by Tim Ayliffe
He was drinking himself to sleep. When the bad dreams began to seep into his days, Bailey started opening a bottle at lunchtime. Then breakfast. It had always started with one drink. Just enough to numb the pain. Until just enough was never enough.
Somehow, Bailey had kept filing stories and maintaining the illusion for Gerald and the newspaper’s bosses in Sydney that everything was okay with their Europe correspondent. Only it wasn’t. The dismantling of John Bailey had begun.
For the next eight years, he bounced around Europe and the Middle East chasing stories, staying busy. He had thought about killing himself so many times that he’d lost count. But he never tried. He couldn’t do that to Miranda. Long-distance phone calls to his daughter and work were the only things that prevented him from going over the edge. In between stories, he drank.
The charade finally ended when Gerald found Bailey passed out at six-thirty in the morning in the foyer of his apartment complex in Maida Vale. There was dried vomit on his clothes and he looked and smelled like he had been living on the streets. One of Bailey’s neighbours had taped a scathing handwritten note to his chest to remind him that it was the third morning that week that he had failed to make it to his apartment on the second floor. Maida Vale was a nice area and the people who lived in the building didn’t appreciate drunks like him spoiling it.
Bailey didn’t deny that he was in trouble when Gerald confronted him. There was no point. He was actually relieved that his friend had seen it for himself. Blokes like Bailey didn’t talk about this stuff. They just got on with it. A few days later, he quietly packed his bags and boarded a flight to Sydney.
Get up, John. Get up!
Bailey could hear Mike’s voice and imagine his frowning face staring at him lying in the leaves.
What are you doing?
Bailey opened his eyes and looked up at the clouds, searching for the contours of his little brother’s face defined by the moonshine. He desperately wanted to find him, to hear him.
Stop bloody feeling sorry for yourself!
The stubbornness in Bailey had wanted to tell Mike to fuck off, only he knew he was right.
He rolled onto his side, the rustling of the leaves helping him to regain his focus and remind him what had just happened. He looked across the road and saw Gerald standing less than a hundred metres away at the front entrance of the gallery, hand on his forehead, looking out across the grounds of the Botanic Gardens.
Bailey may have lost Mike, but Gerald had his back. His brother born from another. He whistled to get his attention.
Gerald ran across the road and almost tripped on one of the large roots protruding from the ground at the base of the big oak tree.
‘Bailey! Are you okay? Are you hurt?’ He held out a hand to help him up off the ground.
Bailey could feel the blood trickling from his eyebrow and the sting from the cut on his lip. He had the metallic taste of blood in his mouth.
‘I think so.’
‘You’ve got a real knack for pissing people off, you know that?’
Gerald steadied him with his arms.
‘One of my many gifts.’
‘Here.’ Gerald handed him his crisp white pocket square.
‘Know who did this to you?’
‘Associates of that slick looking cretin inside with the ponytail. My best guess, anyway.’ He dabbed away at the cut on his lip.
‘Guido Carlos.’
‘Why do I know that name?’
‘Big property developer,’ Gerald said. ‘Gives loads of money to political parties – both sides – whoever’s winning.’
‘Man with principles.’
‘If you don’t know him. He must’ve been doing someone else a favour.’
‘Page.’
‘You sure?’
‘Saw them talking together. Page poking him in the chest like he was giving him instructions.’
Gerald brushed a few more leaves from Bailey’s shoulders and straightened his tie. ‘Been a while since you’ve had a beating like this in Sydney.’
‘Twenty-five years, give or take.’ Bailey coughed and spat a mouthful of blood on the grass. ‘The boys in blue back then.’
‘Sounds about right.’
‘Hard to forget,’ Bailey said. ‘The bad one at least. Wound up in hospital. Detached retina, dislocated shoulder and a few broken ribs. Those guys were bloody brutal. Makes this little touch-up look like a sports massage.’
Bailey brushed the last specks of leaves and grass from the arms of his jacket.
‘What’re you going to do now?’ said Gerald. ‘You can’t go back inside.’
