by Peter Corris
The Brothers
Craft
By Peter Corris
Copyright © 1992 Peter Corris
First published by Bantam, Australia, 1992
For the memory of R. F. ('Bob') Brissenden
PETER CORRIS was born in Stawell, Victoria in 1942. He has worked as a lecturer and researcher in history, as well as a freelance writer and journalist, specialising in sports writing and personality profiles. In the late 1960s and early 1970s he travelled in the Pacific Islands, including Papua New Guinea, the Solomon Islands and Fiji. The author of many books about the Sydney-based private eye Cliff Hardy, he has also written spy novels, a social history of prize-fighting in Australia, quiz books, radio and television scripts and co-wrote the life of eye surgeon Fred Hollows. He has written two successful historical novels, The Gulliver Fortune published in 1989 and Naismith's Dominion published 1990, both by Bantam Books.
Peter Corris is married to the writer Jean Bedford, has three daughters and lives in Sydney and on the Illawarra coast.
This is fiction. The characters and action bear no resemblance to real persons and events, past or present.
For help in the preparation of this book, I wish to thank Jean Bedford, Rosemary Creswell, Carl Harrison-Ford and Paul Anderson, who tamed my PC printer.
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
1
Andy McKinnon looked around the Fleet Street pub with interest. Since the Wapping shift and the other shake-ups in the London newspaper scene, pubs like this one had lost their flavour. He couldn't count the number of deals he'd negotiated in places like this, roaring over the din of half-drunk journos and ambitious-eyed movie makers, talking stories and money to producers, writers, investors. Not to mention the low-lifes—crims and superannuated MI6 types cadging drinks, flogging rumours and scrounging for a tenner. He'd sown up a winner for Vic Bright himself, right here. But that was back when Bright was hungry and keen. Now he was experienced and expensive. 'So, how's it going, Victor?' he said.
Bright, who hated the sound of his full first name, let alone being addressed by it, snarled. 'It's twisting and turning like a snake.'
'That's good,' McKinnon said. 'In all my years as a film producer, that was one of the best pitches I've ever seen. You sold everybody. But between ourselves, laddie, and these drams of Bells, it was a trifle thin.'
'It's hot. It's a great story. But I've struck some snags.'
'If it's a question of money, maybe I can help. Although god knows you've got the best development budget we ever managed to screw out of those hard-nosed gentlemen.'
'Not a matter of money,' Bright said, 'more of approach, attack.'
'Christ, don't tell me you're blocked already.'
'Have you ever known me to have writer's block, Andy? Ever? I don't believe in writer's block. Bullshit, as we say at home. Cobblers, as you might say over here.'
'Don't play the raw colonial, Vic, not with your Uncle Andy. You're a writer, I'm a problem-solver. Tell me the problem.'
'The problem right now is that my glass's empty. Solve that problem and we'll take it from there.'
A devious negotiator himself, McKinnon persisted with the thought that Bright was raising difficulties to up the ante. He shook his head. 'Not the answer, Vic, old son. It never is. Just talk.'
Bright defiantly drained the last few drops of his Scotch. He was in a mood to argue but he knew that McKinnon was right. Andy McKinnon hadn't got to be one of the top documentary film producers in Europe by getting pissed in the afternoon. He had the golden touch, Andy. The films he brought into being made money; so did the books that accompanied them. Some of his documentaries had even been carried through to sequels. One had spawned a feature film. All good earners. Bright knew he was lucky to have McKinnon's confidence. His own confidence about the project was high; intrigue and puzzlement should be adding a kick. But, somehow, he felt uncertain.
'It's bloody mysterious,' Bright said. 'Brick walls every way I turn.'
'Naturally. That's good. It's uncharted territory. Never touched before. You expect it all to open out in front of you like the A to Z?'
