The Enemy Within
Page 8
‘So, it’s western society that you’re standing up for and stopping immigration is a way to do that?’ Bailey held up his hand, signalling a two-prong question. ‘How does that work the other way around? Westerners moving abroad.’
‘Well.’ Strong took a moment to think. ‘They just shouldn’t do it. If we want to protect our western values, they probably feel the same way about theirs.’
‘Who’s they?’
‘I know what you’re trying to do here.’ Strong shook his head, smiling, pointing his finger playfully at Bailey. ‘But my answer is simple. They are the people who want a different way of life from us westerners.’
‘Which is?’
‘Freedom.’
‘Freedom from what?’ Bailey sat back, trying to look interested, like he was hanging off Strong’s every word. ‘Freedom to offend?’
‘Exactly.’
‘You want to be able to offend people?’
‘I want to protect and defend my First Amendment rights, and the rights of everyone else. To protest. To offend. To stand up for my beliefs without fear or favour.’
Strong was sounding self-righteous now and it was getting on Bailey’s nerves. He decided to go back to where he’d started.
‘So, why do you court white supremacist groups like The Dawning?’
Strong stared at Bailey, letting his thoughts tick over. He picked up his glass of water, slowly taking another sip.
‘Mr Strong?’
The Dawning was an American white supremacist group whose founder – a wheat farmer by the name of Donald Sampson – had recently been raided by the FBI. They’d found stockpiles of weapons on his property and a video recording of a gathering of armed men, all wearing masks, talking about the need for extreme acts of violence to upset the social order and drive out non-western influences from America.
‘I neither support, nor condone, the positions of that group.’
‘But the problem, Mr Strong, is that there’s a photograph of you with your arm around Donald Sampson. A photo taken a year or so ago.’ Strong wasn’t proving so talkative on this subject and Bailey decided to double-down. ‘And if I’m not mistaken, that was the same night when you were pictured giving a Nazi salute?’
‘That was a joke. Taken out of context.’
‘The Nazi salute is a joke?’ Bailey said, emphasising his confusion. ‘You’d better explain that context for me, if you don’t mind. I’m struggling a bit here. Maybe I’ve got this wrong.’
Strong coughed, loudly, reaching again for his water.
‘Augustus, are you okay?’
Bailey had forgotten that Chrystal Armstrong was in the room and he realised now that Strong’s coughing was a signal.
‘It’s just this cold,’ Strong said, getting up from his chair, drinking more water. ‘I’ve got a headache. You know how jet lag can play havoc with you.’
‘Take your time,’ Bailey said, staying put. ‘I don’t mind if you need a minute.’
Bailey felt a hand on his shoulder. Chrystal Armstrong was, quite literally, breathing down his neck. ‘I think we might need to leave it there, Mr Bailey. It’s been a gruelling schedule for Augustus. Maybe you could email some follow-up questions?’
Bailey reached for his phone, slipping it inside his jacket pocket.
‘Sure.’
The easygoing, confident showman who had offered the charming greeting to Bailey when he had first arrived was gone. Cut down by a question he couldn’t explain. Nowhere to hide. No words left to say.
‘One more question, if I may?’
‘Mr Bailey, I think we’re done,’ Chrystal said.
‘No, it’s okay,’ Strong said, earnestly, like he was offering Bailey the world.
‘You met some politicians in Canberra today,’ Bailey said. ‘May I ask who?’
‘Sure. I met the border guy.’
‘The Home Affairs Minister, Wayne McMahon?’
‘Yeah. And a couple of senators from Queensland.’
Bailey knew exactly who he was referring to. Mal Rustin and Sally Paul. The two Liberal National Party conservatives from the north of the state.
‘What did you talk about?’
‘Immigration. Western values. Things you might expect. Australia and the United States have a special relationship. Two relatively young countries with proud histories. But the same problems with cultural erosion.’
‘By “proud histories” you mean white settlement here?’ Bailey had one more crack, knowing that people like Strong had a short view of history.
‘I think we’re done, Mr Bailey,’ Chrystal said.
‘I’m really tired.’ Strong was rubbing his eyes, putting on a show. ‘Goodnight.’
Strong disappeared into the bathroom, fingers massaging his temples.
‘Follow me, please.’
Chrystal didn’t say another word until they were in the hallway on the other side of the door.
‘That was fucking pathetic, Mr Bailey.’ She jammed a finger in his direction. ‘Coming in here, accusing him like that. I’ll be speaking to Jock about this.’
‘You’re a supporter of Augustus Strong, then, I take it? The things he stands for?’
‘At least he stands for something, unlike people like you,’ she snarled. ‘And yes, I think he’s brave for calling out immigration. What’s wrong with wanting to keep America for Americans? Australia for Australians? People like you twist his words. So fucking politically correct all the time.’
‘I don’t twist people’s words,’ Bailey said. ‘I print them. Just like I’ll be printing yours.’
‘What?’ A look of horror fell on Chrystal’s face. ‘You’re not interviewing me? This is outrageous.’
‘You made yourself a part of the interview, Chrystal. And I warned you that everything was on the record. If you’re as brave as you say you are, I’m sure your clients won’t mind.’
