by Tim Ayliffe
But Bailey didn’t think Anderson was a killer. Other than that, he didn’t know what to believe.
There was a noise in the bushes that made both of them shudder.
‘Probably just a possum.’
Possum or not, Anderson looked like he was readying to leave.
‘I’m staying out of sight, but you’ll hear from me again. The people who messed up my house were looking for something – something that will bring Page down.’
‘Something that’ll back this theory of yours?’
‘Documents.’
‘Any chance you were planning on passing them to me?’
‘Sorry, Bailey. That information stays with me – for now.’
‘Then what am I doing here?’
‘I wanted to meet you. Decide if I could trust you.’
‘And?’
‘I’ve got to go.’ Anderson started walking up the hill.
‘When will I hear from you?’
‘I’ll contact you when I need to.’ He stopped on the track. ‘And Bailey?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I didn’t even see Catherine that night. I’m sure the autopsy will point to it as the night she was killed. She wouldn’t let me in. Too drunk, she’d said.’
‘That’s going to be difficult to prove.’ Especially if Anderson was seen going into the building. But Bailey didn’t want to tell him something he already knew.
Anderson walked back so that he was standing face to face with Bailey.
‘Maybe. I sat on her buzzer, talking into the intercom, trying to get her to open the door.’
‘And?’
‘She wouldn’t. So I kept hitting random buttons until, finally, someone let me in.’
‘Then what’d you do?’
‘Banged on her front door. She refused to open it. Told me to go home.’ Anderson’s voice was quivering again. ‘Something wasn’t right . . . I never should have left her.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard a male voice inside. I know what you’re going to say – could’ve been a client. But I’m the only one she let into her home. She was a pretty girl – she wasn’t stupid. Someone else was there. That’s who the cops should be looking for.’
‘Let’s hope they work that bit out for themselves.’ Bailey was thinking about Dexter.
‘Yeah. Let’s hope.’
Anderson walked up the path and into the darkness.
CHAPTER 8
Bailey’s phone was flashing and vibrating on the table beside his bed. It was the sixth call that woke him. When he saw the name on the screen, he knew he had to answer.
‘Gerald.’ Bailey’s voice sounded like a car skidding on a dirt road.
‘Bailey! Where the fuck have you been and why haven’t you been returning my fucking phone calls?’ Gerald abhorred foul language. The fact that he had sworn – twice – left Bailey in no doubt that he was furious.
‘I can explain, mate –’
‘Don’t you fucking mate me!’
Three.
Gerald wasn’t interested in Bailey’s excuses.
‘Gerald, calm down.’ Bailey instantly regretted trying to appease him. Don’t poke the beast.
‘Don’t you fucking tell me to calm down!’
Four.
Bailey’s throat was dry, he had a throbbing headache and Gerald’s voice was pounding his brain like a boxer.
‘I’ve been trying to speak to you ever since you disappeared yesterday afternoon – and what is Ronnie Johnson doing in Sydney? I need to know what’s going on, and I need to know now!’
‘Okay.’ Hangover or not, there was no avoiding Gerald this morning. ‘We can’t talk on the phone.’
‘I know,’ Gerald said. ‘I’m standing outside your front door. Let me in.’
It was seven o’clock in the morning. Bailey had managed to sleep for another couple of hours after the long drive back from Palm Beach.
He grabbed the empty bottle of whisky from his bedside table and dropped it in the garbage on his way to the front door. Gerald didn’t need to know everything about last night.
‘Good morning.’
Gerald charged past Bailey and into the house without saying a word. He was walking from room to room, a manic look on his face, as if he was searching for something. Or someone.
‘Gerald? What are you doing?’
‘Not here.’ He was flustered. ‘Get some clothes on. We’re going out.’
Bailey looked down at his bare chest and the comfort layer concealing his six-pack. At least he was wearing boxer shorts. ‘Give me a minute.’ He disappeared into his bedroom to throw on some clothes.
