by Tim Ayliffe
Palmer looked from Annie to the guy in uniform, a split second to check that the rookie cop hadn’t told Annie anything he wasn’t authorised to share. The young buck shook his head, sheepishly.
‘You know you can’t be here.’ Palmer turned serious all of a sudden. A scowl that made Annie feel unwelcome. ‘You’ve got to go.’
‘C’mon, Greg.’ Annie scrunched her toes, digging them into the sand, holding her ground.
‘Sorry, Annie.’ Palmer stepped towards her, touching her elbow, pointing towards the esplanade. ‘I’m going to need to show you the door on this one. Too early.’
Annie shrugged. ‘Can’t criticise a girl for trying.’
Palmer turned to the young bloke. ‘Left my smokes in the car. I’ll escort Ms Brooks off the beach. Don’t let anyone else near this tent. And no more chatty chatty. Got it?’
The guy nodded, his cheeks flushing red.
Annie and Palmer walked side by side in silence. When they were well out of earshot, Annie thought she’d give it one more go. ‘Not an accident then, hey, Greg?’
‘That’s my hunch. Pretty early, though,’ Palmer said, pulling a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, sparking one. ‘Want one?’
‘No, thanks. Gave up. Thought you’d left them in the car?’
‘Can’t talk in front of the young ones,’ Palmer said, catching her eye for a second and then looking ahead towards the concrete steps. ‘Different world these days. He’d probably fucking report me.’
‘So what can you tell me?’
‘Off the record?’ Palmer stopped at the top of the stairs.
‘Of course,’ Annie said. ‘I just want to know if there’s a story for me here. Or not.’
‘You’ve got a story, all right. Not today. But worth a dig.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘We’ve got an ID.’
Annie didn’t expect this much. Not so soon, anyway.
‘And?’
‘Harriet Walker.’
The name didn’t ring a bell.
‘Who’s she?’
‘AFP. Someone senior.’
‘How do you know that much about her already?’
Palmer’s phone started vibrating and he pulled it from his pocket, showing Annie the screen. Number withheld.
‘Because my phone has been fucking ringing every five minutes from people I don’t know.’
‘Feds?’
Palmer shrugged, his face scrunching, annoyed. ‘I need to take this. Name’s under wraps till you hear from me.’
Annie dug a business card from her handbag, handing it to Palmer. ‘Let me know.’
He took the card, slipping it into his pocket as he answered his phone and started walking in a different direction.
Annie watched him for a moment, wanting to listen to his side of the conversation but thinking better of snooping. Palmer had already given her more than she’d expected. She needed to respect that, give him some space.
She headed back towards the ambulance where a policeman had just finished briefing the throng of media. She spotted Fletch lowering his camera from his shoulder. She caught his eye and pointed to the carpark. Then she pulled her phone from her pocket, dialling Bill.
He answered after two rings. ‘Saw it on the television –’
‘Bill.’
‘Doesn’t sound like much.’
‘Bill.’
‘Sorry for the goose chase.’ Bill kept talking, oblivious to Annie’s attempts to interrupt him. ‘There was just something about this one. My gut talking to me. Maybe I’m losing my edge.’
‘Bill!’ Annie spoke so loudly that a guy walking past almost dropped his surfboard. ‘Can you just stop talking for a second?’
‘Right. Sorry, Annie. What is it?’
‘I got a name.’
‘And?’
‘Not on the phone. There’s a story here. Not sure what. But there’s a story.’
‘I knew it!’
Did you, now? Annie thought to herself as she hung up. Bloody producers.
CHAPTER 12
It wasn’t like Commander Harriet Walker to be late. A few minutes, maybe. But not the thirty-five minutes that Bailey had been waiting in Jubilee Park. Soon to be thirty-six.
He tried her phone again. This time a call, rather than a text. Voicemail. Something must have come up. He’d give her until 8.45 am and then he was leaving. Nine more minutes.
