Bay of Martyrs

by Tony Black

  Clay sipped his beer. ‘How did you get sacked, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Because I was working for a pack of dodgy bastards. Fullerton Industries can go and eat a bag of dicks, if you ask me.’

  The mention of Lachlan Fullerton’s company grabbed Clay’s attention. ‘Dodgy, how?’

  Eddie laughed, leaned in. ‘Careful, Dave, you’ll see this in print tomorrow.’

  Clay gave Eddie a glare. ‘Off the record, of course.’ He waved his lit cigarette around, taking in the night with his gesture. ‘Do I look like I’m on duty?’

  ‘Hard to tell with you,’ said Eddie.

  ‘What do I care?’ said Dave. ‘I’m happy to tell whoever’s listening about what a bunch of lying mongrels they are.’

  ‘Is this to do with the Gold Coast hospital deal?’ said Clay.

  ‘Nah, that’s only in the early stages just now. But I did a bunch of other big jobs for them, they’ve no shortage of them up around there. My face didn’t fit, though, I’ve never been able to keep my trap shut and they don’t like answering too many questions from the workforce.’ Dave gestured to Clay’s cigarette pack. ‘You mind if I bum one of those?’

  ‘Sure, go ahead.’

  Dave took a cigarette and lit it before continuing. He seemed to find some release in slagging off his former employers. ‘See, when I started with ’em ten year ago down here, everything was sound. Good company to work for. Then they start bringing in overseas workers on those 457 visas. Supposed to be for skilled workers, but Fullerton’s just bringing in a bunch of young Chinese fellas who don’t know a hammer from a hard hat. Pays ’em peanuts and slowly kicks all the local construction workers off the job – once they’ve trained up the Chinese fellas, of course, who can’t speak a word of English, mind you.’

  ‘Surely the union would have something to say about that, wouldn’t they?’ said Clay.

  He almost spat at the suggestion. ‘Yeah, you’d bloody think so, wouldn’t you. The union blokes are turning up less and less at the Fullerton sites. A few guys I know who worked for a bunch of other construction companies said the union reps were still turning up at their jobs, but they weren’t showing up at the Fullerton ones for some reason. I don’t know what the score is.’

  ‘You any idea why the union’s bailed?’

  ‘I can only guess. But whatever the reason, I’ll bet it ain’t legit.’

  Clay watched Dave knock the ash from his cigarette; he was not a happy man. ‘And you say that you started asking questions?’ said Clay.

  ‘Yeah. Silly me. Apparently I was supposed to shut up as my mates got the flick one by one and replaced with a bunch of blokes getting paid half as much. Or less than half, more than likely.’

  ‘Would you go on the record about this stuff?’

  ‘You mean for the newspaper?’ He shrugged. ‘Sure. I got nothing to lose.’

  ‘Bloody brilliant.’ Clay exhaled the last of his cigarette and stomped the butt of it out on the footpath with a sense of triumph. Dave’s story wouldn’t bring Fullerton down, but it was a start.

  Dave pointed upstairs. ‘You coming up for a beer? It’s my shout.’

  Clay looked at Eddie; he nodded back. ‘Sure,’ said the journalist. ‘I’ll join you fellas for a round.’

  The trio headed up the stairs of The Loft. Dave tottered off towards the bar and Clay and Eddie went for a quiet corner away from the stage. ‘Seems like a nice guy,’ said Clay.

  ‘Yeah, he’s a good bloke,’ said Eddie. ‘Shame about the job. He and his wife have a baby on the way, too, so it’s bad timing.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll bounce back.’

  ‘Speaking of bouncing back, I don’t suppose I could ask a small favour of you.’

  ‘I’m pretty sure I owe you a couple of favours, Eddie, so fire away.’

  ‘That photographer you were with the other night, the Irish one – is she seeing anyone?’

  Clay was blindsided, not only by the question, but by a surprising and sudden rush of emotions brought on by it. It hadn’t occurred to him until right at that moment that he could be protective of Bec. He told himself that’s all it was, though. She was intelligent, easy on the eye, and the accent was kind of attractive, but that’s where it ended. They were colleagues. And the fact she took no crap, least of all from him, saw to that.