Gerald was in a hurry. He marched out of Bailey’s house, almost knocking over the tired, dehydrated fern in a pot by the front door, and up the street. Bailey trailed after him, squinting and rubbing his eyes, adapting to the morning light.
The traffic started early in Sydney and a steady stream of cars was flowing down Oxford Street. The smell of freshly ground coffee was wafting from nearby cafés, their machines already humming to cater for the morning rush. It was a work day and, apart from a few random hipsters staggering home from a night out, most of the foot traffic belonged to the bankers and lawyers racing to be the first good soldier at work.
A stroll in the cool morning air should have been good for Bailey’s hangover. But he didn’t need exercise, he needed sleep, and the smell of coffee was taunting him.
‘C’mon, Gerald.’ Bailey was struggling to keep pace. ‘Are you going to say something?’
Gerald was looking over his shoulder, nervously, as he led them up the street towards Centennial Park. When they reached the gates, he gestured for Bailey to walk in first. Always the gentleman.
‘What were you doing back at my place?’ Bailey tried a different tack.
‘I don’t know what we’re getting into, but it’s something . . . something big.’
He steered them away from the early birds exercising on the jogging track and onto the lush grass towards the cover of the evergreen oaks and Australian fig trees that towered throughout the park.
The cold morning dew was seeping into Bailey’s shoes and dampening his socks, adding to his discomfort. ‘I could’ve told you that back at my place over a bloody coffee!’
Gerald stopped by the trees. ‘I was checking your house to see that you didn’t have company. God knows, you often do!’
Bailey didn’t bother responding to that one. He couldn’t deny it. The only constants in his dysfunctional life were women and booze.
‘And stop asking questions,’ Gerald said. ‘You’ll get your turn.’
Gerald’s beige trenchcoat was buttoned so that the top of his blue tie and white shirt could be seen beneath. No matter what time of day, he was always dressed like he was headed somewhere important. But he looked even more rattled than the day before – so Bailey waited.
Eventually, Gerald took off his glasses and massaged the corners of his eyes. ‘The police commissioner dropped by my house last night.’
‘He what?’
‘Around ten o’clock,’ Gerald said. ‘Rude prick rang the doorbell and woke Nancy.’
‘He’s off the Christmas card list, like me, I presume?’
‘Nancy loves you, Bailey, you know that.’ Gerald was calming down. ‘She just doesn’t trust you.’
‘Smart woman. I’ve always said it.’
‘Anyway, Davis wanted privacy, said he had something important to tell me. So I pour two glasses of whisky and we sit in the study.’
‘I think I know where this is going,’ Bailey said.
‘Probably. But let me finish.’
‘Go on, then.’
‘He starts asking me questions. What do we know about the Catherine Chamberlain case? Who’ve we spoken to? Have the neighbours told us anything about what they saw?’
‘Isn’t that what the cops are supposed to be doing?’
‘That’s what I said, but Davis laughed it off, said he knows how thorou
gh reporters can be. He suggested we should share information from time to time.’
‘Eh?’
‘Then he goes on this weird tangent.’ There was no one within a hundred metres of where they were standing amongst the trees, but Gerald had lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘ “Gerald,” he says, “I want to share something with you. I want to tell you – off the record – that I’m going to be running for the seat of Grayndler in a by-election later this year –”’
‘Why’s he telling you?’
‘No idea.’
‘Isn’t that Doug Smith’s seat?’ Politics wasn’t Bailey’s thing, but he knew enough. ‘I didn’t even know he was standing down. I guess he must be in his seventies now.’
‘Doesn’t matter. It’s the blue-collar heartland and Davis is assured the win if he gets preselected. Good story too, although we can’t print it yet.’
Bailey’s eyes wandered to the morning mist drifting across the lake in the middle of the park. He could just make out a parade of ducks waddling across the road, forcing a fluorescent peloton of lycra-clad cyclists to stop. Everyone was into cycling, it seemed. Bailey smirked at the thought of the rounding middle-aged men sitting around in their matching spandex, sipping coffee after barely raising a sweat on their minted bicycles.
