by Tim Ayliffe
‘That’s a bit more than I’d like to see,’ Bailey said.
‘Oh dear.’
The man pulled the woman close to him, kissing her neck, before pushing her back onto the bed.
‘No wonder you’re always happy to put in the extra hours.’
The guy turned off the light.
‘Boo.’ Bailey sounded like a disappointed fan at a football game. ‘At least that’s one mystery solved. What’re you doing here so late anyway?’
‘What do you mean?’ Gerald sounded offended. ‘I was waiting for you!’
‘I’m touched.’
‘I’ve been looking into Page and Davis. How far they go back, past business dealings, etcetera,’ Gerald said.
‘Find anything?’
‘Not yet, but there’s something there, has to be.’
Gerald was still talking, but Bailey had become distracted. He remembered the note from Penelope and withdrew the crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. He read it over and over to himself, heart pounding, unsettled about where it might lead him.
‘Bailey? Are you still with me?’
Bailey hadn’t heard a word since he’d started reading. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘What is it?’
‘Anderson.’ Bailey handed him the piece of paper. ‘He’s made contact.’
Gerald read it out loud: ‘Call M.A. He’s been trying to reach you all afternoon. Room 302. Call 9202 . . .’ He stopped reading and pointed to the door. ‘Shut that. Let’s get him on the phone.’
Gerald pressed the speakerphone option on his landline and started dialling.
They both stood, leaning over the phone on the desk. After three rings, a voice answered.
‘Holiday Inn.’
‘Room 302, please.’ Bailey spoke with a clear, composed voice.
A few more beeps, then a male voice answered. ‘Hello.’
‘It’s John Bailey.’
‘Took your time. Let’s meet. Thirty minutes. Get a pen.’
Anderson wanted to meet at Black Market in Newtown, a pub that Bailey knew well, always crowded, open late.
‘I need to go alone,’ Bailey told Gerald after Anderson had hung up. ‘I’ll come back here afterwards.’
‘Be careful.’
It was the second time those words had been uttered in Gerald’s office tonight.
CHAPTER 24
People were hopping in and out of taxis on King Street, searching for the next nightspot. The city lockout laws, barring new customers from entering pubs and bars after one o’clock in the morning, had driven people away from the traditional late-night venues around Kings Cross. It meant places on the city’s fringes, like Newtown, were heaving most nights of the week. It was an area where students from the two big universities nearby mixed with the suits, out late pretending that it was the weekend, and the inner-west hipsters who had been drinking there for years.
Bailey’s taxi dropped him across the road from the pub where he was supposed to meet Anderson. He was still wearing his tuxedo, minus the tie, with the jacket buttoned to hide the dirt and bloodstains from his beating at the art gallery.
There was a long line of people waiting to get inside. Bailey had no choice other than to join the queue and wait for the bouncers to give him the nod. He hadn’t lined up to get into a bar since he was a teenager – when he and Mike would go to the Rock Lily at Mona Vale with fake IDs and cans of beer hidden in their bomber jackets. Back then they didn’t mind the wait – it was a chance to talk to girls. That was more than thirty years ago and, understandably, Bailey had changed a lot since then.
The line was moving quickly and the bouncers on the door, ushering people inside one by one, didn’t seem to mind the haze of marijuana smoke hovering above the crowd.
‘Evening, chief.’ A cocky bloke, biceps bulging through his shirtsleeves, greeted Bailey at the door. ‘Got some ID for me?’
Tired and bruised, Bailey wasn’t up for copping shit from a gym junkie. ‘What for?’
The bloke slapped Bailey on the shoulder. ‘Just fucking with you, buddy. I think your granddaughter’s inside. Come to rescue her?’
Knowing he had a cut above his brow and a lip that felt like it was growing by the hour, Bailey resisted digging back. ‘You going to let me in, mate?’
‘Yes, buddy. You let me know if any of these young hooligans give you a hard time, okay?’
