by Tim Ayliffe
‘Who’s that?’ Coleman was pointing at Miranda, softly snoring on the couch.
‘That’s my daughter,’ Bailey said. ‘She stays.’
‘Of course. We’ll talk quietly.’ Parker’s confidence now looked like sleaze.
‘And by the way, this meeting never happened,’ Coleman said. ‘Or we walk out the door.’
‘Fine,’ Gerald said.
Richard Allen stepped forward and handed Gerald a yellow file with ASIO’s classified stamp on the cover. He opened it. Bailey managed to catch a glance. The first thing he saw was a picture of Defence Minister Gary Page shaking hands with China’s Ambassador, Li Chen. The image was grainy. It looked like it had been taken from a distance in a park somewhere at night.
‘We’ve been watching Li and Page for a while now,’ Allen said.
‘Spying on your own?’ Ronnie had joined Gerald on his side of the desk and was looking over the newspaper editor’s shoulder while he thumbed through the file.
‘Don’t start that shit, Ronnie,’ Allen said. ‘There’s a reason you’re here.’
‘Yeah.’ Ronnie winked at him. ‘The weather.’
‘You two know each other?’ Coleman said.
‘Ronnie Johnson isn’t a bloody security guard on the ambassador’s detail as he might try to tell us. He’s US intelligence. CIA.’
‘Retired,’ Ronnie said, smiling.
‘Don’t believe him.’ Allen clearly didn’t like the presence of a foreign spook – even a friendly one – in his patch. ‘You guys never leave.’
‘You’ve got some good stuff here. Solid work.’ Ronnie was eyeing the documents, knowing he was irritating Allen. ‘And now you’re sharing. Appreciated.’
‘I wish the same could be said for you guys.’
‘That always depends on who we’re watching, doesn’t it, Dick?’ Ronnie looked like he was enjoying himself.
‘Gentlemen, please.’ The prime minister was growing tired of the charade. ‘Let’s keep this as pleasant as possible, shall we? Because ultimately we’re all on the same team. Aren’t we?’
‘You tell us,’ Bailey said. He hadn’t moved from his seat in front of the computer.
‘You look like you’ve had a very rough night, John.’
First name again.
‘Bar fight, Bailey?’ Coleman asked.
‘Yeah, something like that.’ Bailey ignored the insult. He was more interested in skimming over the documents that Gerald was handing him, page by page, across the table. The dossier was virtually identical to the one that Anderson had given him in Newtown.
‘If you had this stuff on Page, why’s he still in his job?’
‘We’ve been building our case,’ Allen said.
‘Seems risky, considering the bill about defence contracts is due before parliament next week.’ Bailey wasn’t intimidated by the three figures standing over him. He wanted them to know that the ship had sailed on Page.
‘We know what we’re doing.’ Small beads of sweat were forming on Richard Allen’s forehead and he dabbed at them with a handkerchief from his pocket. He was wafer thin and stank of cigarettes. Like many military and intelligence types, his work was his life.
‘I mean, it’s a risky move, considering two people are dead and we can connect both to Gary Page.’ Bailey wasn’t afraid of firing shots, testing the audience.
‘And that’s exactly what we’re here to discuss,’ Parker said.
The prime minister was smiling again and his over-confidence was gnawing at Bailey.
‘What Mr Parker’s saying is that you can’t print that.’ Coleman, the attack dog, was used to finishing her boss’s sentences and delivering the bad news. They’d been running this routine ever since Parker was appointed the opposition’s foreign affairs spokesperson more than a decade ago. She was a savvy political operator – tall, attractive, with big sculpted hair and a figure that struggled to maintain its halcyon days, not that she seemed to care.
‘I can publish whatever I like.’ Gerald may have been one of the most polite newspaper editors The Journal had ever employed, but he was a fierce defender of the role of the fourth estate.
‘No, you can’t –’
‘Gerald,’ Parker interrupted his chief of staff. ‘I’m hoping we can come to an agreement here, because –’
‘There won’t be any agreements,’ Bailey said.
‘Because,’ Parker continued, ‘I’m sorry to say but this has become an issue of national security.’
