by Tim Ayliffe
‘And now he’s dead,’ Bailey said.
‘We tried to help him, bubba.’
‘Did we?’ Bailey was staring out the window, almost as if talking to himself.
‘Want my advice on what you guys can get away with?’ Ronnie was always up for giving free and frank advice. ‘Write about the defence contracts – at least you can prove that part. The leaking is a whole other story. It happens more than you’d think.’
‘Thanks for the tip, and thanks for being straight with us,’ Gerald said.
‘See ya, boys.’ Ronnie gave Bailey a friendly slap on the shoulder and put his cigar back in his mouth. ‘Good to meet you, Marjorie.’
The three of them waited for Ronnie to close the door behind him before discussing a game plan.
‘We’ve got work to do.’ Gerald seemed to know exactly what he wanted them to do. ‘We’re going to write this thing.’
‘What about the spying allegations?’ Marjorie asked.
‘All of it,’ Gerald said. ‘Starting with Michael Anderson’s murder.’
‘That’s my boy.’
Finally Bailey had something to smile about.
CHAPTER 29
Gerald was softly snoring on the sofa while Bailey was putting the finishing touches on the story. It was eight o’clock in the evening and they’d been writing all day – firstly, an article about the gruesome murder of Michael Anderson in a warehouse in Alexandria. Suspect and motive unclear. That story had already been uploaded. The second was even bigger – one long exposé that could bring down a defence minister and possibly the government of Matthew Parker.
Bailey and Gerald hadn’t left the office all day. Neither had Marjorie Atkins. She loved being needed on the big stories, especially the ones that reinforced the role of the fourth estate. Stories with consequence. She’d been doing it for decades, never growing tired of it.
‘Bailey, look at this!’ Marjorie had been reading through the documents one last time to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
‘What is it?’ He was exhausted and apprehensive about yet another rewrite.
‘I can’t believe I missed it.’ She was shaking her head, holding a piece of paper in her hand. ‘We’ve been wondering about David Davis? Well, here’s the link. Money. Guess who deposited fifty grand into an Australian bank account with the receipt notation: “Davis – Grayndler Campaign”?’
Bailey walked over to Marjorie and took the piece of paper from her hand. It was an expenditure list.
‘Sands Enterprises.’ Bailey read it aloud. ‘Marj, you’re bloody amazing!’
‘It’s dated three months ago. Looks like Davis’s plan to go into politics has been in the works for a while. Now we’ve got him tied to Page.’
Bailey screwed up a piece of scrap paper and threw it at Gerald. ‘Hey! Sleepy head!’
The paper hit Gerald on his chin. He sat up, startled. ‘Bloody hell, Bailey, what is it?’
‘It seems Sands Enterprises has made a not so little donation to the soon to be local Member for Grayndler.’
‘Davis?’ Gerald rubbed his eyes and put on his glasses.
Bailey didn’t bother to hide his delight. ‘Mr Squeaky Clean, the man of the hour, not so squeaky. I reckon this might give Page a little leverage, don’t you?’
‘Hang on a minute.’ Gerald put up his hands to give his brain a few extra seconds to catch up. ‘You think Page is putting pressure on Davis over the Chamberlain case?’
Bailey had never floundered with his special dislike for corrupt cops. This one had the added bonus of being the bloke who’d slept with his ex.
‘That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.’
‘We can’t print it, Bailey – we just can’t.’ Gerald was shaking his head. ‘We still don’t know the identity of her murderer. The only thing we can write is that he’s received money from a company that we can link to corruption.’
Marjorie cleared her throat on the other side of the room. ‘And, I might add, Mr Davis may well argue that he knew nothing about what the directors of Sands Enterprises had been up to. Also, we haven’t linked the Australian account to Davis yet.’
‘At best, it’s a smear.’
‘All right, then,’ Bailey said. ‘Let’s smear! Questionable political donations – the public loves this shit!’
‘Bailey. Think rationally here.’