‘Stop being a dickhead, Craig.’ The other bouncer intervened. ‘Just let him in.’
‘Thank you,’ Bailey said.
‘You have fun, big guy.’ Craig stepped out of the way and opened the door.
Bailey gave him a look that told him to get lost.
Inside, the music was blaring from a bunch of speakers next to the DJ in the corner. It was so crowded that Bailey was surprised they were still letting more people through the door. The strobing lights bounced off the countless heads bobbing to a beat so loud he could feel the vibrations. The bar was lit up like a city on the horizon and the wait to get a drink was five people deep. Bailey remembered there was a cocktail bar in the gaming lounge upstairs. If Anderson wanted a quiet place to talk, he would most likely be there.
He pushed through the people and walked up a narrow staircase, squeezing past kids walking in the opposite direction, juggling the drinks they’d bought from the upstairs bar to beat the queue.
The cocktail area was more civilised, mainly because people didn’t come up here to drink, they came to gamble. The gaming machines were side by side in yet another room where punters could load their machines in peace. It was separated from the bar by a glass door; the owners wouldn’t want punters lining up at the bar either – it risked giving them time to contemplate their losses and call it a night.
Bailey hated pokies, but everyone else seemed to love them. Australians just loved gambling – on anything. It was a twenty billion dollar industry where people bet on horses – even fake ones – dogs, football, tennis, rugby and cricket. They even bet on elections. But the most cash went into pokies. Almost every venue had them. It was easy money and the simplest way for publicans to balance the risk of the small margins they banked from booze and food.
Gaming lounges had almost killed live music too. But, unlike the rest of Sydney, the pubs around Newtown hadn’t quite given up on musicians and Bailey was relieved to see a bloke playing a piano in the corner. He was in the middle of a jazzed-up version of a Macy Gray track when Bailey entered the room. It might not have been the Stones, at least it was better than the doof-doof dance music blaring downstairs.
He found an empty stool at the bar and ordered himself a single malt. His experiment with late-night coffee was over, for now. He was so tired the warm rush from a glass of golden brown was the only thing that would keep him awake.
‘Another one.’ He gestured to the girl behind the bar after downing the first.
Just as his second drink arrived, he felt a tap on his back.
Anderson didn’t stop to speak. He just glanced over his shoulder to make sure Bailey was following him through the doors of the gaming lounge.
‘Got a twenty?’ He gestured for Bailey to sit beside him in front of a machine with crowns and jewels splashed all over it. ‘I don’t have much cash left and I can’t use my cards, obviously.’
‘No worries.’ Bailey handed him two tens.
Anderson straightened the bills and fed them into the machine. The simple act reminded Bailey of feeding documents through a shredder.
‘How are you?’ Bailey said.
‘How do you think?’ Anderson was visibly agitated, less in control than he had seemed at Palm Beach two days ago. The stubble on his face was thicker and the red in his eyes suggested that he wasn’t sleeping.
‘Sorry.’ Bailey regretted starting with small talk. ‘Wrong question.’
‘It seems Page has a useful friend in the force.’
‘Was hoping you might be able to tell me something about that.’ Bailey probed, not knowing how long An
derson was going to hang around. Things were moving too fast and he couldn’t bank on Anderson contacting him again. He needed information. Tonight.
‘I know nothing about David Davis, other than that sideshow we saw today. Page obviously thinks he’s the squeaky candidate that’ll help build the future for the ALP. The middle-aged top cop. He’s perfect. Labor’s like any business – always future-proofing.’
Bailey was confused. Last time they met Anderson told him about how Gary Page wanted to give China’s military greater access to the Port of Darwin and possibly even have some kind of training base in the Northern Territory.
‘Davis got anything to do with Page’s love affair with China?’ Bailey asked.
‘I wouldn’t rule it out, but the truth is I don’t know.’
‘What can you tell me?’