Ronnie coughed, like he was trying to contain a chuckle.
‘You guys are fucking desperate,’ Bailey said.
‘Bailey, please.’ Gerald clearly wanted to handle this his own way. ‘Go on, Prime Minister. Explain to me why the behaviour of a corrupt minister in your cabinet is now a threat to national security.’
‘I was hoping you might be more reasonable, Gerald. If your story alleges that Gary Page is somehow connected to the murders of both Catherine Chamberlain and Michael Anderson, it’ll threaten to compromise all of our dealings in the sensitive area of defence.’
‘What the prime minister is saying,’ Richard Allen chimed in. ‘What he’s saying is that Australia is balancing many difficult and often strategically important relationships. This type of scandal could undermine those relationships.’
‘Thanks for the lesson in international diplomacy.’ Bailey was too tired, sore and bruised to entertain this nonsense. ‘But it sounds more like bureaucratic speak for, “Please don’t make my government look bad”.’
Gerald swivelled his chair, turning his back on Parker and his entourage, contemplating his next move. Whatever the decision, there was no way back. Publishing a story like this would put his job on the line.
Bailey followed his eyes out the window, at the bright lights bouncing off the glass of the concrete jungle, the hotel windows, wondering if an awkward moment was about to slice through the tension in the room.
‘Spot anything?’ Bailey said.
‘Not tonight. There’s still time.’
‘What the hell are you two talking about?’ Coleman wasn’t used to being defied.
Gerald extended his hand across his desk. The prime minister ignored it, staring into the editor’s eyes, waiting for his answer.
‘I think we’re done here,’ Gerald said.
‘You’re making a big mistake.’ It was the closest that Parker had come to losing his cool.
‘We’re running with the story.’
Gerald’s hand had been suspended in the air for more than twenty seconds before he eventually let it flop by his side.
‘Fucking arseholes.’ Coleman was less restrained. ‘You’ll regret this!’
‘Penelope?’ Gerald raised his voice to the closed door of his office.
‘Yes, Mr Summers.’
‘The prime minister’s ready to leave.’
Matthew Parker and his entourage filed out the door without saying another word.
‘I hope you know what you’re doing.’ Marjorie had watched the entire exchange without making a sound.
‘You’ll be fine, bubba. Get your story out, or these guys will beat you to it.’ Ronnie had been on both sides, so he knew about fall guys and when they fell.
‘Yeah,’ Bailey said. ‘What could go wrong?’
Gerald stared blankly at the door until the pack of stomping feet stopped echoing down the hall and they heard the faint sound of the elevator doors opening and closing. The editor had made his decision. He didn’t need any more advice.
‘Bailey,’ Gerald said.
‘Yes, old boy?’ For a guy who had barely slept in three days, Bailey was chipper.
‘Notice he didn’t mention Davis?’
‘Yeah. What d’you think it means?’
‘Let’s publish and find out. It’s time we put this thing to bed.’
CHAPTER 35
Sydney, Saturday
‘Bailey . . .’
Bailey was almost sound asleep, lying flat on the f
loor. He didn’t move.
‘Bailey . . . Bailey . . . Bailey!’ The woman’s voice was getting louder each time she said his name.
It was almost five o’clock in the morning and Marjorie and Gerald hadn’t noticed Andrea Jacobs from the online desk standing at the door, trying to get Bailey’s attention. They were reading over the final stories that were about to hit the printers and go on the website.
‘Bailey!’ Andrea almost yelled, this time. ‘You awake?’
‘Yeah?’ Bailey answered, barely moving, eyes closed. There was no point opening them, yet. It could be a dream.
‘Bailey!’ Andrea tapped his foot with her shoe.
‘Yes . . . I said!’
He had been lying as still as possible to avoid the bolts of pain that reverberated throughout his body every time he moved.
‘The phone on your desk keeps ringing. I answered it. Some guy called Marty, says he’s a friend of Scarlett’s? I tried to take a message, but –’
Bailey held up his hand. ‘Stop talking for a second, would you?’
‘Just give him a moment, please, Andrea,’ Gerald said.