Bright shook his head. Dark, unruly hair fell close to his eyes and he brushed it back impatiently. A strongly built man with a youthful but pugnacious face, he was still tanned from a recent holiday in Cornwall before beginning work on the Craft project. He'd heard you could surf there and he tried it, riding the grey waves into rocky beaches. He found the water hard to read. Nothing like in Sydney where he'd surfed for twenty years. Among other things, it was disgust at the pollution of the golden beaches which had prompted him to make the break to England. And he'd done well . . . stuff in the Guardian and the Independent . . . the pre-elevation interview with John Major . . . the story tracing Australian-raised IRA funds . . . the documentary on AIDS among African immigrants . . .
'You're wool-gathering,' McKinnon said. 'Marshall your thoughts.'
'You've got these two brothers,' Bright said. 'Basil and Richard Craft.'
McKinnon nodded. His long face fringed with a wispy ginger beard fell into lines of interest and concentration. 'Basil Craft, MBE. Great interest right there. Why did one get a gong and the other not? They both did the expeditions, both wrote 'em up. Basil got the goodies. Why?'
'Shut up, Andy, and listen. Right. They crossed the Gobi Desert and the Sahara.'
'Mountains first.'
'Right, over the mountains and across the desert. Then they walked from Culiacán in Mexico over the Sierra Madre and up into the U.S., coming through Death Valley. More mountains, more desert. No vehicles, just camels and donkeys and horses and mules.'
'Taking photographs and fighting bandits,' McKinnon said. 'Remarkable men.'
'Ten years of running a clinic in Switzerland and then they go off to Australia to cross the Gibson Desert.'
'Where they disappear in 1960, the year of your own birth, laddie. On your own turf.'
'Hardly,' Bright said, 'I was born in Coogee, getting on for 2,000 miles away.'
'I keep forgetting the impossible size of the place. But for filming, magnificent, wouldn't you say?'
'Sure.'
'So what's the problem? We hire some helicopters, trace the routes, tell the story. You background the obsessions of the poor, lost loonies . . .'
'That's it. I . . .'
McKinnon's bony knuckles rapped the table. 'Then you solve the disappearance, or give it a bloody good try. Place must be full of bones, who's to say you haven't found the right ones? Anyway, that's not the point. It's a fine tale—big bastards, weren't they?'
Bright was thinking about a drink again. 'Yes. Well over six feet.'
'We hire som
e strapping, good-looking lads for simulation shots and work the living shit out of them. It's got Mongolians, Arabs, Indians, Aborigines, the lot. High adventure in a jaded armchair age. They'll eat it up in East Ham, Shanghai, Tangier, Boise, Idaho, and . . . what's that place again?'
'Coogee. I need a drink.' Bright got up and went to the bar. When he came back with two whiskies McKinnon was plucking at his beard and doodling figures on a notepad. He ignored the glass Bright put in front of him.
'I can probably squeeze out a few more thousand at this stage. If you're short.'
'I keep telling you. Money's not the problem.'
'I can't see the bloody problem, then. It's plain sailing. Starting point's obvious. Basil wrote an autobiography.'
Bright sipped his whisky. 'That's right. Walking Across the World: The Life and Travels of Basil Craft, M.B.E.'
'A wonderful book,' McKinnon said. 'A classic of exploration, scientific discovery and adventure.'
Bright grinned. 'Read it have you, Andy?'
'Well now, no. I'm relying on your own description. I did look at the copy you showed the investors. Great plates.'
'Cost me a hundred quid, that book,' Bright mused. 'Very rare. Published in 1960 and then withdrawn from sale.'
McKinnon nodded. Bright had a faraway look in his eyes, a look he'd seen on the faces of other writers when they'd been apparently sitting at a table talking and drinking, but were in fact deep in a plot or an internal conversation, writing in their heads. He was comforted; Vic was involved and not asking for more cash. Good. But also troubled. That was bad. Troubled writers got drunk, worked slowly, and time was money. McKinnon took a companionable sip of his drink and projected sympathy. 'Is there a problem about using material in the book? We can get around that, laddie. God knows it's nothing compared to putting helicopters into the Gobi Desert which is one of the dozen tricky things you've dumped on my plate.'