‘I’m going to visit a prostitute.’
‘You’re what?’
‘Give me some credit,’ Bailey said. ‘A friend of Catherine Chamberlain. I told you about her, remember?’
‘Of course.’
‘Tell Sharon I got kicked out, would you? And spare her the details.’
‘Sure,’ Gerald said. ‘And, Bailey – be careful.’
The beating had dislodged something in Bailey. ‘Meet you at the office later. Reckon I might even have something to write by then.’ It had also helped him sober up, clear his head and remind him of the stubborn bastard inside. Bashing a guy like Bailey only hardened his resolve for answers.
‘This one has a long way to run yet.’ Gerald was sounding like the guarded newspaper editor. ‘Don’t get ahead of yourself.’
‘Can’t remember the last time I got ahead of myself,’ Bailey said. ‘But I’ve got an itch. I’m going to scratch it.’
CHAPTER 22
It was just after ten o’clock when Bailey wandered into the public bar at The Sheaf and ordered himself a whisky. He and Scarlett had been exchanging a few text messages and he’d sent her another from the taxi, hoping she was still around.
Her reply came through just as Bailey was ordering his second drink.
Be there in ten.
Bailey had become paranoid about being followed and with the meeting confirmed, he decided to turn off his phone. He was onto his third whisky by the time Scarlett walked through the door.
‘G’day, old timer.’ She sat down on a stool beside him.
‘Drink?’ Bailey waved to the girl behind the bar to come over.
‘Love one,’ she said. ‘Just knocked off. In desperate need of a cocktail.’
The girl from the bar winked at Scarlett. ‘What do you feel like, babe?’ She held out her hand and Scarlett took it for a few seconds before letting go.
‘Glass of water and a spritz? A naughty one.’
‘Do you know everyone who works here?’ Bailey said after the girl walked away.
‘Told you I’m a local.’ Scarlett swung her stool towards him. ‘Hey, what the hell happened to your face?’
‘Long story. I pissed off someone I shouldn’t have.’
‘They did a pretty good job on you.’
‘Looks worse than it is.’
‘Anything for me to worry about?’
‘No one knows I’ve even spoken to you, apart from my editor, Gerald, but he’s good at keeping secrets.’
‘Okay, reassured, slightly,’ she said. ‘Gerald? Posh name. Who calls their kid Gerald anyway?’
‘I’ve got no idea.’ Bailey liked her frankness. ‘And wait for the punchline. His surname’s Summers.’
‘You’re joking! My dad would’ve barred anyone with the name Gerald Summers from even entering our house!’
She took a sip of her Aperol spritz and let out a long sigh. ‘That’s good. She sure knows how to make them. Thanks, Chloe!’ Scarlett called out across the bar.
‘Now, why’d you want to meet?’ She put the tip of a napkin into her glass of water and started dabbing at the crusted blood on Bailey’s brow.
‘Really, I’m okay.’ He touched her arm in a way that told her not to bother. He liked that she cared, but he didn’t like being the focus of anyone’s attention.
‘Yeah, yeah.’ She pushed his arm out
of the way. ‘But, sorry, I’m not giving you a choice here. You look terrible. And I’m the one who has to sit next to you.’
‘Fair enough.’
He let her clean him up while he pulled out his phone and brought up a picture of David Davis.
‘Know him?’
Scarlett had moved on to Bailey’s eye and stopped to stare at the image. ‘Yeah, he’s a regular – a prick too.’
‘What else can you tell me?’
‘Not much. Didn’t have a favourite. Liked to mix it up and, like most men, he was paranoid about discretion.’
‘With good reason. Know who he is?’
‘Of course I do.’ Scarlett stopped dabbing his brow. ‘Let me tell you something, Mr Bailey, we know about all of our clients. I do the books with Francesca. We keep tabs on everyone. But privacy is our thing, along with our beauty and class.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It’s no wonder that smirk of yours gets you into trouble, old man.’ They were flirting, but like friends. ‘Seriously, the clients pay for everything when they come to Petals – and they get it.’
