High Beam

by SJ Brown

  Secondly, Thompson lured players south with the prospect of a working environment equaled only by the mighty Collingwood club. Faced with the across-the-board limits that applied to the wages bill of all clubs, the Magpies of Melbourne had realized that the next best way to spend their unrivalled amount of income was to provide their team with superb facilities. There was no cap on the amount of money you could spend on having the best gymnasium and treatment rooms, the most expert medical staff and training camps in Arizona.

  “It may just be Hobart but the only club with a set-up as good as this is Collingwood. So come down and be part of it,” he’d enthused to each recruit. “And that’s not the only point of comparison, as I’m sure you know.”

  They did know. Knew that in a remarkable coup the Devils would have the former Fitzroy champion player and Adelaide premiership coach, Mick Squires, in charge for the coming season. Squires had spent the previous season commenting on radio but the competitive zeal was far from sated so he had literally leapt out of retirement to take over the reins for the Devils. No matter whom you were, footballers wanted to play for him.

  The club was built … and they came. Randall grudgingly admitted that although ice probably ran in his veins Fotheringtham was a genius. Surely an A type personality. Saw the big picture and puts the nuts and bolts in place.

  Only now was the club facing its first major hurdle. Hurdle was not the word Randall would have thought most appropriate. But that is how Fotheringtham had put it and it was his take on proceedings that most people acceded to. They did that or he put them in their place. The week before, Randall had appeared on the local ABC station’s statewide current affairs program. It was felt that his traditional image would give an impression of gravitas for the public broadcaster: it was Sproule who was trotted out for any spruiking on the commercial station. Towards the end of the studio interview, the presenter had asked about the effect of regulation on the financial affairs of the sporting clubs. Were the draft and salary cap a good thing, he was asked. Randall gave an emphatic yes. Even in America, where regulation was something of a dirty word, the NFL imposed a similar set of stipulations on its member clubs. This helped bring about a spread of success. Otherwise big clubs like the Dallas Cowboys would gather all the best talent and steamroll the opposition.

  One only had to look to the United Kingdom where the inequities of wealth and the absence of a salary cap meant only a handful of clubs could realistically hope for premiership success or compete for the lucrative places in European competitions. The exclusive dominance of Chelsea and the two Manchester teams in recent years could not be genuinely healthy. Even a grand club such as Arsenal was hard pressed to keep up. So, Randall concluded, provisions such as the salary cap ensured a mostly level playing field which, in Australia’s egalitarian society, was quite apt.

  The next day Fotheringtham had called to say well done on his appearance. It sent a good message to viewers, he said. And the guff about a fair competition in an egalitarian society had been a winner. Guff? Randall expressed a modicum of confusion. How so? Fotheringtham explained. The AFL has got the cap and draft for two reasons. One is so they can exert control over the clubs. Keep people in line. Second, is to make money. That’s why it’s that way in the US. To maximize the pot of gold from TV rights. If all the success is enjoyed by Dallas and San Francisco then couch potatoes in Cleveland, St Louis and New York will tune out. Spread the talent and you spread the opportunity of success. More people tune in so more advertisers want to get on board. The Commission can demand more for the TV rights. So it’s really the use of socialist practices to feed the goal of capitalism; make more money. And it’s the same here. If Melbourne clubs dominate, then the tellies in Perth and Sydney won’t be turned on. There’s your bottom line.

  And so another bedrock in Randall’s slab of principles had been ground to dust. As he got older he began to feel that one’s life was a process of developing articles of faith only to see them demolished by the reality of existence. Was it really just dog eat dog? He believed not. The Fotheringhams of this world held sway sure enough. There had to be another way. But his own light on the hill was dimming. The younger ones may provide some answers. He hoped so.

  His feeling of melancholy was heightened by the tenor of the discussion around the table. A young man’s life had been brutally ended and his colleagues were talking as if a discrepancy in the annual audit had been found. Well, Fotheringham was. Sproule seemed slightly distracted and had to be brought back a couple of times.

