assistant to Mr Hackett.’

Zara didn’t offer to shake hands, accurately summarising from Curly’s story-gathering attire: Rodd & Gunn chinos and open-neck shirt and sneakers that he was indeed one of the station minions, and therefore didn’t require the star treatment.

Zara was stunning, even with her corporate no-nonsense face, toned and tanned legs in heels that elevated her to least 180cm, blonde shoulder-length hair and all packaged in a mid-calf dark blue sheath dress.

Curly struggled not to be snippy with his response, though he let Zara’s inquiry hang for a moment longer than necessary to remind her they were both part of the same company.

‘Yes, indeed,’ he finally acknowledged as his eyes made another slow sweep around the glamorous surroundings. ‘You’ve never visited the Spotlight office? Such a shame, it’s only a hundred metres as the crow flies – but you might need a GPS to find us down at the coalface.’

Confirmation of his bona fides was accompanied by a smile, and was received with the professional mien he expected. The haves and the have nots in the company had formed their battle lines.

And here I thought we were struggling to survive. The bosses clearly don’t know the meaning of the word!

‘Mr Hackett is expecting you. Follow me, please.’

Interesting that The Hatchet’s EA is the gatekeeper.

Zara pivoted and strode down a central hallway. They passed half a dozen doors with nameplates for executives, and the board room. All the doors were closed although the murmur of voices could be heard. Zara approached a corner suite, knocked and entered all in one fluid movement.

As Curly was presented with another majestic view of Melbourne’s seaside suburbs he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Journalists never want to reveal when they’re impressed.

Hackett showed little courtesy as he sat at his desk and tidied spreadsheets. ‘Rogers, is it?’

‘Christopher Rogers, as chosen by my mother at birth, but these days I answer to Curly.’

Hackett lifted his eyes from the paperwork and noted the lack of any follicles to support that moniker. He snorted. ‘Newsroom humour?’ He waved Curly to a seat facing the desk as he swept the papers into a folder and pushed it to the side and moved onto the next topic.

‘Right, thanks for popping up here, ah, Curly. Tugga Tancred – I have to admit his death is causing more surprises than I expected.’

Curly’s radar immediately pinged on the word surprises. Surely Hackett didn’t know about the second-vehicle theory yet, or the dope crop Tugga grew in Apollo Bay?

Curly had only talked to the Lorne cop half an hour ago and didn’t think the station grapevine extended to this tower. Do they bug our offices now? Paranoia was a required survival skill in the television industry. He decided the best option was to draw out whatever information Hackett had before sharing his revelations.

‘What do you mean by surprises? You do mean plural – as in more surprises than Tugga’s death?’

Hackett paused to assess the journalist more closely, realising Curly was sharper than he expected. He was fishing for information and he was used to asking the questions.

‘Yes, there have been a couple more surprises since Tugga drove off the cliff. I hadn’t seen or heard anything about him – or anyone, in fact from that trip – since Europe in ’86. You know, we just happened to book the same tour because it was the cheapest. We travelled around, saw Europe, had a great time and went our own ways. I saw a couple of passengers at pubs and parties in London over the following 12 months, but never set eyes on Tugga’s Mob again.’

‘Tugga’s Mob?’

‘That was a nickname that became popular on the bus. Tugga was big, loud and enjoyed a beer. He was always up for some fun. He naturally drew attention to himself and those around him.’

Hackett’s chair tilted back as he relaxed into memories of a younger life of adventure.

‘Groups used to form quickly on tours in those days. Most passengers were early 20s and away from home for the first time. It could be daunting with the different languages, new food, multiple currencies and new cultures every other day. Border guards could be intimidating and bureaucratic, and all the big cities had bloody gypsies hassling you for money while trying to pick your pockets; that sort of thing. Probably not politically correct to stereotype people like that these days, but that was the reality then.

‘Some travellers needed security in numbers. Others aligned themselves with people of similar interests. You would get the culture vultures who wanted to visit every museum, art gallery, castle and the birthplaces of famous composers or writers. And then there were the party people who wanted to enjoy themselves while still seeing the best of Europe. Those who gravitated towards the big fella were known as Tugga’s Mob.’

‘And which group were you in?’

Hackett rested his elbows on the desk before he replied. ‘Technically, the other passengers considered me part of Tugga’s Mob. I had a good time, probably drank more than I should have, but still saw all the highlights. I enjoyed their company at times and I also associated with lots of other people from the bus – and different tour groups.’

Looking at the 50-something television executive in his designer suit and silk tie, Curly struggled to visualise The Hatchet as a party animal in the ’80s. Hackett looked as if he was born in an office.

Curly shrugged. ‘It was much the same in the ‘90s when I did my own tripping around Europe, so to speak.’

Hackett ignored any kindred traveller connections. ‘Anyway, Tugga’s Mob pre-dated the trip. He arrived in London with a couple of mates from New Zealand – from memory they all worked in forestry chopping down trees – and there was a girl, Helen Franks. She was a bar worker they knew in Rotorua who had moved to Sydney. Helen chucked the Sydney job in and joined them in England just before the trip. She was always looking for a new adventure. I enjoyed a few beers in those days and that’s how, in theory, I became part of Tugga’s Mob.’

‘That was 30 years ago. You’ve had no contact with Tugga or other members of the Mob since, right?’

Hackett nodded.

‘So, what other surprises has Tugga’s plunge off the Great Ocean Road generated? Have the other mobsters emerged through Facebook or Twitter to express their condolences?’

