‘Jesus, Rebecca, this is dynamite. Has anyone else got the story?’
‘Not as far as I know, but someone could have been tipped off by a copper, and even if they haven’t been tipped off, it won’t be long before we see some of our media colleagues here, as there is a lot of activity—police everywhere. It is lit up like a Christmas tree.’
‘Okay, send me through a few pars on your iPhone so we can get something up online immediately, and then get your arse to the office as soon as possible. You’ve got work to do.’
Rebecca punched out about five paragraphs in a text to Reg, with as much detail as she knew to date. She crafted her words into a short, sharp story. The facts were so fantastical that the story didn’t need any embellishment. The police needed both Rebecca’s and Penny’s cars for forensics, so a police car was provided to take them where they wanted to go. Rebecca was dropped off at the office, and a dumbstruck Penny was dropped off at her home in St Peter’s.
As Rebecca walked into the office, she saw the usual suspects, including the paper’s editor, Terry White, who never seemed to go home. Terry poked his head from behind a series of partitions he was trying in vain to make into a pseudo office. ‘Rebecca, I want you working full time on these crime stories. I’ve spoken with Reg. You’ll continue reporting to him.’
At that point, Dave Mendelson jumped up. ‘Hey, I’m the crime reporter. This is my patch. Rebecca is a foodie. She doesn’t have the contacts. This is my beat.’
‘Shut up, Mendelson,’ Terry retorted in front of the entire office—a rather unfortunate side effect of mixing open offices with passionate creative types. ‘You’ve been bloody hopeless. You’re lucky I haven’t sacked you. The Head Case is now Rebecca’s. There’re plenty of other crimes on the streets. I suggest you get off your backside and start to uncover some and turn them into gripping reads.’ Terry looked down at Mendelson—which wasn’t hard as Mendelson was not very tall, even in his special shoes with the generous heels—and added cuttingly, ‘Try taking a leaf out of Rebecca’s book.’
Mendelson glared at Rebecca. At that moment, Rebecca knew that she didn’t just have someone who disliked her—she now had an enemy.
Mendelson slunk off to his desk without another word. Terry stepped back behind his bank of partitions, and Reg swung past Rebecca, grabbed her by the arm, and frog-marched her into a quiet room.
‘Well, we don’t have to worry about you being undercover anymore. That was short lived. You can write openly under your own name. The pathway has been laid clear for you. Lucky break.’
Rebecca replied, ‘What, another man murdered by having his head chopped off? You call that a lucky break? I don’t think Will Oliver would agree.’
‘You know what I mean. This story is going to be bigger than my Azaria Chamberlain “Dingo Took My Baby” case. It keeps getting better.’
Rebecca looked at Reg. He was like a kid on Christmas morning.
‘Okay. Let’s get to work,’ said Reg. ‘I want you to write a mood piece on what you saw this morning. I’ll get a couple of other journos to follow up with the cops. You just concentrate on weaving a beautiful colour piece to go off the back of the facts. I’ll put a heavily edited version online today, with the full piece going front page on the Saturday print edition tomorrow. I’ve already sent Jo Sharpiro to the park lands to get a shot of the trough and the cops swarming over the scene. I also want a photo of you, Rebecca. We need a head shot to go next to your byline.’
Rebecca arced up at this. ‘What the hell do you need a photo of me for? I don’t want my photo on the story. I’m a journalist, not a celebrity.’
‘Bullshit. You’re in the centre of this. You’re writing this feature from your point of view, so who the hell are you? You can’t be faceless. You are also a suspect in this case. That gives it even more complexity and fascination. You don’t think our readers will want to know what you look like? For Christ’s sake, they’ll be googling you, looking for your Facebook photos. Let’s at least give them something that is flattering.’
Rebecca didn’t answer immediately. She couldn’t deny he made some good points. It was just that, in the digital age, so many things were changing. Pre-digital, it all seemed to be clearer. The rules had been laid down over decades, and ethical questions had often had black-and-white answers. All the rules were now being questioned, most being thrown out. Infotainment had become news. Journalists who used to be in the background were now celebrities themselves. Giving subjective opinions was no longer restricted to comment or editorial pieces. To add to the confusion, in this particular case, Rebecca was a murder suspect. What the hell was she doing, writing about it? Wasn’t there a conflict of interest here? She’d been grappling with this issue for days and wasn’t making any sense of it.