‘Bailey! Are you even listening to me?’ Gerald was clicking his fingers.
‘No offence, but is this why you got me out of bed?’ Bailey said.
Gerald sighed. ‘No, dummy, there’s more. I also expect you have a few stories of your own, or you wouldn’t have been screening my bloody calls for most of yesterday.’
‘When you’re done delivering War and Peace.’
Gerald ignored the jibe. ‘Davis tells me he’s already started raising money for his campaign and that, with Gary Page’s help, he’s going to pick up one of the safest Labor seats in Sydney.’
‘Okay, Page’s involved, it’s getting more interesting.’
‘He wouldn’t tell me much more. We all know Page is the numbers man for the New South Wales left faction, and Grayndler falls into that category.’
‘And?’
‘Just when I thought he was about to leave, he asks whether we – The Journal – had had any contact with Michael Anderson.’
‘What’d you say?’
‘Of course not! But what do I know? I’m just the editor. Are you about to tell me something different?’
‘And why would you think that?’
‘Because David Davis asked me whether I’d spoken to you recently, and whether you had been speaking to Anderson.’ Gerald was pointing his finger at Bailey as he spoke. ‘It was a direct question. Why would he ask me that?’
‘Let’s back up a minute. Why would Davis directly connect Anderson to Catherine Chamberlain in a conversation with you? He must’ve been talking with Page.’
‘I’m getting to that –’
‘What did you say about me?’ Bailey could see that Gerald had had enough of the interruptions.
‘I told him that neither of us had heard from Anderson.’
‘Good answer.’
‘He tells me that if we do hear from Anderson, we’d better pass that information on to the police immediately.’
‘Give a reason?’
‘They’re preparing to charge him with murder. Davis said he was happy to give us the jump on the story – a downpayment, he called it, for later.’ Gerald looked like he felt grubby repeating the words. ‘They’re releasing a statement in an hour.’
It was Bailey’s turn now.
‘That’s why Davis decided to pay a visit to your house – he wants you to print it. Anderson was expecting as much.’
‘So, you have spoken with him?’
Bailey was thumbing through his phone until he had The Journal’s website open. Michael Anderson’s photo was on the front page – ‘Wanted for Murder’. There was no byline on the story.
‘Who’d you get to write it?’
‘I wrote it. I told you I wanted you on this, so I left my name off it. I didn’t want to confuse our readers, or your sources.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Which brings me back to Anderson. When did you speak to him?’
‘Last night – actually, only a few hours ago.’ Trust was the bedrock of Bailey’s relationship with Gerald, he wouldn’t hold anything back. ‘Met him up at Palm Beach. The guy’s scared shitless.’
‘You’ve been busy.’
‘Too busy.’
‘Yeah, well, it’s about time.’
‘There’s so much we don’t know. Anderson’s got some theories that, if true, will destroy the careers and lives of many people.’
‘What’d he say?’
Bailey recounted Anderson’s theories about Gary Page and his secret meetings with Ambassador Li Chen.
Bailey could see his friend’s expression change as his mind processed the ramifications. ‘We can’t tell anyone about this, Bailey. Not until there’s proof. Even then, I don’t know if it’s something that we could ever fully substantiate. Where’s Anderson now?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me – the bloke’s terrified. He says he’ll contact me again.’ Although Bailey wasn’t certain that he would. ‘He says he has documents.’
‘Documents?’
The word sounded like something else when Gerald repeated it. It sounded like proof.
‘Didn’t say much, only that they’re damaging. Not just for Page; the government too.’
‘And there’s that other thing that’s been bothering me,’ Gerald said.
‘Which is?’
‘Ronnie Johnson.’
Bailey smiled. ‘It’s been a while.’
‘Sure has. And a CIA agent doesn’t just drop by to say hello.’