  “Roger. Earth to Roger. Come in please.”

  Sproule shook his head as if coming out of a bad dream. “Sorry, Rory. Kid’s death is having a bit of an effect. Sort of delayed shock.”

  Randall was quietly amazed at the change in the President’s demeanor. He’d assumed the man must have some reflective moments but he had never seen him around other people as anything but irrepressible. Something had shaken him. Something more, he privately wished, than the problem of finding a talented tall forward a few weeks out from the season opener.

  As if on cue, Fotheringham went on. “As I was saying, the club’s priority, in terms of moving forward, is to find a half-decent replacement in the attacking half. I’ve spoken to Colin and Mick earlier today and there’re a few options available. Blood some of the green youngsters early. Scour the locals for anybody we’ve missed. Admittedly, that’s unlikely given the job Colin did last year. Tweak the game plan. Finch was a great talent but nobody’s indispensable. Mick agreed with me that we treat the loss as any club would a long-term injury to any star. Except it frees up a nice whack of money to get some fresh talent down the track.”

  Randall had shut his eyes for the last bit in the hope that it would heighten his olfactory senses. He was pretty sure there were rasping hints of Darth Vader somewhere. He opened his eyes to see Rory tick off that item on his list. Job done.

  “Now to funeral arrangements. I met Mr. and Mrs. Finch for dinner last night.” He pointed to the end of the room. “We’re putting them up next door for the week. Waiving the bill. Do the decent thing on behalf of the club.”

  And slip a mention of that into a press release, thought Randall. He said, “I’m glad we’re doing something. It must be a very sad time for them. No one wants to ever have to bury their children.”

  “You’re right, Doc. Not the natural order of things by any stretch. So the club is doing all it can to take the stress out of arrangements for them. I spoke to the Assistant Commissioner this morning and there’s no indication as yet for the release of the body from the mortuary. Autopsy was done yesterday and it seems pretty straightforward. Bashing gone wrong. Tragic accident. AC Newman reckons there’s no reason to delay the funeral so I’ve penciled in next Saturday.”

  Before either of the others could speak, Rory ploughed on. “The lad’s parents agreed that having the funeral down here would be appropriate. He’d become a Hobart boy anyway. And it fits in with plans for everyone who will want to attend. Club people, local friends etc. And the politicians will want in on the act. So the likely venue is St David’s Cathedral, nice and central. Easy for media to cover and afterwards the police will sort the traffic so a funeral procession can head out the Brooker Highway to the Cemetery. A reception will be held here in the Conference Centre.”

  An event orchestrated to maximize publicity for the venue and the club. Fotheringham did not miss a trick. As the President continued to sit mutely, Randall hazarded a question. “Did his parents ask for a hometown ceremony?”

  “No.”

  And that was that. Once they’d seen Fotheringham for a few minutes, they would have realized it was a fait accompli. Resistance is futile. May as well go along with it and adopt their set role as chief mourners. They had precious little choice, apparently.

  “Well, on behalf of Roger and myself, I have to commend you on your efficiency. A very brisk response. You’re not by any chance c
onducting the police investigation as well, are you?” The delivery was deadpan.

  “Are you taking the piss, Doc?”

  “Far from it, Rory. I’m pragmatic enough to know that history demonstrates what you need in a crisis is strong dictatorial control. Committees phaff around. Best for you to take control. Especially as Roger isn’t firing on all cylinders at present.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment then.” He smiled but the eyes negated any warmth he tried to generate. Clapping Sproule on the shoulder he said. “Old Roj here has been knocked for six by it all. Had a lot of time for the boy, didn’t you Roger?”

  Sproule blinked as if trying to remember the script. “Ah, yeah. Lad had a bit of spark to him.” He sounded hollow.

  Randall knew this was not the time to ask how much of a spark Felicity Sproule had found in the young footballer. But it was time to ask about the elephant in the room. “I’m sorry to have to ask this.” He looked straight at the President. “Roger, does Finch’s death have anything to do with the tête-à-tête you wanted last Thursday night?”