Rebecca decided to concede on the photo. It was minor to what was troubling her more—the fact that she was a murder suspect.
‘Okay, Reg. I don’t really care about the photo. But what do you think about me being a murder suspect and writing news and colour pieces on the crimes? Aren’t I conflicted?’
‘Bloody oath, you are. I had this issue out with our esteemed editor, Tessa. We’ve “work-shopped” it, to use mumbo-jumbo speak. We know you’re a suspect, and we’ve decided you need to acknowledge this fact at the end of every story as part of your byline. But bloody hell, how many more readers do you think that will draw in? What a unique opportunity, to be writing it as an insider. This is gold.’
Rebecca looked at Reg. She knew that he was rationalising the argument to suit the needs of the paper. The trouble was, she couldn’t mount a coherent defence as to why she should stop writing the articles. She knew she wasn’t guilty, and at some point that would be proved. However, the reader didn’t know she wasn’t guilty. Rebecca knew Reg was right—her being a suspect would only add to the suspense of the case.
‘Do you think I’m the murderer?’ Rebecca suddenly asked Reg.
‘Don’t be an idiot, Rebecca. Of course not.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, beside the fact that you have never exhibited the psycho traits of a murderer, you don’t have a motive. Of course you are not the bloody killer. But I have to concede that being a suspect is a great twist. It gives this paper a cracker of an edge. And now that there are two murders you are in the thick of, fantastic. There’s nothing like being in the right place at the right time.’
‘I can’t help but feel I’m entering the murky ethical world of programs like A Current Affair,’ moaned Rebecca.
‘Don’t go all pretentious on me! A Current Affair does some great journalism. They do some crap too. You don’t do crap, Rebecca. You have a moral compass, and I expect you to use it. Write about your ethical dilemmas. Write about what it feels like to be a suspect in a murder case. These are rich pickings. Easy never made great journalism.’ Reg paused. ‘That’s enough gabbing. Now get to work.’
Rebecca wrote her colour piece as well as a piece about what it was like to be both a suspect in a murder case and a journalist covering the case. The second article really stretched her. It took her back to her philosophy classes at university, what is truth?. The thinking hurt, but she was pleased with the result. It put her situation in context—not just for the reader but also for herself.
By midday, she had wrapped up her articles and submitted them both to Reg.
Will Oliver
Rebecca really wanted to go home, have something to eat, have a shower, and take a nap. However, she knew she had to do some grunt work. She needed to find out who Will Oliver really was.
She decided she would start off with his work colleagues and his new boss, Francois Bacone. She would then visit Will’s home and knock on the doors of his neighbours to see if they could shed any light on what sort of man he was.
She didn’t have her car, so she picked up the keys of a work vehicle. On her way out of the ’Tiser building, she also bought a sandwich and a water at the café in the foyer—that would have t
o do for breakfast.
At Le Petit Choux Choux ten minutes later, it was obvious all the kitchen staff knew of the latest murder. They had the radio on and were listening to the news bulletins. The local morning radio program had been taking talkback on the subject of bizarre Adelaide murders.
Rebecca sidled up to each worker, asking pretty much the same questions to get a picture of what each knew about Will and his movements the day before he had been killed. She was just finishing with the final staff member when Francois entered the kitchen.
‘What is this?’ he said in his heavy French accent.
‘Hi, Francois, I’m just asking a few questions about Will. I’m covering the story for my paper, and I need to get a few more details.’
‘You are not the police. What right do you have coming into my kitchen and asking all these questions? You didn’t even ask my permission. This is work time. I must ask you to leave.’
Rebecca had wanted to ask Francois a series of questions as well but thought it might be an inopportune moment, given his hostility. She would have to revisit Francois and choose her moment. Perhaps she might do better at the olive harvest tomorrow. Francois had become a regular at the harvest in the last few years.
