Greater Good

by Tim Ayliffe

  Bailey put his hand in the air – the universal signal for a taxi – but the car sped past with a group of drunk girls laughing in the back seat. The last third of his kebab was dripping with fat and tahini sauce. He threw it in the bin, doing his best to wipe the juice from his hands with an already sodden napkin.

  He looked back across the road just as the side door of Black Market opened again and Anderson staggered into the alley. He appeared drunk, stumbling, being helped by a young Asian woman. Anderson had been sober when Bailey left him in the pokie lounge. Not even Bailey could do a job on himself that quickly.

  A car drove up slowly behind Anderson and flashed its lights. The woman stopped walking, which meant that Anderson did too.

  Bailey still had his arm out for a taxi and a yellow car pulled alongside.

  ‘Where’re you going?’ The driver called across the passenger seat. Bailey was too engrossed in what was happening in the alley to answer.

  ‘Buddy? You hail a taxi or not?’

  The rear passenger door of the car in the laneway opened and a man climbed out. He grabbed Anderson around the neck from behind and put his hand across his face. Anderson struggled for a moment, then appeared to go limp.

  ‘Hey!’ Bailey called out from across the street. ‘Hey! Hey! Hey!’

  The man turned and caught sight of Bailey waving his hands. It was the fat guy Bailey had seen with the Chinese ambassador at the restaurant down at the quay. Leather jacket, baggy jeans, fat cheeks. The only thing missing was the sunglasses.

  ‘Hey!’ Bailey was trying to get the attention of the security guard out the front of Black Market. ‘Help! Help! In the alley!’

  The guard didn’t hear him.

  ‘Do you want a bloody ride or not?’ The taxi driver was still parked beside Bailey, getting more impatient by the second. ‘Oh, fuck you then, arsehole!’

  Bailey stepped in front of the taxi just as the driver was pulling away. The force of the collision propelled Bailey up onto the bonnet, before the driver slammed on the brakes and Bailey was flung onto the road.

  ‘What’re you doing?’ Bailey yelled as he clambered onto his knees. ‘Idiot – you trying to kill me?’

  The driver started beeping his horn. ‘Get out of the way!’

  As Bailey stood up, blocking the traffic, he looked back across at the alley, trying to find Anderson. He just caught the top of his head as it was shoved into the back seat of the car, followed by the woman. The fat guy was standing by the driver’s door, staring directly at Bailey. He hesitated, like he was challenging Bailey to cross the street. But before he could the man climbed in the front seat and the car sped off down the road towards the city.

  ‘Get. Out. Of. The. Fucking. Way!’ The taxi driver had his head out the window, screaming at Bailey.

  ‘Okay, mate. Okay, mate.’ Bailey waved his hand at the bloke, trying to get him to calm down.

  He touched his coat pocket to make sure the documents were inside. They weren’t. The envelope was sitting on the street beside him. It must have fallen loose from his pocket when the car hit him. He bent over, picked it off the road and slipped it back into his jacket.

  Bailey turned to the driver, who was still beeping his horn.

  ‘Any chance of a ride to the city?’

  ‘Fuck off.’

  It only took Bailey a few more minutes to find a ride back to The Journal. On the way, he called Dexter. It was late but she answered.

  ‘How’d you go?’ She sounded like she was still working.

  ‘Anderson’s been taken.’

  ‘What’d you mean – taken?’

  ‘A big fat Chinese guy picked him off the street. Looked like he’d drugged him. Then he threw him in a car and took off.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘The whole bloody thing happened in front of me.’

  ‘Where? How long ago?’

  ‘Newtown, outside that pub, Black Market, five minutes ago. The car was a black Toyota; Camry, I think. New-ish. Heading north. The licence plate was CV something – didn’t catch it all. A one in there, maybe a six too. Sorry. And I couldn’t see the driver, but there was a young Asian woman with them. That’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Okay, thanks,’ Dexter said. ‘And Bailey?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Don’t get any stupid ideas. Leave this one to me.’

  ‘Since when have I had a stupid idea?’