The edge of the harbour was only fifty metres away and Bailey and Campo had been walking laps on the dewy grass to the edge of the water and back to the playground, where tired parents with takeaway coffees were pushing kids on swings and swapping sleep stories. Bailey could feel their eyes on him too. The middle-aged man loitering by a playground. It was lucky he had Campo with him or they probably would have already called the cops.
Six more minutes.
Bailey couldn’t remember the last time he’d ventured down to this part of Glebe and he was observing his surroundings as if he were a painter plotting a canvas.
The giant Moreton Bay fig with hulking branches that stretched across the children’s playground, casting twisting shadows across the manicured grass that had somehow maintained its green tinge in the dry. The neatly paved pathways cutting through the park along the harbour’s edge. The pram pushers. Dog walkers. Power-walking women striding, purposefully, in lycra, talking on their mobile phones. A running group, its members ignoring the shitty air, sweating it out together in shiny sneakers. A man in a suit riding a motorised scooter, a leather satchel strung over his shoulder.
At the western end of Jubilee Park, Bailey could see the white picket fence of the old cricket ground and the light rail station on the hill. Further round was the Tramsheds complex which didn’t house trams any more. The building had been converted into a place for upmarket restaurants and bars for the residents of the million-dollar apartments that had been built on the site of the old Harold Park Raceway.
When did gritty Glebe become so busy? So shiny? So trendy?
‘C’mon, Campo.’ Bailey tugged on the leash. ‘One more lap and then we might call it a day.’
Bailey was thumbing through his phone as he walked, checking news headlines. One story caught his attention. The Journal had just published another story about the attack on Matthew Lam at the White Lion Hotel. Rachel Symonds hadn’t pulled punches, especially with the headline.
WITNESSES SAY SYDNEY PUB ASSAULT DRIVEN BY RACISM
Everything that Bailey and Jonny Abdo had told Symonds was in the story. The masked men storming in, racially taunting a group of people inside, one of them fighting back. Punches thrown. The fact that the unnamed victim remained in an induced coma.
The story also had some information that Bailey hadn’t expected to see in print. Not yet, anyway.
Police are investigating a possible link between the violent assault and an event held nearby earlier that evening by the controversial American polemicist, Augustus Strong.
The group of people attacked at the White Lion Hotel had taken part in a demonstration outside Mr Strong’s event in Surry Hills. Police believe the attackers may also have attended Mr Strong’s talk.
By the time Bailey had finished his latest circuit, the clock on his phone told him that it was 8.46 am. Still no word from Walker.
It was unlike her not to let him know that she’d been held up, but she was a senior commander in the AFP. Someone with an important job. She must have been needed elsewhere.
* * *
The drive back across the city was slow-going, which meant that Bailey had plenty of time to listen to the radio. He was flicking through stations, chasing news headlines, when he stumbled across a familiar voice. Augustus Strong. And he was talking to Bailey’s least favourite shock-jock, Keith Roberts.
‘You’re a bloody hero, Augustus. I’m just going to call it out. Let my dear listeners know what I think. Because it’s the truth. A bloody hero. A hero.’
Roberts’ praise gave Bailey one
more reason to dislike him, as if he needed another.
‘Well, that’s very kind of you to say, Keith.’
‘No, I mean it,’ Roberts gushed. ‘So much bloody political correctness. Say what you think. Say what you believe. Be proud of it, I say. There’s a lesson here for us all, dear listeners. Do not be cowed by the left-wing establishment. People like Augustus Strong are shining examples of that. It’s been so great to talk to you. When’s the next event?’
Bailey was relieved by the fact that it sounded like the interview was drawing to a close.
‘I’m heading to Brisbane tomorrow. I’ve got two talks there. Both sold out of course.’
Wanker.
‘And then I’m off to Adelaide.’
‘Good. Good. That’s great.’ Roberts was mumbling along, injecting praise. ‘Sold out, that’s great. That’s great.’