‘Sorry, Francois. Just doing my job. I’ll get out of your hair. I’ll see you at the olive harvest tomorrow.’ Rebecca walked out of the kitchen and climbed into the work car. She sat in the car for a few minutes, going over her notes and gathering her thoughts on what she knew so far.
The staff had last seen Will on Thursday morning, when he left the restaurant not long before Francois Bacone. He had said he had to feed his dogs but hadn’t come back for the lunch shift. A no-show from Will was very odd. He had a reputation in the industry for being reliable.
Strangely, the staff members had all commented that Francois Bacone hadn’t seemed upset or concerned at Will’s no-show. Rebecca had confirmed from a couple of the staff that Francois himself had returned to the restaurant about twelve fifteen. He had been gone for about two hours. Enough time to commit a murder, thought Rebecca.
The staff had confirmed that Will was a bit of a loner and that he spent all his time away from his job tending to his greyhound dogs. The only topic Will would talk about in any detail was dogs—and greyhound dogs in particular. He had a reputation for boring others with his criticisms of, and hatred for, the greyhound-racing industry. At about one o’clock, when Will didn’t show up for his shift, one of the staff members had looked up Will’s contact details in the staff records and called him on his mobile phone, but the call had gone through to message bank. Will hadn’t listed any other contact numbers or next-of-kin details in the staff register.
Given that none of the staff socialised with Will or had more than a perfunctory working relationship with him, no one had bothered to go around to his house to see if he was okay.
The staff said Francois’s normal reaction to employees who didn’t turn up for their shifts was to ‘go troppo.’ They had been waiting for an outburst that didn’t come.
Rebecca was able to get Will’s home address after asking one of the staff to look up Will’s details on the staff register. She was always amazed at how helpful people could be, despite the burgeoning bureaucratic dos and don’ts, and irritating things like privacy laws. Rebecca pointed the car in the direction of Will’s home, not knowing what she expected to find.
She pulled up in front of a modest home in one of the backstreets of Croydon. The street was made up of homes built in the ’50s on former market-garden land. Will’s home seemed to be a rental, as the front lawn looked like it hadn’t been mowed for months. Tufts of weeds hugged the poles of the wire front fence. The house itself was rendered and painted cream. It looked like the original paint job. There was a portico over the front door.
Rebecca went up to the door and knocked, not expecting an answer, but she felt it prudent to knock before she started snooping around the back. She heard someone moving inside the house, and then the front door opened. A young woman wearing old grey track pants and an out-of-shape orange polyester jumper stood in front of her. The woman looked upset.
‘Hi,’ said Rebecca. ‘My name is Rebecca Keith. I’m a journalist with the Advertiser.’ Rebecca decided to keep the information brief at this stage.
‘Are you here about Will’s murder?’ she asked.
Somewhat relieved, Rebecca answered, ‘Yes, I am. I’m so sorry—it must be a shock to you. Can I come in?’
The girl seemed to be on autopilot, not really engaged, but she opened the door wider and said, ‘Sure.’
Rebecca followed her into the lounge room. It still had the original ’50s floral Axminster carpet on the floor, very worn in parts, stained in others. An oversized faded brown velour lounge suite filled the room, the pieces all angled to take in the sixty-inch TV sitting on a dusty black-lacquered TV cabinet. In the corner was an angled mantel over a built-in stained ceramic heater that had two burners alight. Two of its ceramic columns were broken. The dusty venetian blinds were closed, except for a few slates that were no longer attached to the binding and had slipped, allowing shafts of light into the room. A brindled greyhound was sprawled out on the lounge, its head resting on the large flat armrest. The dog’s soft, languid brown eyes looked up at Rebecca. The dog didn’t move, content to follow Rebecca with his eyes.
The girl went over to the far chair and sat down, bringing her knees up to her chin and hugging them.
‘Can I sit down?’ inquired Rebecca.
The girl didn’t answer, just slowly nodded her head.
Rebecca sat down.
‘I know this must be a difficult time for you. What’s your name?’ Rebecca asked gently.