  ‘Nah, I don’t think so,’ muttered Clay, unable to lie quickly enough.

  ‘Great. I don’t suppose I could get her number off ya, could I? I mean, do you think she’d mind if I give her a call?’

  Clay paused. His mind was racing through a bunch of bad ways to brush off Eddie’s enquiry, but none of them rang true. In the end he relented, saying nothing as he dug his old Nokia from his pocket and read Bec’s number to Eddie, who saved it into his shiny new iPhone, with a grin.

  ‘I thought you were stuck all the way out in Port Campbell. Would be a bit of a trek every time you wanted to catch up with Bec, wouldn’t it?’ Clay tried to make his attempt at dissuasion as subtle as possible.

  ‘Aww, nah, haven’t you heard? I just got reassigned back to Warrnambool, effective immediately. A spot opened up back here. What great timing, hey?’

  Clay smiled, but was less than pleased. He was jealous and that bothered him. It was such a petty emotion, and Clay had long prided himself on his complete lack of envy. Envy meant giving a crap about what others had or what they were doing, and in turn it meant looking down on your own situation, which meant wallowing in self-pity. Clay had no time for that. But Eddie’s interest in Bec had riled up some long dead emotions within Clay, and that made him angry. Not at Bec or Eddie, but at himself for bothering with such cheap feelings.

  Chapter 14

  The claims of Dave the construction worker had run in Saturday’s edition.

  It was a heavily expurgated version of the one Clay had handed to Tudor at first. The editor had sent the copy up the line to the lawyers, who had sent it back with a bunch of metaphorical red lines through many of the accusations. Clay had also called Fullerton’s people for a comment. The PR woman in Fullerton Industries’ Sydney office had spoken to Clay with the usual over-the-top enthusiasm of those who had sold their soul to work in the corporate sector, but as the conversation wore on, she ditched the meet-and-greet girl for bad-mouthed bag lady. By the time the phone call had ended, Clay was confident he would be getting nothing more than a ‘no comment’. At 5 p.m. on Friday, he was proven right.

  Clay glanced through the Saturday paper in the café below his apartment over a late breakfast of eggs, bacon, avocado, and hash browns, with an extra-strong heart-starter of a coffee to perk him up a little. Sleep had passed him by yet again, despite a few more joints and whiskies than usual in his lounge room the previous night. Upping the intake didn’t worry him when the only option was a restless night, and the increase always washed away bad dreams.

  Clay scanned his article, checking to see if it had been softened even further than the lawyer’s cautious handling of the matter. He wasn’t aiming to get sued and had written a version he thought was legally beyond reproach, but admitted to himself he’d been trying too hard to rile up Fullerton and Swanson. The more Clay thought about it all, the more he was convinced the pair were in cahoots over the Warrnambool Airport deal. So what if he didn’t have the proof? He had something almost as good: a story in his sights, and his journalistic instincts told him it was a big one.

  After breakfast and a half-hearted attempt at the sudoku, Clay decided to take a chance and wandered a couple of blocks to the Victoria Hotel. He was yet to hear from JT, but had a feeling he’d find the waiter hunched over a form guide in the Vic, watching the horses do their thing on the racing channel.

  The Vic was one of the last real pubs in Warrnambool. Almost every other venue had been modernised, gentrified, demolished, or re-purposed, but the Vic was a remaining bastion of what pub life was once like. There was a tote in the corner for placing bets, a few TVs to watch the sport of the day, a
chalkboard menu offering a few basic bar meals, and a hardy crew of regulars sinking ale. All that was missing from the glory days was the stratocumulus of tobacco smoke hovering over the beer taps.

  As Clay’s eyes adjusted to the dim light of the room, he spotted JT, propped up on a bar stool next to a near-empty pint of Guinness, his gaze transfixed by the Test Match cricket on one of the big screens. Clay had little time for Aussie Rules football these days – the rabid fans put him off – but he enjoyed cricket. This was a gentlemen’s sport, particularly the drawn-out Test Match variety, where the game became as much about the ball-by-ball happenings as it did the grand plan spread across five days. It took patience, stamina, and intelligence, unlike the mile-a-minute thuggery and chaos of the AFL.