‘Okay, I get it.’ Bailey wasn’t going to fight a losing battle. ‘But my feeling is we’re just scratching the surface on this.’
‘No one will argue with you there, mate,’ Gerald said.
Bailey decided to change the subject. ‘Nancy dropped these off while you were sleeping.’ He tossed Gerald one of two clean shirts hanging on the back of the door.
‘If you don’t mind me saying, both of you could do with a shower,’ Marjorie said.
‘We’re used to each other’s stink.’ Gerald plucked a can of deodorant from a drawer in his desk and threw it to Bailey. ‘Shower in a can?’
‘Thanks.’ Bailey took off the stained white shirt he’d been wearing for almost two days, sprayed his underarms, then slipped his hands into the sleeves of one of Gerald’s freshly preened shirts.
‘Nice.’ Bailey was admiring the cotton. ‘I’m keeping this.’
‘It’s yours. At least you’ll look respectable one day a week.’
Gerald’s phone rang.
‘I said no calls. Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. Hang on – I’ll get him for you.’ Gerald sheepishly handed the receiver to Bailey. ‘It’s Miranda.’
‘Dad!’
Bailey sat up. Something was wrong.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I think . . . I think someone’s following me.’
‘What?’ Bailey was trying to stay calm.
‘I noticed him in the bar near court. I was having a few drinks after work. When I left, he did too. He’s been walking about fifty metres behind me for the last six blocks.’
The image of Anderson’s mangled corpse flashed through Bailey’s mind. His heart was racing. Anderson could have told them anything.
The documents.
If Bailey was the new target, anyone close to him could be a target too. They’d get to him any way they could. From what Bailey had seen, they were capable of anything.
Anything.
‘Where are you? Exactly where are you?’ He was speaking quickly. ‘It’s important that I know your exact location.’
‘Dad, what’s going on?’
‘Your location, Miranda. I need to know exactly where you are.’
Gerald rested his hand on Bailey’s shoulder, but he shrugged it away aggressively.
‘Miranda?’ Bailey said again.
‘Sorry, I was looking for a street sign to be sure. I’ve just turned off George onto King Street.’
She was only four blocks away.
‘I’m going to put you onto Gerald and I want you to stay on the phone and keep talking to him, okay? I am coming down to meet you.’
He handed the receiver to Gerald. ‘Don’t let her hang up.’
Bailey limped out of the office and was at the elevator within seconds. He kept hitting the button, knowing that it wouldn’t make the doors open any quicker.
Tap, tap, tap.
He had to do something to make himself feel like he was doing all that he could to get to Miranda. He had to protect his daughter. Nothing else mattered.
Within a minute he was running past Penelope, through the foyer and out onto Sussex Street. The city was mostly bright lights bouncing off black windows. Apart from the steady stream of cars in the post peak-hour traffic, the streets were quiet, footpaths almost empty. Few people worked late on a Friday night and most of the popular bars were on the other side of town.
Bailey headed north on Sussex Street until he hit King. He turned the corner and could see Miranda running, heels in one hand, the other holding her phone to her ear.
‘Dad!’ She caught sight of him up the street.
Bailey clocked a car with tinted windows slowing behind her. It was the same black Camry that he’d seen in Newtown – licence plate CVC 163 – the one that had sped off with Michael Anderson and his killer inside.
The car drew alongside Miranda, the rear door opened.
‘Run! Miranda! Run!’ Bailey was forty metres away now.
It was all happening in slow motion.
The door was wide open. Miranda didn’t see it – she had her eyes fixed on her father, his hand still in the air from when he’d yelled her name seconds before, sprinting towards her.
The car windows were so dark Bailey couldn’t see inside.
‘Run! Run!’ She wasn’t a confident city lawyer any more, she was Bailey’s little girl, three feet high, innocent and vulnerable, running towards her silly daddy, wanting him to protect her.
In an instant it was over.
The car door slammed shut and the driver sped off up King Street.
Miranda had been running downhill and she almost tripped into her father’s arms, dropping her shoes and phone onto the footpath.