The girl didn’t answer straightaway. She just stared ahead. After a couple of minutes, during which Rebecca thought it wise not to say anything, the girl finally responded with, ‘Anne Shipway. I’m Will’s housemate.’
‘Oh,’ replied Rebecca, not wanting to rush in with a series of questions. Rebecca knew the value of silence in interviews.
A few moments went by before Anne filled the silence. ‘I moved in here about a year ago. We met at the Animal Welfare League, where I work as an animal attendant. Will was a frequent visitor. He loved animals.’
‘I understand he especially loved greyhounds,’ said Rebecca as she looked at the gentle creature lying, now asleep, on the couch.
‘Yes, he loved his greyhounds. He would have been heartbroken to know Max was killed in the way he was. I hope he didn’t have to witness Max being beheaded.’ As she said the final words, Anne dropped her head to her knees, hiding her face.
Rebecca wasn’t sure if she was crying. She asked, ‘Was Max one of his greyhounds?’
Anne lifted her head. ‘Yes, Max was his. Spark too,’ she said, gesturing to the dog on the couch.
‘Anne, when did you last see Will and Max?’
‘The police asked me the same question. Yesterday morning, before work. We had both walked the dogs early, and then I left for work at about eight. Will didn’t have to start until nine, so I left when he was in the shower. I didn’t see him or Max again.’
‘What else did you tell the police, Anne?’
‘I told them that Will loved his greyhounds. I told the police that Will hated the greyhound industry. He hated the corruption. I told them that if they wanted to find Will’s killer, they should look at the bikie gangs who run the greyhound industry in this country. I told them to go to the Angle Park races.’
‘Did Will go to the Angle Park races?’
‘We both did. We would go most Thursday nights, protesting the cruelty. Will never worked Thursday nights. To begin with, we were allowed in, but in the last couple of months, we had to stand outside with our placards. We were banned. We were supposed to go to a special Friday-night session tonight as well—it’s a big carnival, so there is going to be a bigger crowd than usual.’
‘Tell me a bit more about this bikie influence. How are they involv
ed in the industry?’
‘Jesus, how aren’t they involved?’ Anne began to fire up. ‘They fix the races with slow dogs that can’t race. Did you know you can now bet on who comes last? How crazy is that?’
Rebecca didn’t answer but nodded for Anne to continue.
‘They supply drugs to the trainers. Eighty percent of the dogs are drugged.’
‘What sort of drugs?’
‘What don’t they use? Might be the easier question. Cocaine, Viagra, amphetamines, caffeine, anabolic steroids, EPO. They also have most officials on the payroll so that they dictate which dogs get swabbed and when.’ Anne closed her fist as if she was about to punch someone. ‘The whole industry is morally bankrupt. Did you know they breed thousands of dogs a year that don’t come up to scratch, so they just kill them? Seventeen thousand dogs were killed last year in Australia. And do you know only a few of them are humanely euthanised? Costs too much money. Most are bludgeoned, drowned, or shot.’
Rebecca could sense that Anne was on a roll and didn’t interrupt her.
‘And they put up smoke and mirrors—like the Greyhound Carers’ Association, which only takes care of about one percent of the dogs, and even then, it is left to caring volunteers to do the grunt work. Bloody appalling.’
‘Did Will think he could do anything about this? Did he try to expose any of it?’
‘Yes, he was trying to do something about it—and he had just found out something big.’
‘What?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. Said it would be safer if I didn’t know. But in the last few days, he was very excited about what he was onto and promised me it was going to blow the industry sky high.’
‘Do you know if he went to the dogs last night?’
‘No, I don’t. We were supposed to go together last night and again tonight. Will managed to get tonight off work. It wasn’t easy, as Friday is big in the restaurant trade. But last night, we had planned to leave home at about seven o’clock. I came home after work at about six, and he and Max weren’t here. I tried calling Will on his mobile, but he didn’t answer. I thought he might have gone without me. I decided to stay home and went to bed early. I knew something was wrong when I woke up this morning and noticed Will hadn’t come home. Next thing I knew, the cops were knocking on the door.’
The Popeye Murder Page 11