  Sproule roused from his torpor. “No. How could it? Why would I want our prize player to get done over? Give me some credit.”

  Randall could think of one reason. A bit tenuous but Sproule was renowned for taking a bulldozer approach. The Fixer chimed in. “Strange question, Doc. Roger tells me Finch didn’t front up. Next thing anyone hears is that his corpse turns up in Kingston. Bit of a stretch if you ask me.”

  As he wasn’t asking Fotheringham, Randall maintained a fixed gaze on the President. “The thing is Roger, as I was departing my house to come to this meeting, there was a lot of police activity at the Bowls Club. Not quite such a stretch if you ask me.”

  Sproule wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Jesus, how am I meant to know? Could be pissed vandals for all I know about it.” The customary vigor was back.

  Randall was unconvinced but short of a direct accusation he felt it prudent to let it go. “Alright, it just seems curious. Probably unconnected.”

  “Almost certainly, I’d say,” Rory put in. “Could be anything at the Bowls Club. Coincidence, Doc, pure and simple. As Roger said why would anyone in the club be involved. Robbery gone wrong is what the police are thinking. Best we leave the hypothesizing to the experts, eh.”

  The words of Sean Connery in an old film floated into Randall’s head. I wish you’d met me twenty years and thirty pounds ago. Fotheringham wouldn’t patronize him then. But right now he felt old. Stick his head out and get it kicked in. Not likely. So he acquiesced. “Fair enough. Silly thought.” He got up from his chair. “I’ll be off. Let me know if there’s anything to be done.”

  Sproule mumbled a farewell as he continued to stare out the window. Fotheringham stood. “Righto, thanks for coming up, Doc. I’ll be in touch.”

  As soon as Randall was out the door, the Fixer sat down and set his focus on Sproule. “Get a fucking grip and get it right fucking now.” The harshness broke the spell. “If you don’t your arse is grass and the lawnmowers are queuing up. Understand?”

  Some hurried nodding. “Yeah, yeah. OK. I’m right.”

  “Good. You’d better be. For your own sake.”

  “Yeah, righto. Tone it down a bit. You gottta admit the pigs being at the Bowls Club was a bit of a shock.”

  “Not to me.”

  “What do you mean?’

  “Newman told me about it.” Someone tripped over something and the upshot is that it looks like a bashing went wrong. There’s trace evidence of an altercation, the techies think. Cops will probably join the dots. There’s nothing to think we’re part of the picture. I made sure of that. I trust you did.”

  “Yeah, followed your instructions. They can’t connect any of us up, can they?”

  “The thugs who botched it have no idea who hired them. They certainly don’t know why. Randall is just a curious old fart. Won’t say anything. You just need to make sure you don’t go jumping at shadows. And keep your trap shut.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Monday 15th March 8am

  For a brief diversion from the hysteria of the sports pages, Mahoney turned back a few pages to the classifieds section. Oftentimes these pages provided a more telling snapshot of what was going on in society than the news section; certainly so in contrast to the clinical media releases of the politics of the day. It always paid to scan the flea market section in case any petty thieves were trying to offload any items. Unbelievably, some actually tried this.

  If the advertising was any guide, the rental market looked rather healthy…for landlords. He could scarcely credit that, according to comparable figures, his own flat would cost nearly $300 per week to rent. Thankfully, he did not. He recognized nobody in the hatched, matched and dispatched columns before flicking to see how the job market was faring out of curiosity and to see the sorts of salaries on offer. The Cadburys factory at Claremont had a couple of positions advertised. One was for a ‘Logistics & Materials Manager’, presumably to run the warehouse. The successful applicant would ‘ensure the flow of goods across the site is optimized and synergies are gained across inbound and outbound deliveries’. What the…? There could only be one person for that job. Hercules. If the advertisement was any indication of the quality of communication within the company then all his experience from the Aegean stables would be necessary. In spades.