‘You’re not being so discreet now. Why?’ Bailey took another sip of his whisky.
‘As I said, David Davis is a prick. You don’t want details, but he’s not nice to girls.’ Her face drooped. ‘And there’s something else, something I was too afraid to tell you when we first met.’
‘Which is?’ Bailey put down his glass.
‘This guy Davis . . .’ Scarlett leaned closer to Bailey, lowering her voice. ‘He called in at Petals the other day.’
‘You mean he physically paid a visit? Why?’ He pushed his whisky glass away. It was time to stop drinking.
‘He wanted to see the log of client bookings from one night a week or so ago.’ Scarlett was whispering. ‘And he had a big argument with Francesca. Made all sorts of threats about shutting us down.’
The revelation raised more questions than answers for Bailey. The only real suspect he knew about was a dead Chinese student. He didn’t understand how, or where, Davis fitted in. He was a bastard, but that didn’t make him a killer. Having sex with prostitutes wasn’t a crime either. But Bailey knew how power corrupted, how it made monsters out of people. After tonight, he couldn’t rule anything out.
‘Another thing. Some cop, Rob someone, came round today with a warrant and took away the client logs anyway. So I guess Davis got what he wanted.’
‘Francesca hadn’t given in on the night?’
‘Stared him down like a matador.’
He was impressed. But he knew there was still one other suspect, the one everyone was looking for – Michael Anderson. And Bailey still hadn’t decided whether or not he could trust him.
‘Tell me more about Catherine’s relationship with Michael Anderson,’ Bailey said.
‘What d’you want to know?’
‘I don’t know – anything, everything.’
‘Well, they were both country kids, tough upbringings, single mums. I guess that’s one of the things that made them close.’
‘What else?’
‘I can’t tell you much about Michael, but Catherine was a tough cookie. Grew up in Wagga Wagga. Couldn’t wait to get out of there. Her mum was a druggie. In the beginning she was paying her way through uni working in bars, cleaning, whatever she could get.’
‘How’d she end up working at Petals?’
‘She served a drink to Francesca one night in the city and discovered she’d make more in a night than she would in a week doing what she was doing. And that was that. Anyway, her grand plan was to have enough money set aside so that she could quit Petals later this year, especially because things were getting serious with Michael.’
‘So you don’t think it could have been Anderson who –’
‘No way. He’s not a killer. Then again, what do I know?’
‘A lot more than me.’ Bailey slid off his stool, preparing to leave. ‘I’ve got to head off. Thanks for meeting me.’
‘You haven’t even finished your drink.’
‘Work to do. And don’t worry, I’ve finished enough drinks for a lifetime.’ Bailey placed a fifty-dollar note on the bar. ‘Next one’s on me.’
‘You’re too good, old man.’ She took another sip of her drink.
‘Stop calling me that. I’ll get a complex.’
Bailey was limping slightly as he walked out of the pub. The pain from the beating was kicking in.
CHAPTER 23
Bailey didn’t feel safe going home. He’d been bashed, his house had been ransacked and he suspected his home, his phone and probably even his car were all bugged. He needed to find out everything he could about David Davis and Gary Page. The best place to do that was at The Journal. And he had promised Gerald he’d meet him there.
‘Evening, Mick.’ He nodded at the security guy on the front desk.
‘Good to see you, Mr Bailey.’ Mick had been working at the paper for the past three years. He was a family man who liked the night hours, not just for the penalty rates, but for the afternoons and mornings he got to spend with his kids.
‘Must be something going on in the world tonight, hey, Mr Bailey?’
‘What do you mean?’ He paused at the elevator without hitting the button.
‘Mr Summers is upstairs, has a woman with him I didn’t recognise and . . .’ Mick stopped mid-sentence.
‘Don’t worry, Mick – Gerald isn’t the type.’ Bailey wanted to reassure him that he hadn’t just breached the boss’s privacy. ‘I think I know who’s with him.’
‘Thanks, Mr Bailey. And one more thing.’