‘No, he doesn’t. Ronnie reckons he’s working for the US ambassador on his security detail.’
‘Yeah, right.’
They both knew Ronnie Johnson about as well as anyone gets to know a man like him. Enough to know that he always had an agenda. Ronnie also had a habit of arriving at a place either just before the bombs landed, or immediately afterwards to clean up the mess. He was also the world’s best liar.
‘The Yanks are good at listening in. Careful what you tell him,’ Gerald said. ‘And keep him close.’
But Bailey was already thinking about the next dig. ‘I need to speak to Dexter about her boss.’
‘Careful, Bailey.’ Gerald lowered his voice again. ‘We’re back in the corridors of power and we’re the expendable ones.’
‘Just like old times.’
CHAPTER 9
The pocket of Bailey’s coat was vibrating as he walked down Oxford Street towards his house. It was a text message from Miranda.
Dad are we still on for breakfast? xx
Bailey hated the touchscreen on his phone because his fat fingers could never hit the right letters. As a stubborn old journalist, he also didn’t like a machine subbing his work so he refused to activate the auto-correct program. He could live with the typos and figured others could too.
Og vourse, sweethest. See yoi at 8.
He had just enough time to shower and put on some clean clothes. The walk with Gerald had fixed his hangover, and the excitement of working on the type of story that had once helped to define his career made him forget about his lack of sleep. He was running on adrenalin and his hunger for answers was growing.
But nothing would make him cancel his breakfast with Miranda. The rehabilitation of John Bailey was reliant upon winning back the love of his daughter.
Ralph’s Espresso Bar in North Bondi was one of those cafés where all the trendy kids wanted to work. Places like this barely existed when Bailey was young, and they certainly weren’t called bars. That was just misleading.
The décor looked like it had been salvaged from a decrepit Balinese restaurant. Pinewood tables, aluminium chairs, and walls adorned with obscure artwork and photography created by local artists and fixed with obscene price tags.<
br />
It was a weekday morning and the café was already packed with beautiful people – the tanned and tattooed – enjoying a slow start to the day, while others tapped away on laptop keyboards in their mobile workplace, which was anywhere these days.
Everything about Ralph’s bothered Bailey, not least the juicer vibrating loudly on the counter, churning vegetables he had never heard of, like kale.
He spotted Miranda sitting at a table by the window. She had chosen the café so he would pretend to love it.
‘You look beautiful.’ Bailey always greeted his daughter with a compliment. It was his way of addressing the burning guilt of the lost years.
Miranda was dressed in a slim-fitting navy suit, looking every bit the corporate lawyer. Luckily, she had inherited her mother’s looks – blonde hair, blue eyes and the body of an athlete.
The male eyes in the room followed her as she stood up from the table she had reserved with a view of the ocean and kissed her father on the cheek. The sun was flickering on the water and it was one of those days that made Sydney seem like the best city in the world. But the view outside was lost on Bailey.
‘Dad, if I was thirty kilos heavier and dressed like a goth you’d tell me I looked beautiful.’
‘That’s true,’ he said. These catch-ups were getting less uncomfortable with time.
‘I was in the Middle East during your gothic phase. I missed all the black outfits and piercings.’ Bailey regretted harking back to the years when he wasn’t around and tried to recover with a joke. ‘How’re those tattoos?’
‘Very funny. I was always too straight for rebellion. All you missed out on were the teenage mood swings. Probably more frightening, actually. My arguments with Mum were legendary.’
‘How is your mum?’ Bailey wasn’t about to admit that he’d called around to Anthea’s place, drunk, the night before. Miranda and her mother were tight.
‘She’s great. Ian may be a boring banker, but he’s good to her. One extreme to the other, when you think about it.’
‘Fair enough.’
The expression on his face gave him away.
‘Dad.’ Miranda reached out and held his hand across the table. ‘I’m joking.’
‘I know, sweetheart.’