‘What’s going on?’ She was struggling to catch her breath.
Bailey was puffing so hard he couldn’t speak. As he held his daughter tightly, he noticed a police car on the other side of the street. The cop must have spooked whoever was in the Camry. Right place, right time, for once.
The policeman opened his window. ‘Everything okay there, miss?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Miranda stepped back so the cop could see that she wasn’t in any danger. ‘This is my father.’
Bailey was bent over, resting his hands on his knees. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d run that far. The stale air in his lungs was burning a hole in his chest. Each breath triggered a piercing pain from his already damaged rib cage.
He gave a thumbs up signal to the policeman. ‘We’re all good here, thanks, officer.’
‘Okay, then, you both take care.’ The policeman closed his window and weaved his car back into the traffic on King Street.
Bailey’s eyes followed the car until it disappeared on the crest of the hill two blocks away. He scanned the footpath, first the left, then the right side of the street. There were hardly any pedestrians. A group of young foul-mouthed kids were staggering together – the end of a long session, or fuelling up for a big night out. There were a few business types, a woman walking a tiny dog and a couple holding hands on the other side of the street, heading downhill towards the water and, most probably, a dinner reservation at Cockle Bay.
One person stood out – a young man loitering in the shadows on the corner of the next block, staring in their direction. It was probably nobody.
Bailey wanted to be sure. ‘Hey!’ he called in his direction. ‘Hey, hey, mate!’
The man disappeared around the corner.
‘That him?’ he asked Miranda.
‘Him who?’ Miranda was too startled to focus.
‘That bloke on the corner.’
‘I’m not sure. I didn’t see – and Dad?’ They were standing under a street lamp and something else was clearly bothering her. ‘What happened to your face?’
‘Long story. Let’s get inside.’
Gerald pulled Miranda into his arms when she walked through the door of his office. ‘Bet you’re glad that’s over.’
‘A bit rattled is all.’ Miranda’s cheeks were flushed.
‘Get a good look at him?’ Gerald said.
‘Not really. Just enough to know that I’d seen him in the bar earlier. Young Asian bloke.’
‘You’re safe here.’
‘I could do with a drink.’ Miranda looked hopefully at Gerald.
‘Like father, like daughter,’ Bailey said. ‘Don’t keep her waiting, Gerald.’
‘Two Baileys? Good God!’ Gerald said. ‘Whisky okay, Miranda?’
‘The other Bailey would like one too, thank you, old boy.’
‘You need to call Dexter – something about finding the manager of Catherine Chamberlain’s apartment building,’ Gerald said.
‘What’s all this about?’ Miranda said to anyone willing to provide the answer.
Bailey withdrew Detective Sharon Dexter’s card from his wallet and punched her number into the phone on Gerald’s desk. The conversation lasted about five seconds. He didn’t have time for that drink any more.
He turned to his daughter. ‘Gerald will fill you in, sweetheart. I’ve got to go out.’
Dexter had found Mario Monticello. He was prepared to show her every piece of security footage he had from the night of Chamberlain’s murder.
Bailey looked at his watch. It was almost eight-thirty. ‘Are we publishing tonight?’
‘Midnight.’ Gerald sounded resolute.
‘I won’t be long. Don’t click the button till I’m back.’
‘Be careful, Bailey.’
‘I’m going to meet a cop. What could go wrong?’ Bailey slapped Gerald on the arm. ‘Miranda, I want you to stay here. I’m not sure it’s safe to go home tonight.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
Bailey walked out the door and bumped straight into Mick, who was standing guard outside again. He was a big man and it was like hitting a brick wall.
‘Mate, do you ever go home?’
‘Got a few hours’ sleep, Mr Bailey. Had dinner with my boys, tucked them in. That’s all I needed.’
Bailey felt better knowing Mick was watching over his daughter too.
CHAPTER 30
It was getting late but the day wasn’t done with Bailey yet.
There was no sign of the black Camry or the man who’d been following Miranda when he walked onto the street outside The Journal. He paced around the block – twice – before hailing his taxi, just to be sure.
