by Tim Ayliffe
Roberts was in full flight.
‘Well, Mr Donaldson has written a book. It’s a pile of dangerous hogwash, if you ask me. He thinks we should be best pals with China and forget about America. The old red, white and blue’s on the way down . . . the new red’s on the way up. Better get in before it’s too late. Forget the trenches where we fought alongside Americans against that common enemy!’
Roberts’ opening gambits often lasted longer than his interviews.
‘So, what do you think about China? Friend or foe? We’ll take your calls in a moment. First, let’s speak to Michael Donaldson to hear more about his views, which have been splashed across the front pages of today’s newspapers.
‘Michael Donaldson, welcome to the show.’
‘Great to be –’
‘So, you say it’s time to forget about reds under the bed and let them through the front door?’
Bailey knew Donaldson from when he was ambassador to Israel. He was a career public servant and one of those diplomats who’d done the rounds in top posts in most parts of the world. Bailey couldn’t believe that he’d agreed to go on Roberts’ program. Although, he did have a book to sell.
‘Keith, I don’t think you’re quite being honest with your listeners. My book doesn’t argue anything like what you’re suggesting. The world is changing. China’s an undisputed economic powerhouse, our biggest trading partner by a long stretch. There’s a new president in the White House who’s pushing protectionist policies. Australia faces some strategic challenges and –’
‘C’mon, Mr Donaldson, speak in a language people can understand.’ Donaldson hadn’t even finished his first answer before Roberts was into him. ‘You think the United States won’t be running the world soon, that we ought to ditch DC and buy our guns and warships and fighter planes from the Chinese, cosy up to the bad guys before it’s too late!’
‘That’s not what I am saying at all. Keith, if you’d just let me –’
‘No, I think we get your point,’ Roberts said. ‘You can justify your position further in a moment. Let’s take a call to hear what our listeners think. We’ve got Doris on the line. Doris – how’re you, love?’
‘Hello Keith. I just love your show, by the way.’
‘Thanks, darling. Now, what do you think about this China business?’
‘I’ve got to say I’m really scared by what Michael Donaldson is saying. I mean, the Chinese just aren’t like us. They don’t share our values –’
Bailey had heard enough. Roberts was still a prick.
He switched the radio to his CD player and blasted the Rolling Stones to clear his ears of Roberts’ yapping voice. Exile on Main Street – now that was an album.
Bailey was still humming the cool harmonica section of ‘Sweet Virginia’ when he strolled out of the elevator and onto the fraying blue carpet of The Journal’s newsroom.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been there, and he didn’t recognise half of the faces that looked up from their desks at the new guy.
The old guy, really.
He felt like the oldest person in the building. Then he remembered the latest round of redundancies that had cleaned out the place, and the chief executive’s note to staff about the need to turn The Journal into a digital business. Whatever that meant. Bailey never understood why he wasn’t shown the door. Gerald protecting him, most likely.
He nodded at the few people he still recognised and sat down at his desk. It was piled high with old newspapers, magazines and unopened mail. He cleared the clutter off the top of his keyboard and began contemplating the type of story he could write about the death of a prostitute in Rushcutters Bay. Accident or murder? He’d need to report it straight so that he didn’t burn Dexter. He owed her a call before publishing. Later.
‘Bailey.’ A polite, familiar voice sounded behind him. ‘Mr Summers wants to see you.’
It was Gerald’s assistant, Penelope. She had visited Bailey at home a few times to check up on him during the bad old days. But she never judged him.
Bailey swivelled around in his chair. ‘How are you, Pen?’
‘I’m good. But you’d better get to it – the boss looks stressed.’
‘Summonsed.’ Bailey was on his feet again. ‘On my way.’
Gerald’s office was in the corner of the newsroom. It had a large window that used to have a beautiful view of Darling Harbour before the developers were unleashed on Cockle Bay. These days Gerald looked directly into a twenty-storey hotel and the best view he could hope for was of an unwitting female taking her clothes off without drawing the blinds. It surprised Bailey how often it happened.