Anderson pressed a button on the machine and watched the pictures spin in front of them until they stopped.
‘Your turn.’
Bailey did what he was told. Again, the pictures flashed in front of them. An alarm bell blurted from the machine, lights flashing.
‘Winner,’ Anderson said.
‘A lot of noise for fifty cents.’
Anderson tapped the button again, his eyes fixed on the machine. ‘Anyway, it’s not just what I can tell you – it’s what I can give you.’
Bailey raised an eyebrow and looked at him while his finger found the button. ‘Go on.’
‘Documents.’
Bailey let the word float in the air, hoping Anderson would go on. But he didn’t.
‘Where are they?’
‘In a minute.’ Anderson had lost track of whose turn it was and pressed the button again.
‘Winner.’
A dollar this time. Bailey was done with the gambling commentary and waited for Anderson to start talking again.
‘Page and Ambassador Li have been setting up small companies in China to make materials that a defence force might need.’
Finally Bailey was getting information. ‘What type of materials? Hardware?’
‘No. Basic stuff.’ Anderson pressed the button again. ‘Tents, bags, boots, canteens, essentials. Right down to sleeping bags and regulation t-shirts – you get the picture. We’re even talking combat uniforms, special materials that have long been made in Australia. In the military, everything’s provided. I mean, everything.’
‘And?’
‘There’s always been strict rules about where these goods can be made, but all that’s about to change.’
Anderson turned away from the machine so he could gauge Bailey’s response.
‘Page’s been slowly building a case for Australia to start getting better deals for basic stuff, to create an open market. He’s tabled a bill before parliament for us to start buying from overseas partners. But he’s been clever. It’s only for things that won’t compromise our security or intelligence.’
Bailey wasn’t expecting this story. ‘You’re telling me that at the heart of all this is that Page is just a greedy crook?’
‘That’s the only bit I can prove.’
Proof was exactly what Bailey needed. ‘What about the documents you keep talking about?’
‘Patience. We’ll get there. Let me finish.’
‘Go on then.’
‘The bill before parliament has crossbench support. Page’s sold this change in policy as a massive cost saving for the nation and on that front he’s right. The GFC is hitting here just as the rest of the world recovers. We haven’t implemented any of the recommendations from the policy work that was done on how to replace the massive hole from the mining slowdown. Construction’s good for New South Wales, just not anywhere else. The federal budget’s stuffed. These guys are desperate to limit spending wherever they can.’
‘How big are the savings?’
‘Big. Consider this – there are eighty thousand full-time and reservist members of the Australian Defence Force. Every one of them needs a uniform. Boots, socks, sleeping bags, food – you name it, we, the taxpayer, provide it. The numbers are staggering. We’re talking about savings of hundreds of millions over the forward estimates.’
They’d stopped playing the machine and Bailey hadn’t even touched his second whisky.
‘How advanced are Page and Li with their manufacturing operations? And, more importantly, how can they guarantee they’ll win the contracts?’ These were the questions that Gerald would ask him before publishing the story. Page was a federal minister – they’d need to get every detail right from the start.
‘Where else would they get made?’ Anderson said defensively. ‘The documents prove that Li and Page have prototypes ready to go. This’ll be the shortest tender in history. The defence minister’s got access to everything, literally, ready to press the go button on Aussie designs in Chinese factories that could be operational within weeks.’
‘Still . . . sounds like there’s risk involved.’ Like any half-decent reporter, Bailey was used to playing devil’s advocate.
‘Maybe. But the PM wants the stuff to be made in China. He’s already said that publicly.’
Bailey couldn’t recall hearing Matthew Parker say those words, but he hadn’t exactly been on the job these past few years. ‘Why’s he come out so strong?’
‘We’ve snubbed China in every way possible. The headline act being our bullish support for America’s stance on the South China Sea and the defence agreement that’ll see more US marines call Darwin home for a few months of the year. Parker needs to give Beijing something. What better olive branch than lucrative contracts to manufacture another country’s military gear? And it shows trust – shows we’re close.’