‘Yep?’
‘Someone’s been calling for you. Penelope’s put a note on your desk.’
‘Better get up there.’
Bailey grabbed the note stuck to his computer screen, shoved it in his pocket and walked through the newsroom to Gerald’s office. His boss was rocking back in his chair, sipping a glass of whisky and staring out the window.
‘Anything out there, old boy?’
Same old joke.
Gerald hadn’t heard Bailey walk in and he jolted in his chair.
‘Mate!’ He spun around and sat upright. ‘You okay?’
Bailey touched the cut above his eye. ‘A few bumps on the head, couple of sore ribs. Otherwise in pretty good nick.’
Gerald got up and wandered over to the silver platter on the sideboard in the corner of his office. ‘Drink?’
‘Black coffee for me.’ Bailey couldn’t remember the last time he’d turned down a whisky. It made him feel strong and in control. ‘Got some work to do.’
If Gerald was surprised, he didn’t show it. He dropped a capsule into his fancy espresso machine and watched it produce a long black for Bailey, while he poured himself something stronger.
‘Mind if I do?’ He jiggled the ice in his glass and handed Bailey his mug of coffee.
‘Not at all, old boy. Usually the other way round.’
It was approaching midnight and both men were tired.
‘Where’s Sharon?’ Bailey had figured the woman with Gerald was Dexter.
‘Bathroom.’
On cue, she walked back into the office.
‘Bailey! Bloody hell. Are you all right?’
Bailey turned to Gerald. ‘Couldn’t help yourself, could you?’
‘What can I say? She’s a scary woman, and I’m weak.’ He held up his arms in surrender.
‘Don’t be such a tough guy,’ Dexter said. ‘Getting bashed up by guys working for Guido Carlos is serious. He isn’t the type of bloke you mess with.’
‘Can’t say much about Guido, other than I think he was doing a favour for Page.’
‘Are you serious?’ Dexter shot Gerald a stern look. ‘You didn’t tell me that part.’ She turned back to Bailey. ‘You think Page was behind it?’
‘Can’t say for sure,’ Bailey said.
‘How bad is it?’ She touched his chin, turning his face from side to side to get a good look at the
damage. ‘You look like shit.’
‘Thanks.’ He took a sip of his coffee and noticed the taste of blood still clinging to his gums. ‘A few aches. Nothing serious.’
‘Your phone’s switched off, by the way.’
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Where’ve you been?’
‘Meeting a contact.’
‘Who?’
Bailey shared what Scarlett had told him about David Davis. The revelations sent Dexter into a rage. ‘Rob Lucas is as bent as the arseholes we did over in the eighties! I don’t know who else Davis may have inside. I’m going to need to play this even closer.’
‘What’s next?’ Gerald said.
‘The apartment building,’ Bailey said. ‘We’ve got to find those missing minutes on that tape. See if Victor Ho really was there that night.’
Dexter was nodding her head. ‘It’s about bloody time Mario Monticello made an appearance.’
Bailey could see that Gerald was confused. ‘The manager of the apartment building where Catherine Chamberlain was killed.’
‘Right.’
‘I’m going to the station to find out what else Rob Lucas has been doing behind my back and who else might be involved,’ Dexter said.
‘Any problems, call me or Gerald here at the office,’ Bailey said. ‘I’m not going home tonight.’
‘I’m a big girl – been doing this a while. You just worry about taking care of yourself.’
‘Sharon . . .’ He stopped her at the door. ‘Seriously – be careful.’
Their eyes met in the silence, sharing a moment – a conversation – all of their own.
‘As I said, I’m a big girl.’
Dexter walked out of the room.
The two men sat quietly for a few minutes, staring out the window into the night.
‘Gerald, look!’ Bailey said.
A naked woman was standing with a glass of wine in her hand at the window of her hotel room.
‘Told you it happened from time to time.’
She sipped from her glass of wine and then a man, dressed in a white robe, appeared beside her. She put down her glass and stepped towards him, flipping his robe off his shoulders.