  Clay positioned himself on the stool next to JT. ‘I had a feeling I’d find you here on a Saturday.’

  ‘It’s pretty much my office lately,’ said JT.

  ‘That your lunch?’ Clay nodded at the pint glass.

  ‘You know what they say – there’s a meal in every Guinness.’

  Clay laughed. ‘Have you got any news for me?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Sorry. I meant to call you. I spoke to the girls at work and none of them know where exactly Kerry was working on the night she disappeared, but one of them remembers her getting the job.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A girl called Sally, who was one of Kerry’s closest buds at work… she said she remembers this suit coming in, slick as goose shit, dark hair, briefcase, Rolex, the works. Sally reckons the suit took a shine to Kerry. Talking to her the whole time he was there. After he goes – and he pays with some gold credit card or some shit – Kerry tells Sally she’s got a gig. Good paying. One night’s work, first Sunday after Christmas. On a private yacht.’

  Clay came close to spitting out his coffee. ‘You’re kidding me? Whose yacht? Where?’

  ‘Here’s the bad news, man – that’s all I got.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I asked every question I could think of, but that was all she knew.’

  ‘Did she recognise him? Had she seen him around town before?’

  ‘Never laid eyes on him before. Could have been an out-oftowner.’

  ‘Damn.’ Clay turned his gaze towards the bar, was about to Frisbee the beer mat. ‘Wait a minute… he paid with a credit card. Is there a record still? If we matched the date and time?’

  ‘Already thought of that. Those receipts are long gone. And the boss isn’t going to let me just start browsing through the restaurant’s bank details.’

  ‘What about CCTV? Could we go back through the tapes and see if we can ID this guy in the suit?’

  JT laughed. ‘Mate, the cameras in the restaurant aren’t plugged into anything. They’re just for show.’

  Clay sensed desperation sinking into him; he stared at the cricket on the TV screen without really looking at it. ‘Do the cops know any of this?’

  ‘Don’t think so. Like I said the other day, they only spoke to the boss. And I’m pretty sure he doesn’t know any of this stuff.’ JT sipped on his pint. ‘You want me to tell them?’

  Clay shook his head. ‘Nah. I’ll pass it on to the right people, through the appropriate channels. I know a cop who might do the right thing with this information, on the off-chance the detectives are deliberately doing a dodgy job.’

  ‘Are you for real? You think there’s a cover-up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  JT shot a questioning glance at Clay. ‘Jeez, man, I smoke a fair bit of weed, but even I’m not that paranoid. Cops around here can be fools, definitely. Cops around here can be a little bit lazy, maybe even look the other way every now and then on some minor things. But I highly doubt cops around here are covering up something as big as a murder. This is Warrnambool, mate. It’s not bloody Chinatown.’

  ‘People keep saying that. You’re probably right, though, I just need a good night’s sleep, more than likely.’ He glanced at JT’s pint glass, which was well on its way to empty. ‘You want another one? My shout.’

  ‘Sure. I don’t have to work for another couple of hours. You having one?’

  ‘Sure, why not? The sun’s over the yardarm, after all.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘Is this Clay Moloney?’

  It was Monday morning and Clay had barely turned his computer on when his phone rang. The voice on the other end was all business. It was not what he wanted to hear after another weekend of too much drinking and not enough sleeping.

  ‘Yeah, Clay speaking,’ he managed.

  ‘Clay, this is Mark Webster from the Sydney Morning Herald. I read your article about Fullerton Industries on your paper’s website over the weekend. Great stuff.’

  ‘Thanks, Mark.’ Clay’s brain caught up at last and connected the dots to the name; he’d read Webster’s stories on Fullerton in the metros on the day he and Bec had driven out to the airport. Webster had broken the story about the investigation into Fullerton and Wayne Swanson over the Gold Coast Hospital.

  ‘I was wondering if you can help me out with a couple of things,’ said Webster.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘First, I hope you don’t mind if I use some of your words in my next update on the Fullerton matter. I’ll give you a joint byline, of course.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘Great,’ said Webster. ‘Now the second thing is part-favour, part-tip-off. I want you to keep your ears on the ground for me down there. Obviously you’re on Fullerton and Swanson’s home turf, so you might be privy to some contacts and conversations I can’t be.’