‘What did you find?’ Gerald wasn’t in the mood for small talk.
‘Dead prostitute. Name’s Catherine Chamberlain. Pretty girl, looked after herself too. Guess she was one of those high-paid types. Strangled. Belt hanging from the door handle, looked like a sex game gone wrong –’
‘Or made to look that way,’ Gerald said.
‘I’ve been at the crime scene, looked at the body. Why do I feel like you know more about Catherine Chamberlain than I do?’
‘Ruby Chambers was her working-girl name,’ Gerald said. ‘And you’re right, I do. Shut the door.’
Bailey did what he was told and sat down in one of two stiff uncomfortable chairs on the other side of Gerald’s large mahogany desk.
Like always, Gerald was dressed in a smart tailored suit, freshly preened shirt, bright tie and his customary round-rimmed glasses. Conservative and politely spoken, he looked more like a university professor than a newspaper man. But he’d done the rounds – the hard yards – including a stint with Bailey in Iraq.
He stood up, turned his back on Bailey and stared out the window.
‘Any lovelies out there, you old pervert?’
‘Sorry, no sense of humour today, mate.’ Gerald didn’t turn around.
‘All right. Are you going to tell me what you know?’
‘Not much is the short answer, but more than I’d like.’
‘And?’
Gerald sighed and turned to face him. ‘Last Thursday, I was invited to a love-in at the American consul-general’s house in Bellevue Hill. Swanky affair. Ambassador was there with the usual state and federal ministers sucking up to him. Newspaper editors, TV directors, arty types and the odd wealthy banker – we all get invited. When I was leaving, a bloke called Michael Anderson asked me for a lift home. I’d only just met him. He was blind drunk, but eager to get out of there.’
‘Michael Anderson?’
‘Advisor to Gary Page.’
‘The defence minister.’ Everyone knew Gary Page – he was a Labor Party heavyweight, one of the government’s strongest performers.
‘Right. And guess where he wanted me to drop him off?’
‘You’re joking,’ Bailey said.
Gerald finally sat down at his desk.
‘He’d probably told me more than a man like him usually would. Given the number of glasses of wine I saw him throw back at the house, I wasn’t surprised. Said he was seeing this hot little number called –’
‘Catherine Chamberlain.’ Bailey finished the sentence for him.
‘Right.’
‘Surely you don’t think he –’
‘Who knows? Probably not. But knowing he was in a relationship with her is a story in itself. We could print that tomorrow and sell papers.’
‘Why don’t we?’
A prostitute who may have been murdered had been seeing an advisor to Australia’s defence minister – that was a good story.
‘I got a call last night – late, more like morning. It was Page.’
Bailey shifted forward in his chair. ‘The minister called you himself?’
‘Yep. Anderson must have remembered me dropping him off. God knows how, he was so pissed. Rattled too – about what, I couldn’t get out of him.
‘Anyway, police had only just found Chamberlain’s body and I’ve got the defence minister o
n the phone asking me not to put two and two together and print a story with both his and Anderson’s names in it.’
‘Give a reason?’
‘The usual when these guys want to block you – publishing may pose a threat to national security.’
‘The only threat I can see here’s the veiled one – a late-night phone call from a senior government minister. I say we publish.’
‘I know these guys better than you do, Bailey. And you know me.’ Gerald’s voice was firm. ‘We’ll pull the trigger on this. I just need more information.’
Bailey regretted pushing him. ‘What do you need from me?’
‘Get me something we can use.’ Gerald paused, a hint of a smile appearing on his face. ‘Sharon Dexter’s the detective on the case, right?’
‘How’d you know that?’
‘A little birdie told me. Must be nice for you two to see each other after all these years.’
‘Don’t start, Gerald.’
‘Now, now. Don’t be so defensive.’
‘She slipped me her card; suggested something, like she couldn’t talk in front of the young coppers at the scene.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for? Give her a ring.’