‘You can’t. You won’t.’
‘I know my way out from here,’ Bailey said. ‘You should go check on Strong. Poor bastard sounds really crook.’
* * *
It was 11.30 pm by the time Bailey made it back home.
He was wide awake so he decided to stay up and transcribe his interview with Strong.
As he thumbed through his phone to find the recording, he noticed a bunch of messages that he’d missed on Signal.
All of them from Harriet Walker.
Got something for you. Meet me 8 pm tonight. Glebe. Eastern end of the park by the water near Jubilee Park playground.
She’d sent another message twenty minutes later.
Bailey? It’s getting late. Are we on tonight?
The last message came in at 7.30 pm.
I’m guessing you’re caught up. 8 am tomorrow. Same place. Glebe. I’ll check my messages tomorrow morning first thing. Please confirm.
Bailey typed a response.
Sorry, Hat. Missed these messages. Confirming 8 am tomorrow. I’ll be there.
The speed with which Walker had gotten back to him only hardened Bailey’s earlier suspicions that she had already been looking into right-wing extremists. That she may be involved in an active investigation. The video that Bailey had given Walker had prompted her to try to arrange another meeting with him the same day. She must have found something.
The dog had sidled up beside Bailey, sniffing his legs.
‘All right, Campo.’ He patted her on the head. ‘Looks like we’re walking in Glebe tomorrow.’
The dog responded with an expressionless stare.
CHAPTER 11
ANNIE
THURSDAY
Annie Brooks loved being back at work.
Unfortunately, the tabloid media had been excited for her too. Not everyone was playing nice. One gossip columnist had ridiculed her return to a reporting role in commercial television, questioning whether she was even up to the task. But the criticism only strengthened her resolve to succeed.
Annie loved being on the road. Breaking stories
. Chasing leads. It beat the shit out of sitting in an air-conditioned studio, reading an autocue filled with hyperbolic sentences written by ratings-obsessed producers. Being fussed over by makeup artists and stylists to ensure that she looked like someone that viewers could trust. Someone everyday Australians would invite into their homes.
Annie had presented the six o’clock news for almost fifteen years before the network had decided to ‘bone’ her. When the wrinkles around her eyes meant that – as one TV executive had shamelessly put it – she wasn’t ‘fuckable’ enough any more. Her sacking had initially come as a shock. But Annie had departed with so much cash in her bank account that she hadn’t been in any rush to even contemplate what she’d do next.
That next step came in an unlikely telephone call from Bill Russell, the executive producer of Inside Story, a nightly current affairs program on a rival network to the one from which Annie had been sacked.
‘How would you like to go back on the road?’ Bill had asked in that first phone call. ‘It’s a reporter gig. I don’t need a new presenter. But it’s what you always loved doing.’
Annie hadn’t needed long to think about it. She’d already been out of work for more than a year by the time Bill called. She and Bill had worked together years ago. She trusted him and he was right, her first love had always been ‘the chase’. Before being offered the gig to present the six o’clock news – which no reporter could ever turn down – Annie had worked as a correspondent all around the world. Beirut. London. Los Angeles. She’d started her reporting career in Sydney, which was exactly the job that Bill was offering her now, albeit for a current affairs show, rather than the nightly news, meaning she had the freedom to do some investigative reporting and not just chase police cars and ambulances around.
But there was a catch.
‘When I ask you to do crime, I don’t want any complaints. Got it?’
That was Bill’s only caveat for the role. After all, this was commercial television.
‘Okay, Bill. But I want the investigative reporting stuff in writing.’
‘Done.’
Annie had been in the role for three months already and it hadn’t been crime stories dominating her time. It was bushfires. In November, she had held the hands of traumatised residents in refuge centres before going with them to see what was left after the fires had ripped through their towns. It was the same story everywhere she went. Carnage. Memories burnt to cinders. Fires moving so fast that people had barely had time to get out.
The fires kept spreading across Australia in December and by New Year’s Eve, it seemed like half the country was on fire. The south coast of New South Wales was particularly bad and Annie had become trapped by a wall of flames glowing in the hills. Ash so thick that day became night. In one town, the panicked residents had driven their cars into a lake to escape the flames. Others sheltered on beaches as the growling bushfire devoured everything in its path. Almost two hundred houses had been lost in one coastal district alone. Cars. Sheds. Businesses. Livestock. Wild animals that had nowhere to run. The people who’d decided to defend their homes. Some of them hadn’t stood a chance. Decimated.
It was the fourth week of January and Annie had been back in Sydney for a week. Bill had given her a few days off after the latest fires. Now he wanted her back at work.
‘I need you to go and check out a dead body washed up on the sand at Maroubra,’ Bill had told her on the phone an hour ago.
‘Really, Bill? A drowning?’
Annie hadn’t bothered to hide the frustration in her voice. She was tired and the constant smell of smoke in the city, seeping through doors and windows, had left her on edge after her long stint on the fire front. It was like she was still there, walking through the ashes of someone’s home.
‘Cops are being coy. Could be more to it. And no complaints, remember? This is the first potential crime yarn I’ve sent you on.’