Scarlett. Scarlett. Scarlett.
The name was bouncing around in Bailey’s brain.
Scarlett!
Scarlett knew things that could get her killed and Bailey suddenly felt sick at the thought of her body turning up somewhere in Sydney. Another Michael Anderson.
Bo Leung might be dead, but there was at least one other potential killer out there – he wore a police uniform and held the most powerful law enforcement position in the state. Scarlett was Catherine Chamberlain’s friend. But for Police Commissioner David Davis she was a liability, another loose end to be silenced. Dexter might not have arrested him yet. Bailey had involved Scarlett in his search for answers, his chase. Her blood would be on his hands. More blood that he’d never be able to wash off.
‘Scarlett . . . Scarlett’s on the phone?’
‘Not Scarlett, Bailey.’ Andrea had to start over. ‘Some bloke called Marty. He’s on the phone now. Says he’s a friend –’
‘He’s on the phone now?’
Bailey was struggling to get his body to respond to his need to get up.
‘Yes, as I’ve said, on your desk.’ Andrea walked out of the room, clearly frustrated.
Bailey rolled onto his front. He was in bad shape and needed to do it slowly. Elbows on the carpet, one hand, then one knee.
‘Bubba, are you all right?’ Ronnie got to him first. He bent down, grabbed him under the armpit, and pulled him to his feet.
‘Bubba?’
Bailey ignored him and limped out the door, headed for his desk. He got there, eventually. Ronnie and Gerald were standing beside him when he picked up the phone.
‘No. Stay where you are.’ Bailey said into the receiver. ‘I’m on my way.’
Bailey emptied his lungs in one long, painful breath. ‘She’s alive.’
‘Who is she, bubba?’
Bailey hadn’t mentioned Scarlett by name to either of them. He hadn’t needed to.
‘Friend of Catherine Chamberlain’s, worked with her at Petals. I need to meet her – now.’
‘Take Ronnie with you.’
‘I’ll keep my distance, bubba. You look like shit, no offence, and you really should be in a hospital.’
‘I wish people would stop saying that.’
‘Seriously, Bailey. You’re not going alone,’ Gerald said.
There was no point arguing; Bailey was too tired and in too much pain. Part of him was also scared, rattled by the steady, violent hand of Bo Leung. Having Ronnie with him was a good idea, although he’d never admit it.
‘Fine, but I need to talk to her alone.’
‘No problem. Where is she now?’
‘In a bar three blocks from here. She was going to come here, but I told her to stay put.’ Bailey didn’t like the idea of Scarlett being followed on the street like Miranda.
They were headed south on Sussex Street towards a small bar called The Fox Hole, Ronnie trailing fifty paces behind Bailey. The bar had been closed for hours. Marty said he would be waiting at the side door on Erskine Street. He had kept his promise.
‘John Bailey?’ Marty was a short, stocky man with a shaved head, beard and tattoos. He could easily have been mistaken for the bouncer.
‘Marty?’
‘Yeah.’
The two men shook hands and Bailey winced as Marty unwittingly squeezed the thumb that Bo had bashed with a hammer.
‘Looks like you’ve had a rough night.’ Even in the dim glow of the streetlights, Marty had obviously noticed the cuts and bruises on Bailey’s face.
‘Could say that,’ Bailey said. ‘Can we go inside?’
‘Wait.’ Marty stared at Bailey. ‘Scarlett says you’re a good guy, but I’ve never seen her so afraid. Please tell me I don’t need to worry about anything here.’
‘Not from me, Marty.’
Bailey wasn’t sure about the rest. He didn’t know if he had been seen talking to Scarlett during their meetings in Double Bay. At least Bo Leung was dead. One killer out of the way.
‘Not good enough, mate.’
‘I’m a reporter,’ Bailey said. ‘In less than two hours we’re publishing a story that’s going to piss off a lot of people. As soon as the story’s out, Scarlett will be safe, no matter what.’
‘Okay, let’s go.’ Marty was placated, at least for a while. ‘She’s downstairs. Bar’s closed.’
‘That’s a shame.’