‘Planning to.’ Bailey stood up and headed for the door. ‘Some old prick is holding me up.’
‘And Bailey?’
‘Yep?’
‘You’ve got a real skill for pissing women off, especially this one.’ Gerald wasn’t smiling this time. ‘We need more to run with this, so take it easy.’
‘It was a long time ago, Gerald. She’s fine.’ Bailey didn’t like being lectured – by anyone. Especially when they were right.
‘If you say so.’
CHAPTER 3
Bailey hadn’t eaten breakfast and it was already time for lunch. He took a deep breath and dialled the phone number on Detective Sharon Dexter’s card. She answered before the second ring.
‘Sharon, it’s Bailey.’
‘You didn’t waste any time.’ The tone in her voice was steady, business-like.
‘I’ve got a few questions.’
‘And?’
‘Not on the phone. Can we meet?’ Bailey was trying to sound professional.
‘Bailey, I saw you less than three hours ago.’
‘Yeah, but I’ve got something for you too, something that could be connected. How about I buy you lunch in Chinatown?’
Dexter sighed down the end of the phone.
‘Nothing cheap and nasty.’
‘The Red Emperor? Midday?’
‘Sounds cheap. But yeah, I’ll be there.’
‘I’ll surprise you.’
Chinatown was almost unrecognisable to Bailey. In the years he had been away the place had been buffed and shined for the tourist dollar with shopping centres, gardens, public art installations and swanky bars, all aimed at gentrifying the streetscape. It was a different place from the one he had ventured out into late at night for a cheap beef and black bean and a bottle of chardonnay after finishing a story just in time for the printers.
The restaurants where Bailey liked to eat – with nylon floors, lazy Susans, murky fish tanks and neon lights – were harder to find these days. But they were there, dotted in among the prime harbourside real estate. The Red Emperor was his new favourite.
Bailey was nervous about seeing Dexter again. They were both caught offguard in Rushcutters Bay – no time to contemplate the past. But that was hours ago, plenty of time for Dexter to remember the selfish bastard who’d walked out on her.
It wasn’t like they were destined for the altar – Bailey already had one failed marriage behind him. But he knew they had something good. When Bailey decided to head back to the Middle East to cover the war in Afghanistan, Dexter had understood. It was his job and she wouldn’t stand in the way. Especially after September 11. He would fly home when he could and they would talk and email a few times a week. Their relationship was strong enough to withstand a few absent months.
But when the Taliban dug in and George W. Bush set his sights on Iraq, it became clear that Bailey wouldn’t be coming home for a long time. Clear to him, anyway. When you’re being jolted awake by the sounds of bombs and gunfire – feeling the vibrations – life outside the warzone doesn’t seem real any more.
And he was counting bodies again.
The longer he stayed away, the harder it was for him to keep the relationship with Dexter going. He was on the other side of the world and, as the weeks turned into months, it seemed pointless. Weekly calls became monthly. And then Bailey stopped calling altogether.
He couldn’t remember exactly how, or when, it ended. Distracted by the war still simmering around him, he had blocked it all out so that he could get on with the job.
That was all in the past now. Forgiven and forgotten, Bailey told himself as he stared out the window, watching the cars and pedestrians pass by. He studied the random faces, wondering about their lives beyond the working day merry-go-round. Everybody had secrets. The journalist in him wanted to know all of them.
Sharon Dexter didn’t have any secrets. She was the most honest person he knew. Bailey loved that about her, along with a figure that had made tradies down tools at a construction site. Still would.
Dexter had had a tough upbringing. She was raised in the harbourside suburb of Balmain where her parents, Bruce and Cathy, owned a pub called The Scotsman. Back then, Balmain was a modest suburb with a strong working-class tradition. It was home to the families of miners, dock workers, tradesmen and the men who clocked on and off at the electricity plant before stopping by The Scotsman for a beer.