Bailey rested his head against the car window and stared out into the night, resisting closing his eyes because he didn’t want to risk giving in to his exhaustion.
The car was moving slowly in the traffic up William Street. He was keeping himself alert by studying the people strolling along the footpath, their clothes and faces, all dressed up with places to go. He could hear groups of friends talking loudly, teasing each other, excited about the start of the weekend, the chance to get drunk and to forget about life for a while.
Couples, new and old, hand in hand, some arguing, some smiling, others simply in a hurry to get to someplace other than work. It made Bailey think about Dexter, what it might be like to hold her hand and walk down this street. There was still time, maybe.
It also distracted him from the fact that someone was trying to frame him for murder. He didn’t need to close his eyes to see Michael Anderson’s bloodied face staring back at him. That image would stay with him forever. His puffy eyes, mashed cheekbones and that bullet hole reprieve from the pain. The torment of torture – willing it to stop, even if it meant dying. Bailey was one of the few people who could describe what that felt like.
The taxi was getting close to the famous Coca-Cola sign at Kings Cross. Bailey picked a twenty-dollar note from his wallet and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
‘Drop me anywhere out of the tunnel, mate.’
He wanted to walk the final few hundred metres. Not just for the fresh air – he wanted to check if anyone was on his tail.
Dexter was standing out the front of Catherine Chamberlain’s apartment complex with an old man, partially obscured by the puffs of smoke from his pipe.
‘Detective Dexter.’
‘Mr Bailey.’
The formalities sounded odd.
‘Long time since I’ve seen someone smoking one of those.’ Bailey turned on his charm and extended his hand to the manager of the apartment building. ‘John Bailey.’
‘Mario Monticello.’ They shook hands. ‘You’ve got a good grip, Mr Bailey!’
Mario had a thick Italian accent that gave rhythm to his words. He must have been only five feet tall, but the way he spoke and the beam of his smile gave him presence.
‘I lo
ve the pipe,’ he said. ‘Bad habit I got from you Australians when I came over in 1956!’
Mario drew back and let the smoke puff out the corners of his lips. He tipped the rest of the simmering leaves into the gutter and waved for them to follow him inside.
‘Mario has been visiting his daughter in Melbourne,’ Dexter said.
‘Lygon Street – best pizza in Australia. I love my daughter, but I really only go for the pizza.’
‘Mario doesn’t have any other copies of the tapes he gave Constable Rob Lucas a few days ago,’ Dexter said. ‘He was as surprised as we were about the black hole at around eleven o’clock.’
Bailey responded with a worried glance, wondering why they were here.
‘Terrible, terrible thing that has happened to this girl. I want to help, any way I can.’
‘Mario says there’s another camera angle – one he didn’t think we’d need,’ Dexter said.
‘Oh, right,’ Bailey said.
‘This is not a good angle.’ Mario led them into the foyer. ‘It was the temporary entry to the building when I had the main entrance refurbished. The stupid builders took so bloody long I got paranoid and put another camera there so I could see who’s coming and going.’
Bailey was staring at the ceiling, trying to find it.
Mario nudged him with his elbow. ‘Up there.’ He pointed at the fire exit in the corner. ‘It points the other way, you see, so it won’t catch anyone coming in, only going out. I have been meaning to get rid of it but my system is too easy – record, change tape, record – so I never bothered.’
‘Let’s take a look at it, hey Mario?’ Dexter said.
‘Of course, of course. Follow me.’
Dexter and Bailey followed him down the hallway to his office. The door would only open halfway because of the piles of boxes stacked around the room. He cleared the top of a small filing cabinet and gestured for them to sit.
‘I do filing the old-fashioned way.’
Mario disappeared behind a pile of boxes and began shifting them into an uneasy tower next to his desk. He seemed to be clearing a path so he could get to a large cupboard in the corner.
‘Here we go,’ he said, opening the door. Inside, dozens of VHS tapes were stacked inside in piles. Each one was neatly marked with a camera number and day of the month.