  Clay was intrigued and leant forward without even realising it. His pen was poised on his notepad. It was all atavistic, senses readying to greet something that might help make a story.

  ‘This Warrnambool Airport deal… something’s not right about it,’ said Webster.

  ‘You’re telling me,’ said Clay. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’

  ‘Have you spoken to Fullerton and Swanson about it?’

  ‘Sure did.’ Clay detailed his conversations with both men.

  ‘Right,’ said Webster, as if Clay’s chats had gone exactly as expected. ‘At first I figured it was just Swanson grandstanding, starved of attention while Parliament’s not sitting. Or maybe he got rattled by the last lot of polls – he was listed as one of the frontbenchers in the most trouble if a snap election was called. And that’s even before I started digging up this Gold Coast Hospital stuff. But that’s not the reason for the airport announcement. There’s more to it. Fullerton has something over Swanson.’

  Clay’s pen stopped moving. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I don’t know what it is exactly, but Fullerton knows something about Swanson, and Swanson doesn’t want it to get out.’

  ‘Fullerton’s extorting Swanson? Are you serious?’ Clay struggled with the enormity of what Webster was saying, this changed everything. ‘I figured the airport deal was just a jobs-for-the-boys type of situation, with some kickbacks thrown in for good measure.’

  ‘I think that’s what the Gold Coast Hospital deal was,’ said Webster. ‘But there’s been some kind of falling-out between Fullerton and Swanson since then, and as a result, Fullerton forced Swanson’s hand on the Warrnambool Airport.’

  ‘How do you know this?’ Clay snapped like a clapperboard, his enthusiasm was spilling over.

  ‘This is the thing, I can’t get it confirmed. One of my sources reckons Fullerton’s blackmailing Swanson, but I can’t get that on the record. At this stage it’s just rumour, albeit one I’m hearing from a couple of places now, but that doesn’t prove anything. I can’t publish it, not without getting sued. But I might be able to leak it to one of my cop buddies. I need more info, though. I need another source. Or to find out what Fullerton’s got on Swanson, if that is indeed the case.’

  ‘You don’t fully trust your source?’

  ‘He’s a union guy, could be makin
g it up as payback on all the lay-offs Fullerton’s been making to bring in overseas workers on 457 visas. Plus there’s another source of mine, a government guy, who says the extortion angle’s a lie.’

  ‘What’s his spin?’

  ‘He says Swanson’s getting kickbacks from Fullerton. Which is still bad and highly illegal, but nowhere near as exciting a story as the blackmail one. Plus, if I say he’s getting kickbacks and it’s something worse, I’ll get sued and the story dies before I can get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘So what do you want from me?’

  ‘I want you to keep your ear on the ground. Maybe talk to Dave the construction worker again. He might know a guy who knows a guy, you know what I’m saying? Now that you’re armed with the right information, you might be able to ask the right questions.’

  Clay nodded to himself. ‘Sounds good to me. But why are you so hell-bent on taking down Fullerton and Swanson?’

  There was a gentle laugh down the phone line. ‘’Cos they’re corrupt. You never let it get personal, Clay. It’s always just about keeping the bastards honest.’

  Proudfoots Restaurant was packed, despite it being a Tuesday night. Bec conceded the dining room was on the smallish side, but there were still plenty of people crammed in for the evening meal. The fact it was a public holiday – Australia Day, Bec had realised belatedly – might have had something to do with the restaurant’s busyness. But the waiting staff were well-trained, they carried an air of calmness in the face of the obvious pressure that came from both the customers and the kitchen.

  Bec spotted JT whizzing back and forth between the tables and the bar, pouring and serving drinks without showing the pressure. She waved at him as she entered; he smiled back, but he didn’t have time to chat. Bec caught herself wondering if he’d passed any information onto Clay about Kerry Collins. There hadn’t been time to find out for herself. Her shifts had been filled with photography assignments, and any time she’d seen Clay in the office, he’d been on the phone and managed little more than a casual wave.