‘Sounds complicated to me.’
‘It is!’ Anderson had raised his voice and he looked around, worried he had drawn attention. But every other person in the room seemed to be hypnotised by their machines.
Anderson tapped another button. ‘Forget about the prime minister and our relationship with China for a minute.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Think about this as a couple of crooks using their influence to line their pockets. When these deals are done, Page and Li will see a payday worth tens of millions of dollars . . . minimum.’
‘And you told Catherine Chamberlain all about it?’
‘Yeah.’ Anderson rested his elbow on the machine, closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the palm of his hand. ‘Stupid. But she was my soul mate. I knew I could trust her. Told her everything – Chinese defence access to the Territory, the scam over contracts. Everything.’
‘That was a big gamble.’
Anderson sat upright and stared at Bailey. ‘What? Because I ended up getting her killed?’
‘I’m sorry, that was insensitive, worded badly.’
‘Then what’re you trying to say?’
Bailey needed to keep him onside. ‘The documents – getting them together, that was a big risk. Did Catherine see them?’
‘Of course not. I just can’t help thinking her death’s linked. It has to be. They need me gone too.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a fat yellow envelope. ‘Everything you need is in here. You need to write this story. It’s the best chance I’ve got to clear my name.’
Bailey wanted to believe everything he was being told, but he wouldn’t make a promise he couldn’t keep. ‘As I said the last time we met, I’ll need to find some answers.’
‘And I told you I thought you were someone I could trust.’ Anderson’s desperate eyes were filled with hope. ‘I meant it. Don’t let me down.’
‘I want to get to the bottom of this too, mate.’ Bailey stood up and tapped the button on the machine one last time. The pictures stopped spinning, music blared and the word ‘jackpot’ lit up the screen.
‘Well, well, people do actually win money from these things.’
‘Appears so.’ For a brief moment, Anderson looked like he was happy.
‘If the documents support what you’re telling me, we’ve got a story. A big one.’
Bailey rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘You take the winnings. Sounds like you could do with the cash.’
‘Thanks. Nineteen hundred bucks. Might change hotels.’
The girl from the bar arrived at the machine just as Bailey was getting off his stool.
‘Your lucky night there, handsome!’
She was already starting her routine for a tip.
‘Want it all in cash?’
‘That’d be good.’
‘Hey, buddy.’ Bailey tapped him on the back. ‘Get your cash. Don’t stick around.’
‘That’s the plan.’
CHAPTER 25
The lamb was sweating bullets of fat as it turned slowly on the rotisserie in front of the grill. The kebabs they served on King Street were heart attack material, but it was after midnight and Bailey hadn’t eaten since his pie at Harry’s.
The kebab shop was just across the road from Black Market and Bailey had been seduced by the smell of the roasting meat the moment he walked out of the pub. The Turkish-style wrap was popular late-night fare in Sydney, especially for party people loaded with booze, and shops selling them did big business in places like Newtown.
Bailey pulled back the foil and took a bite. It may not have been healthy but it tasted good.
The line outside Black Market had disappeared and there was only one security guard manning the door. There appeared to be more people leaving than going inside now. Every few minutes, the side door in the alley swung open and small groups of people stumbled outside.
Bailey looked at his watch. It had been fifteen minutes since he’d left and there was still no sign of Anderson. For a bloke on the run, he didn’t seem to be in any hurry. Maybe he’d decided to feed some of his winnings back into the machines or, even more reckless, he was getting drunk at the bar with the pretty waitress.
Anyhow, he wasn’t Bailey’s responsibility, and he’d already handed over his smoking gun – the documents that he thought would bring down Page. Bailey touched the outside of his jacket so that he could feel the envelope stuffed in the inside pocket. He needed to get back to the office and start going through the documents with Gerald.