  Dexter laughed briefly. ‘We’ve got traffic cameras all over the city. I’ll find him.’

  ‘Hurry.’

  CHAPTER 26

  The documents were laid out on Gerald’s desk. The night sub and two young online reporters were the only staff left on the newsroom floor. Gerald and the rejuvenated figure of John Bailey were working feverishly behind the closed door of the editor’s office, piecing together the shady dealings of Gary Page and Ambassador Li Chen.

  ‘Another one.’ Bailey pointed to a picture of an Australian army uniform. ‘Made by a textile business in Wangaratta with high-tech materials. Four hundred people work at that factory. Contract’s worth seven million dollars a year. Shifting it to Page’s Chinese factory would cut the manufacturing costs to three million dollars – less than half the price!’

  ‘Strong stuff.’ Gerald pushed his glasses to the tip of his nose, rubbed his eyes. ‘Somehow your boy Anderson’s got his hands on Page’s personal files but we’re a long way from printing this, mate. Needs a few checks and balances.’

  Bailey ignored Gerald’s sensible interjection. ‘Look!’ He was tapping his finger on a page that was stapled to the back of the Wangaratta contract. ‘Manufacturing instructions right down to the bloody makeup of the cotton and plastics in the fibres.’

  Bailey took off his jacket, exposing his white shirt stained with dirt, grass and dried blood from the beating he’d copped beneath the big oak tree. But he didn’t care. He hadn’t even noticed the jacket’s torn sleeve from the incident on the road with the irate taxi driver.

  ‘I can count sixteen different companies, all made to look like existing Chinese businesses. Not one of them has the name Gary Page or Li Chen on it.’

  ‘Then who owns them?’

  ‘Signatories are most likely members of Li’s family, or maybe politicians looking to boost their bank balances.’

  ‘My point is –’

  ‘Hang on, mate,’ Bailey said. ‘It’s not hard to find a corrupt official in Beijing. Like grains of sand on a beach. They reckon there’s a hundred bloody billionaires in the Chinese Congress.’

  He was on a roll and wasn’t prepared to stop.

  ‘Here’s the clincher.’ Bailey waved more sheets of paper in front of Gerald. ‘Sands Enterprises. These are private company statements for an umbrella group listed in the Virgin Islands. Crosscheck the names of those Chinese companies and you’ll see – every single one of them is listed on these sheets of paper. And guess who the two directors of Sands Enterprises are?’

  ‘Gary Page and Li Chen.’

  ‘I’d call that a smoking gun, wouldn’t you?’ Bailey said.

  ‘No wonder Michael Anderson was in hiding.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s still alive.’

  ‘There’s not much we can do, mate,’ Gerald said. ‘Like Sharon said, she’ll find him. Let’s focus on the things we can control. Anderson’s best chance may be us getting this stuff out in the open.’

  ‘Yeah, maybe.’

  Bailey turned his attention back to the documents on the table.

  ‘Here’s a company that makes tents.’ He held up another sheet of paper. ‘There’s one that makes boots.’ He held up another.

  They went on like this for the next few hours – working out, one at a time, how each company linked back to Li and Page.

  ‘Hell, there’s even a company that makes cups, plates, bowls and cutlery!’ Bailey said. ‘If the military needs it, these guys are ready to make it.’

  ‘Bailey,’ Gerald said. ‘Bailey, it’s early in the –’<
br />
  ‘Page and Li only need a handful of these companies to get the nod and they’ll get a mighty payday! They’re ready to hit the go button on nearly everything that the army might put up for tender.’

  ‘Bailey!’

  Bailey looked up, startled, from the papers on the desk. ‘Yeah? Sorry. This is a lot to absorb. What’s the time?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.’ Gerald rubbed his eyes again. ‘It’s four-thirty. I think we should get some sleep. We’ll need legal poring all over this in a few hours, so save yourself.’

  ‘Yeah, sleep.’ Bailey felt a pang of tiredness. ‘Been a big night. A big day.’

  Gerald pointed to one of two leather sofas in his office. ‘You take that one.’

  Bailey followed his instructions and lay back on the sofa, wincing with pain until he found a good position that put less pressure on his ribs. Maybe he had broken one or two after all.