  He took a final sip from his flat white as a confident young woman came down the aisle between the teak tables and bentwood chairs. Mahoney was fairly sure this was Amanda Pattison. He could immediately see she was attractive. That was obvious. Moreover, she was stylish in a way not many local women managed to be. Without mimicking foreign fashions, she obviously took care with her apparel. She even managed to make the wearing of a beret look natural.

  She paused just short of his table. “Inspector Mahoney?”

  “Yes, and I’m safely assuming you are Amanda.”

  She nodded and sat opposite him. “Yep, that’s me. Thanks for taking time to see me.”

  “No problem at all. In truth it is me who should be most grateful. Your insight into some of the permutations could prove very valuable. What was Brad like?”

  “Brad and I were good friends. Buddies without benefits.” Mahoney smiled. Encouraged, she moved on. “Believe me; he didn’t go wanting in that department. Anyway, we got along really well. I wasn’t part of his footy social life. We caught up for coffees and chats. There was a side to him that was deeper and gentler than many saw.”

  A brief pause. Happy memories acknowledged. One of the staff arrived at their table. A perky young woman with the svelte figure of a gymnast. Mahoney ordered the same again and Amanda opted for a skinny latte. Neither was hungry, thank you. The hiatus gave Amanda the opportunity to settle herself. The waitress pirouetted away.

  Mahoney let her think. “I understand what you mean. He displayed a social face because that was expected but with you he didn’t have to keep it up. He could be him.”

  She let out a small exhalation. “Exactly. He was young Mister Studly around town and the gun recruit at football but when we hung out he was just himself. A nice simple guy. Not Oxbridge material but a lot brighter than he let on. It kind of pissed him off that some people would automatically assume he was a type just because he was a bit of a jock. Sure, he could be blokey and everything but he was pretty smart, too. Not many people gave him any credit for that.”

  Their coffees were served. A smile, some wanky Italian and a ramrod straight-backed Gen Y male strode away. Mahoney rolled his eyes and Amanda stifled a laugh. “This is good to hear. You’d think from all the media noise that what was lost was a prize yearling from a horse stud. There is always quite of lot more to people than we necessarily see. Either we want to see or they let us see.” Mahoney methodically stirred just a bit of sugar into his coffee. “What in particular is worrying you?”

  “I t
hink you should talk to Dr. Cartwright from the university. Not that I think he did anything violent to Brad. I don’t think he could do that but he’s mixed up in this somehow. I mean everything was going well until the other day when there was a clash in one of his lectures. Cartwright just went off at him in front of the whole class.”

  “Can you tell me your version of what happened and what that led to?”

  She sipped her coffee and wiped some crema from her top lip with a napkin. “Alright. Long story short. I’d seen a bit of Dr. Cartwright at these Pilates classes we were both doing. Didn’t know him from Adam but noticed him at the studio. Not many men do those types of classes. Probably not butch enough for many males. Have to pump iron. At the start of semester it was him lecturing us in Australian Political Systems. One morning before a class he starts flirting with me at the refectory. I played along out of curiosity and cattiness. I mean, a meal with him could turn out interesting and if not I’ve been wined and dined gratis.”

  Mahoney admired her frankness while being grateful they were just having coffee. “So you agreed to have dinner with him?”

  “Not then. Later. Another reason emerged.”

  “Arising from Cartwright lambasting Brad in front of the whole class?”

  “Pretty much, Inspector. Yes, but not just that. Cartwright complained to one of the board members of the Tassie Devils. Then whoever he had the ear of gave Brad a telling-off as well.”

  “How so?” Mahoney was doing well to keep his voice level.

  “Well, they couldn’t threaten him with any football sanctions. Imagine the uproar. If unicorns returned they wouldn’t be as protected as some of these wastrels who parade around as professional sportsmen. So Brad was told his enrolment in the athlete tertiary scholarship program would be in jeopardy if he stepped out of line again. Well, that stung. Some players, a lot of them probably, wouldn’t care less but Brad really did want to study. Wanted some quals for later on. And his dad would be spewing too, if he found out.”