Hackett squirmed, then looked Curly directly in the eyes for the first time. ‘No, far from it in fact. Tugga isn’t the only one to have met an accidental death. His two mates were both killed in accidents recently. A bit weird, don’t you think?’

Curly sat silently for almost five seconds as he weighed these new nuggets of information. Bloody gold!

‘Tugga and his two best mates are dead? From accidents? What time frame are we talking about: when, where and how?’ Curly kept his expression neutral despite the intensity of the questions. His initial gut instinct from the weekend might turn into an absolute cracker of a story. Where’s this all going to lead?

Hackett could sense the excitement that coursed through the journalist. Was there even more to these accidents?

‘They’re all quite recent,’ he said. ‘Although the other two – Drew Harvey and Gerry Daly – died in New Zealand. Drew drowned while rock fishing at the end of August and Gerry was knocked off his bicycle in September. And now Tugga on the weekend.’

Hackett explained how the news about Tugga naturally, and for the first time in years, brought back memories of the trip. And that consequently, prompted him to Google the other members of the tour party. He’d wondered if anyone had become famous, or successful in business like him? Instead he’d found out about Gerry’s accident, and then the third death amongst that tight group. He admitted he was sitting in shock when Curly’s request for background information had come through.

Curly spent a few more minutes milking information from Hackett about the New Zealand deaths.

But Hackett, having verbalised it for the first time, started to understand the journalist’s obvious suspicions.

Accidents, coincidence – or something else?

Hackett decided he should share the news about Helen – or the lack of it. He reached into a drawer on the right-hand side of the desk and pulled out the group picture from Volendam. He pushed it across towards Curly before speaking again.

‘That’s a tour group photo at Volendam, in the Netherlands. You probably did something similar on your trip?’

Curly nodded and waited for Hackett to continue as he picked up the picture.

‘You can see the big fella in the middle, at the back. Drew’s on his right, with me beside him and Gerry on his left. Helen is beside Gerry.’

Curly peered at Tugga’s Mob. The big and brawny Kiwis had assumed the traditional staunch rugby pose, with chins thrust forward, arms folded and no smiles. The 1980s version of Hackett, however, was a marked contrast to the grey corporate executive who sat across from him. Thick, unkempt hair sprouted from beneath his Dutch fishing hat. He sported a then-fashionable drooping moustache that couldn’t hide a broad smile. He appeared to be having the time of his life – the deep bags under the eyes were familiar signs of late nights in camping ground bars and continental taverns.

Hackett, only a little shorter than Drew, couldn’t match the Kiwis’ bulk. Their muscles had been toned on rugby fields and in North Island forests. Hackett’s youthful physique hadn’t survived the climb up the corporate ladder. Neither had his facial hair.

Curly scanned the other faces, stopping at Helen. She was attractive enough though the Dutch costume wasn’t flattering and made her look severe. He asked the most obvious question. ‘What about Helen? What do you know about her?’

‘Nothing. Not a mention anywhere on the Web that I can find so far. I guess that might be a good sign?’

‘If you mean it’s unlikely she’s also met with a recent accidental death. Maybe.’

Hackett’s eyes widened. ‘Four accidental deaths would make it too damn freaky, wouldn’t it?’

Curly nodded, pondering how much more there might be to drain from The Hatchet before revealing his own info about the police investigation into the second-car theory. That factual detail suddenly took on greater significance when thrown into the news blender with two other untimely deaths… and the possibly missing Helen.

But was she really missing? She probably married, possibly several times in 30 years, and Curly doubted The Hatchet had the investigative skills to do a proper search for his former friend.

Curly was about to throw that caution onto the pyre when The Hatchet’s mobile phone demanded attention.

Hackett glanced at the caller ID expecting he would be able to let it go to voice mail; after all, this journalist hadn’t revealed anything yet. The caller was Reg Bradley, the station chief executive and the only person Hackett couldn’t ignore. His phone greeting was politer than the conversation with Curly.

‘What the fuck do they want, Reg?’ Hackett shouted into the mobile as he paced the room. ‘I’ve given them all the data, the numbers all stack up, the timing is perfect. Why can’t they make a fucking decision?’

It was on Hackett’s second circuit of the office that he realised this was a conversation that Curly shouldn’t be hearing. ‘Where are you, Reg? Okay, I’ll be there in a moment.’

Hackett slammed the mobile on the desk and reached for the door handle. The Board’s failure to rubber stamp his AFL broadcasting rights coup was more critical than talking to a journalist about three dead travelling companions.

‘Look, something important has come up. I’ll have to catch you later.’ Hackett said as he exited the office, crossed the hallway to the other corner suite and entered without knocking.

The meeting exceeded Curly’s expectations. Journalists don’t need much to inflame suspicious natures: three accidental deaths among the same group of friends in a matter of weeks, plus a possible ‘missing’ fourth person, was like throwing a can of petrol onto a bonfire for the Spotlight producer.

Mac’s going to love this!

Curly knew The Hatchet was rattled by the news about his former travelling companions, but didn’t want to suggest, yet, the deaths were more sinister than accidents. That change in tone on the phone and Hackett’s subtle deferment didn’t escape the current affairs producer. Curly surmised it must have been the boss as Hackett didn’t even apologise for disrupting their meeting. He turned his eyes to appreciate the view again while absorbing the one-sided conversation. The Hatchet wasn’t happy.

Curly could still hear The Hatchet venting as he returned to the reception area and waited for the lift. Zara didn’t bother acknowledging his departure. If she had, she might have noticed Curly was leaving with something extra. The Volendam picture was overlapping Curly’s notebook held against his thigh.