  Gerald looked across at Bailey, who’d already closed his eyes. ‘You okay, mate?’

  ‘Yeah, old boy. Just a few bruises.’ Strangely, the bruises made him feel better about himself, more alive.

  ‘Remind me, how much is the Australian Defence Force budget?’

  ‘Roughly? Thirty-five billion dollars a year.’

  War reporters always knew how much was spent on the blood and the brave.

  Gerald’s head slumped back on the padded arm of the sofa. ‘What on earth have we got ourselves into?’

  ‘Been a while, Gerald – you and me, in the trenches.’

  They were both talking with their eyes closed, like kid brothers sharing a room.

  ‘That’s what I’m worried about. Now stop talking and go to sleep.’

  ‘Cuddle?’ Bailey couldn’t resist.

  ‘You’re incorrigible.’

  ‘I love it when you use big words.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Sydney, Friday

  The newsroom was already buzzing when Penelope walked out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, with the booming voice of Rachel Symonds, the chief of staff on the assignments desk, barking orders at reporters to hit the phones or get moving to the scene of whatever story was unfolding somewhere in Sydney.

  The digital team was busily monitoring the morning television and radio programs, sending tweets and posting content to social media. The news business never stopped these days. It was only the big name journalists who came in late, if they came in at all.

  Penelope gently knocked on the editor’s door.

  No answer.

  She quietly opened a crack and peered inside. Bailey and Gerald were both snoring on the two leather sofas and the room stank of sweat and alcohol.

  The telephone on Gerald’s desk started ringing and Penelope hurried across the room to answer it.

  ‘Gerald Summers’ office,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s Mick . . . got this woman on the phone again. Says it’s urgent . . . she can speak to either Mr Summers or Mr Bailey. Are they there?’

  ‘Yeah . . . they’re here.’ Penelope stared at the two men, sound asleep, contemplating which one she’d wake. ‘Hang on.’

  She gently tapped Bailey’s foot. ‘Bailey, Bailey.’ When that didn’t work, she bent over and poked her finger at his chest. ‘Bailey!’

  ‘Aaaaahhhh!’ He was startled awake by the pain in his ribs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Penelope said, ‘are you hurt?’

  Bailey remembered the art gallery, the meeting with Anderson, the documents and falling asleep on the lounge. Big night. He had a rotten taste from the fatty kebab on his tongue.

  ‘Bailey? Are you okay?’

  He opened his eyes. ‘It’s okay, Pen. What’s up?’

  ‘There’s a woman on the phone, the second time she’s called. Says it’s urgent.’

  Bailey was struggling to sit upright. The beating in the Botanic Gardens had done more damage than he’d thought, or maybe it was the taxi driver.

  He twisted his body off the sofa, limped across the room and picked up the phone. ‘Yep.’

  ‘Bailey, it’s me.’

  Dexter.

  The worry in her voice was like a shot in the arm. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m at a warehouse in Alexandria. Michael Anderson’s dead. You’d better get here. It’s not pretty.’

  Dexter had been a cop for a long time. She’d experienced a lot, seen a lot. Bailey could tell that she was rattled.

  ‘I’m coming.’

  He was wide awake now, jotting down the address while Penelope booked him a taxi.

  Bailey shook Gerald’s shoulder until his friend opened his eyes.

  ‘Anderson’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ Gerald sat up, wiping the drool from the corner of his mouth.

  ‘Dexter called. He was found in Alexandria. I’m going there now. You stay here. Somebody needs to mind the documents.’

  Bailey picked his crumpled dinner jacket up off the floor and slipped his arms through the sleeves, wincing again at the sharp pain in his ribs.

  ‘I’ll get legal in here.’ Gerald was already up off the sofa, staring at the pages scattered across his desk. ‘Get moving.’

  Mick was still on the front desk when Bailey walked out of the elevator.

  ‘Long night for you, Mr Bailey.’

  ‘You too, mate.’