Bailey hobbled down the dark stairwell, each step a struggle that delivered a different shot of pain. At the bottom was a wall decorated with a large speckled mural of a crowded beach, with people carrying surfboards, sunbathing, frolicking in the water, playing volleyball on the sand. Beaches like these were only a short drive from where he was standing, but after the night Bailey had just had, the scene splashed on that wall was like a foreign country.
Scarlett was sitting alone on a stool in the corner of the bar.
‘She wants to talk to you in private.’ Marty turned and walked back up the staircase.
It was dark inside and the room smelled like a cocktail of disinfectant, air freshener and beer. Bailey was trying not to limp, keen to hide his injuries from Scarlett.
He noticed two steaming cups of coffee on the bar.
‘Got anything stronger?’
‘Sure.’ She reached over the bar, grabbed a schooner glass and shoved it under the beer tap so the cool yellow liquid could gather in the glass.
‘Marty was too tight to unlock the cabinet.’
‘I’ll forgive him.’
Bailey took a long sip. The beer relaxed his muscles as it slipped down his throat, diverting his senses from the pain. A moment to enjoy after being thrust through the gates of hell.
‘I don’t think he likes me,’ Bailey said.
‘Don’t take it personally. He’s just being protective.’
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Something like that.’
‘Well, I hope he takes care of you. You deserve –’
‘Jesus! Mr Bailey, you look like shit.’ Scarlett noticed his mashed thumb on the schooner glass and the cuts and bruises on his face. ‘What is it with you?’
‘You should see the other guy.’
‘You weren’t lying when you said you were good at pissing people off!’
She reached out and touched his bulging cheekbone, the dark shades on his skin.
‘Seriously, I think you need to get that looked at.’
‘Pissing people off is one of my gifts. And don’t worry, I’m okay, but it’s five o’clock in the morning. What’re we doing here?’
‘I’ve been trying to call your mobile since yesterday,’ she said. ‘Got to be honest, I’m pretty bloody scared.’
‘This thing’s nearly done, Scarlett. We’ve got it. We know who killed Catherine. My editor and lawyer are both going over it right now. We’re about to publish, then it’s over.’<
br />
Scarlett was shaking her head. ‘That’s just the thing, Mr Bailey. I don’t know that it will be over.’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What Michael told me,’ she said. ‘I think there’s something else, something other than what happened to Catherine.’
‘You’ve been speaking to Michael?’ Bailey put down the coaster that he’d been turning in his hands. ‘The recently deceased Michael Anderson?’
‘Yeah.’
It seemed so long ago that Bailey had written about the discovery of Michael Anderson’s body in a warehouse in Alexandria. Scarlett had never mentioned that she’d had contact with him.
‘You met with him recently?’
‘Two nights ago. He said he was going to see you.’
More guilt.
‘What’d he want?’
‘He gave me something.’ Scarlett was rummaging through her handbag.
Bailey had no idea where this was going, what else Anderson knew.
Scarlett pulled out a sealed envelope and handed it to Bailey. Inside was an old photograph, the size of a postcard. It showed three young men standing shoulder to shoulder in bright orange jackets in front of a chessboard.
‘Did he tell you what it was?’ Bailey’s eyes were locked on the picture.
‘All he said was that he stole it from the study in the defence minister’s home.’
‘Why’d he give it to you?’
‘He said. He . . .’ Scarlett was struggling to hold back her tears. She grabbed a tissue from her bag and blew her nose. ‘He said it was his insurance policy, something that would keep him alive, no matter what.’
Bailey reached across the table and held her hand.
‘What else did he say, Scarlett?’
‘He told me to give it to you, but only if something happened to him.’
‘Scarlett,’ Bailey was still holding her hand. ‘I need to ask you a couple of questions, really important ones. Okay?’
‘What’s going on, Mr Bailey?’
‘Did you look at the photograph and have you told anyone else about it?’
Scarlett blew her nose. ‘I didn’t look at it. The envelope was sealed. He told me not to open it. I haven’t told anyone, except for you.’
‘That’s good, Scarlett.’
‘What happens now?’