Annie relented, eager to suppress the diva inside. Think about something other than bushfires. Work also countered the other thing threatening her stability. Vodka. The ups and downs of a reporter’s life had made her vulnerable again. She hadn’t had a drink for almost a year and it was all she’d been thinking about. She’d even gone back to Alcoholics Anonymous. Two meetings in three days. Seen off the demon. Working would at least help keep it at bay.
‘Okay, Bill.’
‘Fletch’s already on his way. He’ll meet you there.’
Todd Fletcher. The cameraman. The guy who’d spent the last few months filming flames and burnt homes with Annie. Fletch had barely had time to catch his breath and reacquaint himself with his wife and two young kids after the shit they’d seen. But getting back to work on a story other than the fires was probably good for the both of them.
* * *
It was only 8.30 am and most of the car spots were taken along the esplanade at Maroubra Beach. Annie found a spot in front of the surf school, hopping out and heading straight for the police car and the ambulance parked up on the footpath.
Reporters from the networks and the ABC were already there, talking in front of cameras for the breakfast shows. Annie stepped around them, careful not to disrupt their shots, trying to get a look in the back of the ambulance, its rear doors wide open. Empty. The body must still be on the beach.
She kept walking around the pavilion towards the water, spying a white tent on the sand closer to the shoreline. Cops standing around. Two uniforms. A guy in a suit facing the water.
‘Annie!’
She turned around to see Fletch walking towards her, his trademark Wests Tigers cap on, balancing his camera on his shoulder.
‘Hey, Fletch.’ She smiled, nodding her chin. ‘Get some rest?’
Fletch laughed. ‘Two toddlers at home and a sleep-deprived missus. This is how I rest. Next question?’
‘I remember those days.’ Annie smiled, thinking back to when Louis was small. When he talked instead of grunted. Teenagers. ‘Must have been good to see them.’
‘Too right.’
Annie pointed towards the white tent by the water. ‘Looks like the body’s still on the sand. I’m going to wander down and take a look.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘Get some sequences in the can. Not sure there’s a story here for us yet. Bill obviously thinks there might be. If the cops talk on camera, it’ll be an all-in. Grab some cutaways.’
‘Okay.’
Annie bent down, slipping off her shoes, stepping onto the sand, the sturdy grains oddly cool as her toes cut through the warm surface layer. The tide must have been going out with the forensics tent erected so close to the shoreline. Annie figured the police had at least a few hours to inspect the body where it washed up before the tide came back in.
The two officers in uniform – one male, one female – were keeping watch on either side of the tent, mostly to keep gawkers and the media away. The cop in plain clothes had disappeared inside the tent. Annie could hear voices, but she couldn’t see inside the tent because the opening faced the sea.
She walked over to the male officer with the buzz cut, figuring that she had a better chance of getting information from him than the woman.
‘How’s it going?’ She smiled, charmingly. Old habit.
‘This is a crime scene, madam. We’re asking people to… to… to keep away from the area, please.’
The guy stumbled mid-sentence as he recognised the person standing in front of him as the woman who used to read the six o’clock news. It happened to Annie all the time. Some news anchors looked so different without their makeup that they had no problem hiding in plain sight. Not Annie Brooks. Her chiselled cheekbones and Nordic eyes made her stand out in any crowd. And even with the wrinkles that had led to her sacking, she was still gorgeous.
‘You’re Annie Brooks, right?’
Annie smiled. ‘Yeah. In a previous life.’
‘Didn’t like the way they treated you. My folks switched stations after that.’
‘I guess so,’ he said, relaxing somewhat. ‘Live around here, do you?’
‘No. I’m working. Saw the tent, came down to take a look.’ She paused, hesitantly, knowing that this was the moment when she needed to change up, chase information. But Annie was rusty, second-guessing herself. ‘Who found the body?’
No turning back now.
‘Couple of tourists sleeping on the beach,’ he said, unperturbed. ‘They were going for a swim. Spotted her just as the sun was coming up.’
Her.
‘Know who it is?’
The cop baulked, suddenly remembering that he was talking to a journalist. ‘I… who are you working for these days?’
‘Inside Story,’ Annie said.
‘Annie?’
A bloke in a brown suit with fraying cuffs emerged from the tent, followed by a woman in a hazmat suit who knelt down beside an open suitcase, bagging whatever it was she’d just scraped from the body in the sand.
Annie recognised him at once. Detective Greg Palmer.
‘Greg.’
Palmer stepped around the tent and walked over to where Annie was standing beside the young guy in uniform.
‘Been a while. Saw you down Eden way during the fires. On the television. Back on the road, eh?’
‘Yeah.’
Annie had first met Greg Palmer in the nineties when she was a crime reporter. Police contacts were everything on that round and Palmer had been good to her, giving her the type of tip-offs that commercial television loved to package up and lead the news. Stabbings. Shootings. Drug arrests. Tip-offs that made the police look good and got guys like Palmer some box tickets at the cricket or backstage passes at a concert. All part of the back-scratching exercise that gave the police good headlines and the nightly news good stories.
‘What do you know?’ Annie defaulted to the expectation of goodwill from a decades-old relationship. ‘Accident or something else?’