Bright shook his head. 'It's the autobiography. The whole thing might turn out to be a pack of bloody lies.'
2
Six weeks earlier, Vic Bright, newly in love and flush with funds from a quick ghost-writing job for a sacked cop with a story to tell, had stumbled across Basil Craft's book in a shop in Charing Cross Road. He browsed, found it fascinating and parted with the £100 with only a minor qualm. Marsha would call him an Aussie idiot but he knew he'd have trouble getting the book away from her. 'A booksnake' he called her. Marsha Prentiss curled herself around books and absorbed them rapidly, heedless of everything else until she'd extracted their essence. She had amazing recall, too, one of the qualities that made her a topnotch film researcher and script editor. An Oxford graduate with experience of TV reporting in Ireland and America behind her, she'd done brilliant work on the AIDS film and Bright had eyes for no other woman two days after meeting her.
He took the book back to his Camden Town flat and when Marsha arrived after a day's work on a Channel 4 documentary, she found him sprawled on the bed, entranced.
'Hey,' she said. 'You haven't had a drink. Not liver trouble at your age?'
'Didn't think about it. I picked up this terrific book.'
'Let's see.' Marsha dropped her bag to the floor and took three long strides towards the bed. She wore tailored pants and a loose sweater, medium heels. Her swinging walk which made her short fair hair bob around her head distracted Bright and she had a hand on the book before he could pull it away.
'Easy,' Bright said. But he let go and lay back on the bed.
'You didn't just pick this up. Quarto. Lovely binding and paper, good condition, plates. You paid a bundle for this.'
'You've worked in TV too long, Marty,' Bright said. 'You're talking about money all the time.'
Marsha ignored him and turned the pages. Bright knew what would happen next: she'd sit on the bed and start reading. She did. He levered himself forward and put his arms around her, kissed her neck. 'Great smell,' he said. 'French perfume and London traffic.'
'Mmm.'
'Want a drink?'
'Mmm.'
He came back quietly, stark naked and carrying two glasses of red wine. He handed Marsha a glass and stood beside her.
'Thanks,' Marsha said. 'Impressive stuff.'
'Me, the wine or the book?'
'The book.' She looked up. 'Vic!'
'Try the wine.'
She sipped. 'Not bad. Might as well try you too.'
They made love, drank some more wine and ate omelettes cooked by Bright. While Marsha washed the dishes and made coffee, Vic repossessed the autobiography. He read, looked at the plates and carefully opened out the maps at the back of the volume. Unfolded, they spread out to four times the size of the page.
Marsha dried her hands. 'Haven't seen maps like that in a book for ages. Very old-fashioned. When was it printed?'
'Nineteen sixty.'
'Weird,' Marsha said. 'Nineteenth-century stuff. Who's the publisher?'
'Carlton Press, High Holborn.'
'Never heard of them. You've got a funny look in your eye, Vic, and you only had two glasses of wine. What's up?'
'You ever hear of this bloke? Basil Craft, or his brother?'
Marsha shook her head and turned away to take the hissing coffeepot off the burner.
'This is a fantastic story, Marty. It's got everything—the Gobi Desert, the Sahara, Death Valley. I feel a film coming on. I've never heard of the Crafts either. I wonder what happened to them.'
'When did they do the trips? Thirties and '40s? That's not so long ago. They might still be alive.'
Marsha poured the coffee, set the mugs on the table and held out her hand. 'Gimme.'
Marsha read the memoir, over 300 pages long, in a single sitting. She came to bed in the early hours and scarcely slept. When Bright brought her coffee in the morning her first words were, 'It's a fabulous story. It can't miss—great film, great book. Sibling rivalry, exotic locations . . .'
Bright was pleased by her enthusiasm but elected to play the devil's advocate. 'Maybe too exotic. And it lacks the rags-to-riches element.'