Balmain was also the birthplace of the Australian Labor Party, and Bruce Dexter liked to tell his patrons that the pub had been one of the favoured meeting places of those early representatives of the working man’s movement. No one had the heart to tell him that The Scotsman was built thirty years after those first gatherings took place. It didn’t matter. The patrons loved Bruce and, as long as the beer was flowing, they put up with his stories.
Cathy Dexter had fallen victim to the Spanish dancer, as Bruce called it – he couldn’t bring himself to say the word. The cancer had started in her lungs before rapidly spreading to her brain. She was dead within twelve months. It was the year that Sharon started high school. Bruce tried to be strong for his daughter. But most of the time it was Sharon who took care of him.
Bruce never recovered from the death of his wife. Every week until the day he died he would place a fresh bunch of lilies – Cathy’s favourites – by her gravestone, dutifully clearing the previous week’s wilted bunch away. He never remarried. What was the point? No one would ever be good enough.
Bruce didn’t like many people, but he liked John Bailey. And Bailey liked him too. He liked drinking with him and talking about the world. Publicans knew more about life than anyone because of what went on in their pubs – anger, violence and tears when times were tight; celebrations when they weren’t. The most accurate take on the health of the economy was always from the bloke who poured the beers, especially in a country like Australia.
The Scotsman had made Dexter a tough young girl. Men could turn into monsters after too many beers and Bruce made sure his daughter knew how to defend herself. Although he didn’t need to teach her much. Dexter had a strong sense of right and wrong and wasn’t afraid to dish out a little justice. She once broke a man’s hand when she caught him trying to steal money from the cash register. It was the only time she used the small wooden baseball bat she kept hidden under the bar, the only time she needed to. Sharon Dexter’s little bat became legendary.
But Dexter was determined to move on from Balmain and do something different with her life. The police force made sense. She was one of only three women to graduate from the New South Wales Police Academy in the class of 1987. It was a boys’ club back then. Still is.
Bailey met her for the first time at a crime scene at Kings Cross sometime in the late eighties. It was before he went to B
eirut and Dexter was still feeling her way through the murky underworld of policing in one of the dirtiest decades of law enforcement.
Bailey was hated by the men in uniform because his reporting had put some of them behind bars. It didn’t matter that they were corrupt. The force was tribal in those days. Bailey was despised for investigating cops, instead of the real criminals still out on the streets.
Dexter was instantly drawn to Bailey when he approached her that day in Kings Cross, notepad in hand, with questions for his story. The young crime reporter, hungry for the truth. He was polite, charming, and his thick gravelly voice and leathery tanned skin made him popular with the ladies. But he wasn’t chasing skirt in those days. He had a young wife and baby at home. Not that he saw much of them. For Bailey, it was all about the job. He was tough and had wanted justice as much as Dexter did. He just had a different way of doing it, different tools. A pencil instead of a gun.
Dexter started paying close attention to Bailey’s stories in The Journal – the ones that questioned the tactics and actions of her dubious colleagues. As a rookie policewoman, she had felt powerless to do anything about it. The bad guys in blue were more dangerous than the crooks they were chasing.
When the corrupt underworld of policing reached out to bring her into its fold, Dexter knew she had had enough. She called Bailey. They became friends, trusted each other. Dexter helped Bailey bring down a number of crooked cops with his front-page Sin City scoops. Then, suddenly, he was gone. Dispatched to the Middle East, his wife and baby daughter in tow, to fulfil every reporter’s dream of becoming a correspondent.
A giant fish tank separated the kitchen from the bar at the Red Emperor. Inside the glass, Bailey counted six sad looking lobsters, claws tied, moving in slow motion in the cloudy water.
He looked past the lobsters to the kitchen staff on the other side. They were all dressed in white, prepping the food for the lunchtime rush, if it came. Right now, it was just Bailey, the barman and about thirty empty chairs.
He resisted the temptation to order himself a drink. It was only midday and if he really was getting back to work, he couldn’t start drinking at lunchtime. At least, not in front of Dexter.