Having only caught the tail end of the interview, Bailey wondered whether Roberts had asked Strong about the story in The Journal. He probably hadn’t.
‘Thanks again for having me, I’ve really enjoyed our discussion. Not all of the Australian media has been so fair. It seems not everyone is open-minded enough to discuss the things that I really think are important and need to be aired. If there’s one lesson I want people to take from my visit, it’s the importance of free speech. The right to say whatever you want, wherever you want.’
‘Tell me, Augustus. Who hasn’t been giving you a fair go? I want to know. I think my listeners should know. Need to know. Free speech. That’s the point here. That’s the point. If we’re going to make this country great again, people need to share their views about the things we’ve talked about today. Immigration. What we teach in schools. Our way of life, protecting it. So tell me, Augustus. Who hasn’t given you a fair go?’
Here we go, thought Bailey. The arsehole was about to name him on Sydney radio.
‘I had an unfortunate encounter with a journalist called Bailey. John, I think was his first name. Last night.’
Roberts sighed into the microphone, stifling a laugh. ‘John Bailey, eh? Legendary war correspondent. I know him. Know him well. People know him. Left-wing mainstream media guy. People like him are the problem. Bunch of know-alls. Out of touch. They’re not listening to what real people out there are thinking. Politically bloody correct. Thank god for people like you, Augustus Strong. Keep up the good work. Thanks for joining me.’
‘Thanks.’
Bailey was livid. A public spray by Keith Roberts. It was almost too much.
He swung his car into a side street off Broadway, pulling into a loading zone. Hazard lights on. Bailey was about to make his first ever call to a talkback radio station.
Thumbing through his phone, he found the number to call via the radio station’s website, and he was immediately put on hold. After around five minutes, someone answered.
‘Street talk. What’s your comment or question for Keith?’
Street talk. Roberts was shameless.
‘It’s Vince from Sutherland,’ Bailey said. ‘I heard the interview with Augustus Strong. I just wanted to praise Keith for having him on. I want to ask Keith why our politicians won’t be more like Strong.’
‘Stand by, we’ll put you to air in a moment. Remember to turn down your radio and you’ll only have around thirty seconds on air with Keith. Okay?’
Bailey could almost hear the happiness in her voice. She’d gotten a good one for Roberts. A loyal sycophant who would tell him why he was so important to the world.
‘Got it.’
The radio station was blaring in Bailey’s ear – an advertising break – before Roberts was back, barking into the microphone.
‘Now, let’s take some calls. It’s time to hear from you. We’ve got Vince on the line from Sutherland. Vince, how are you?’
Bailey turned down his radio.
‘I’m good, Keith. Good. And sorry, not sure what happened there with your producer, it’s actually John Bailey calling. Y’know that left-wing mainstream media guy that you and Augustus Strong were just talking about?’
Roberts went quiet for a few seconds, before composing himself.
‘John Bailey. Great of you to call in.’
‘As a champion of free speech and all, I thought you’d allow me to respond to Mr Strong’s complaint about not being given a fair go.’
‘Of course. Of course.’
‘That’s great, Keith. Good on you.’
During the minutes that Bailey had been put on hold, he’d managed to calm himself down and think about what he’d say. He knew that he wouldn’t have long.
‘Your listeners may not have seen the footage of Augustus Strong giving a Nazi salute in America. In my interview with him last night, I simply asked him why he thought the Nazi salute was okay.’
‘I think that he was –’
‘Sorry, Keith. Remember, free speech? I was going to be allowed to say my piece.’
‘Yes, of course. Go on. Go on.’
‘Well, Mr Strong told me that he was making a joke. But the problem for him is that he made that salute at a gathering of white supremacists, one of whom has just been arrested by the FBI with a stockpile of weapons that he was allegedly about to use in a terrorist attack. That man’s name is Donald Sampson and there’s also a photograph of Augustus Strong and Sampson standing together with their arms around each other. Friends, it seems.’