'Well, that's true. Doctor's sons, Oxford and all that. But they survived battles in the Gobi and Sahara, storms and rattlesnakes and renegades in America. And they just . . . did it, single-handed.'
'Double-handed.'
'Yes. That's fascinating. Basil married, Richard didn't.'
Bright picked up the book from the floor on Marsha's side of the bed. 'It's going to be a nice day. I'll find a spot to have a quiet drink and read it. Catch up with you.'
Marsha pulled a face. 'What a life you lead. Tell you something, you'd better get on with it pretty quick. I can't understand why it hasn't been snapped up before this. And you'd better keep shtum. No blabbing to your journo mates in the bar.'
Bright took three times as long as Marsha to read the autobiography. He re-read passages, studied the photographs and maps, made rough notes, consulted the atlas and his patchy collection of reference books. At the University of New South Wales he had spent more time at student politics and journalism and surfing than his studies and his Arts degree was undistinguished. 'You're a quick study, Mr Bright, but no scholar,' a History lecturer had told him. 'I'd suggest journalism as a career, sports writing perhaps.' Vic had done exactly that, along with feature articles on politicians and moneymakers. He'd played a round of golf with the prime minister and surfed with Greg Norman before venturing into deeper, murkier waters.
He emerged from his reading of Walking Across the World convinced that he'd struck gold. A few hours research in the University of London library brought him home to Camden Town excited and eager.
'Almost nothing on their African, Mongolian and American travels,' he told Marsha. 'But get this. They disappeared in the Gibson Desert in 1960.'
'Where?'
'Western Australia, the Northern Territory. I see round-the-world tickets, babe. The Mongolia Hilton, the Sahara Holiday Inn, Reno, the Alice. It's safari time.'
'Alice who?'
'Alice Spri
ngs.'
'Does she?'
'Alice Springs is . . .'
'I know what Alice Springs is, you dumb colonial. So, are you going to take me to meet your mum?'
Bright thought of his widowed mother's small flat in Coogee with its view across red roofs to the water and the rocks in the bay. He could taste the cold beer passing his salt-caked lips as he sat on the steps of the Coogee Bay Hotel. Homesickness hit him like a Bondi wave. The project really did have everything. 'Sure. Give you a tip. If she turns the TV off when she meets you she likes you.'
'What if Neighbours is on?'
'If she turns off Neighbours she loves you. I've done some photocopying from the book. There's that self-drawn head-and-shoulders sketch of Basil in the front. The maps are works of art. Can we get hold of that desktop publishing mate of yours to knock up a presentation?'
Marsha nodded. 'Brian, yes. Cost a bit. How much did the book cost?'
'A hundred quid. Recoverable.'
'Who'll you pitch it to? As if I didn't know.'
'Andy'll love it. This is Cannes Festival stuff. An Oscar winner maybe. What's Brian's number?'
Two weeks later Bright showed the glossy submission to McKinnon, who whooped and swore he could get the money. Bright had paid an art student to make an enlarged copy of the portrait of Basil Craft. The sketch was enclosed in the folder and McKinnon studied the beetle-browed, rough-hewn face closely. Craft's neck was thick and his shoulders powerful.
'He's no Robert Redford.'
'That face was shaped by desert winds,' Bright said.
'You're writing already. That's splendid. Bankable.'
Vic and Marsha dined out on that and spent time tidying up the loose ends of other projects. Bright met the backers—a shrewd marketwise Scot with an adding-machine brain and a calm, immaculately suited Pakistani. His emphasis on the need for absolute secrecy about the project until some contracts were signed and the territory staked out appeared to impress them as much as his enthusiasm and track record. The Pakistani wanted to hear more about Bright's investigation of how the Australian Security Organisation had used legitimately produced medicinal heroin in a drug-busting exercise that had farcically misfired. Bright's paperback, The Poppy Prank, had enjoyed good sales and he was ready with the appropriate jokes, although some of his encounters with angry and embarrassed intelligence officers had been far from funny.