  ‘It’s not over yet. Mr Summers wants me upstairs as soon as Kevin gets here. He wants me to guard his office or something. Penelope just called.’ For someone who had been up all night, Mick sounded excited. ‘You guys must be on to something big?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Bailey didn’t have time to chat. ‘Thanks, Mick. That’s my taxi out front, better run.’

  Bailey climbed in the car out front of The Journal office, trying not to think about the scene that awaited him in Alexandria. His head was pounding, his ribs ached, his elbow felt like it’d been whacked with a sledgehammer, and his throat was crying out for water. But nothing compared to the guilt that was burning a hole in his gut as the taxi edged closer to the warehouse where Michael Anderson’s lifeless body had been found.

  Bailey had been out of the game for almost three years. The mere possibility that he might have led the killers to Anderson made him question his fitness for the job.

  He had always protected his sources.

  Dexter was standing out front, smoking a cigarette, when Bailey arrived. A police car and her unmarked Holden were the only two vehicles on the scene.

  ‘What’s up with him?’ Bailey pointed to the bloke emptying his guts in the bushes by the door of the warehouse.

  ‘First on the scene. He was okay until a few minutes ago.’ Dexter didn’t look too good, either. ‘It’s confronting in there.’

  The guilt was gnawing at Bailey but he was going inside, no matter what. ‘How long have I got?’

  Dexter wasn’t going to try to talk him out of it. ‘Five minutes. Then this place will be crawling with forensics and television crews. The morning shows love this shit.’

  They walked past the cop at the door. He was standing upright and wiping his mouth. Embarrassed by the mess he’d made in the bushes, he avoided eye contact with Dexter and didn’t even ask about the man she was escorting into the crime scene.

  ‘Someone heard screams coming from inside at around five o’clock this morning.’ Dexter led Bailey through the door. ‘Unidentified call to triple zero. My guess is they wanted us to find him.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’ll see.’

  A dim light filtered through the windows along the ceiling of the warehouse. Bailey squinted, trying to adjust his eyes. The space looked like it hadn’t been rented for years – smashed windows, damaged walls, damp and mouldy, with cracks in the concrete floor exposing the dirt underneath.

  Graffiti was all over the place, barely legible messages, mostly about inequality and injustice, voices of the ballooning masses living below the poverty line. They were the forgotten souls of a beaut
iful city, who spoke with a can of paint on a wall that no one would see. The only other sign that people had once lived there were the dusty old beds and linen scattered in the corner. The warehouse was so decrepit that even the homeless had abandoned it.

  ‘Over there.’ Dexter pointed to a chair in the corner. ‘I’ll wait here.’

  Anderson was sitting upright. From behind he looked peaceful. But as Bailey got closer he could see a pool of liquid on the floor. By the smell and colour, he guessed it was a mixture of piss and blood. Anderson was facing the wall, his hands and legs tied to the chair.

  ‘Remember, we don’t have long.’ Dexter’s warning carried across the room.

  But Bailey hardly heard her, his senses dimmed by the horror before him. He walked around the chair and caught a glimpse of Anderson’s face.

  ‘What the fuck?’ He gagged, lifting the back of his hand to his nose, anything to shield himself from the violence.

  Anderson’s fingernails had been torn out and were scattered on the floor. Not just the nails, chunks of skin had been ripped off in the force of the action. Two of his fingers were missing and were sitting, bloodied and mangled, in the mess on the concrete. A rag had been stuffed into his mouth to silence his screams.

  His shirt was torn open, his pants crumpled around his ankles. A car battery was on the floor beside him, cables connected to his genitals and the nipples on his chest. His face had been beaten to the point where his eyes were so swollen they almost concealed the lifeless pupils staring into nothing.

  There was a neat hole in Anderson’s forehead – the bullet had been saved for the end. And, at the end, Anderson must have welcomed it.

  Bailey shuddered, trying to imagine what had happened. Whoever had done this didn’t just want Michael Anderson dead – they had wanted him to talk.

  He must have talked.

  No one could have withstood the horror that had unfolded here. And now his torturer knew about the documents that could bring down Gary Page and Li Chen, and cause a major scandal for Matthew Parker’s government.