‘Well, I think that… I think that…’
For the first time that Bailey could remember, Keith Roberts was struggling for words.
‘So, we’ve got a problem here, Keith.’ Bailey was speaking slowly now. Deliberate. ‘Mr Strong may be a champion of free speech. But could he also be a champion for racism? For white supremacists? For violence? I know you’re a big fan of his, so I thought I’d better ask those questions. Probably good for your listeners to hear your thoughts on that too. Thanks for having me on.’
Bailey hung up the phone and turned up the dial, catching his last few words on the radio. Then silence.
‘John Bailey makes some good points there. Good points. We’ll be back after this short break to discuss them.’
Bailey couldn’t help smiling as he did a U-turn, heading for home, switching off the radio, settling for silence for a while. He took a moment to think about the article he was writing. Maybe he’d ask Keith Roberts for an interview? To properly paint a picture of the rise of far right nationalism and interrogate the influence of people like Strong, Bailey also needed to explore the role of their public supporters. That is, if Roberts was still on the bandwagon.
By the time Bailey was turning into his street, his mind had returned to Harriet Walker.
She’d said she had something for him. Something important enough to ask for a meeting at night in a park only hours after he’d asked for her help. The fact that she had failed to turn up at the rescheduled meeting time of 8 am the next morning was starting to weigh on Bailey’s mind. It wasn’t like back in Afghanistan where she could lift an entire document, make copies, and hand them over in the back of a carpet shop. The Australian Federal Police Headquarters was a tight facility. Ears and eyes everywhere. If Harriet had bent the rules by accessing information that she wasn’t supposed to see, she could be in trouble.
The flashing lights and three police cars parked out front of Bailey’s house confirmed that something was wrong.
CHAPTER 13
‘Where are you?’
Bailey was speaking into his phone, holding it down so no one could see, not taking his eyes off the cavalcade of police vehicles that had latched onto his house like wasps clinging to their nest.
‘Why? Everything okay?’
The guy on the other end of the phone was Bailey’s oldest friend. The one guy that he trusted implicitly.
Gerald Summers.
‘Bailey?’
A policeman in a suit was standing in the middle of the road, staring in Bailey’s direction, checking a notebook in his hand, probably realising that
the crappy old station wagon stopped in the street was registered to the name of the same guy he was looking for.
‘Gerald, I need you to pop over to my place. Urgently.’
The policeman was walking in Bailey’s direction, pointing his finger, gesturing for Bailey to park his car.
‘What’s wrong, mate?’
‘Federal police. I’ve got three carloads of them parked out front of my house.’
The policeman was getting closer.
‘You what? What happened? What’s it about?’
‘I don’t know. Best not get into anything on the phone.’ The police officer was close enough for Bailey to see the whites of his eyes. His unfriendly glare. ‘Might also need a lawyer, old boy. How quick can you get here?’
‘Thirty minutes.’
Bailey hung up, knowing that Gerald would probably arrive in twenty-five. He was like that. Loyal. Gutsy. A man with a plan. It was why he had been the editor of Australia’s largest newspaper for so many years. Why he had published stories that had brought down governments, exposed secrets and lies.
Bailey switched off his phone, slipping it into his sock under his jeans, trying to think of another place he could hide it so that the police couldn’t confiscate it, if that was their plan.
Click.
Bailey opened his door just as the officer arrived at his window. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Are you John Llewelyn Bailey?’
Bailey stepped out onto the road, closing the door behind him.
‘Haven’t heard that name in a while.’
Llewelyn was his grandfather’s name and the only time it ever got used was when he was filling out official paperwork like travel documents and bank loans.
‘Are you John Llewelyn Bailey?’
‘I think you know the answer to that question, mate,’ Bailey said, not interested in making a friend.
‘This way please.’ He was pointing towards Bailey’s house and the heavy police presence out front.
‘You going to tell me what this is about?’