Bay of Martyrs

by Tony Black

  ‘It’s either a stroke of genius or the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. But I can’t tell which.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘Well, Swanson giving Fullerton the Warrnambool Airport deal could be Swanson’s way of saying “I’ve got nothing to fear – here, look, I’m so unfazed by your puny investigation I’m going to give Fullerton another contract, right in front of your face.” If everything’s legit, he’s got nothing to worry about and it’s business as usual.’

  ‘Or…?’

  ‘Or Swanson is so bloody-minded and pig-ignorant that he thinks he’s bulletproof and he can keep throwing dodgy deals around because he reckons he’ll never get caught. Like I said – stroke of genius or the dumbest thing ever.’

  ‘So which do you think it is?’ said Bec.

  Clay stared out the window at the farmland. Irrigators dotted the paddocks, working overtime in the heat to try and keep the potato crops from failing. He ran his hands through his dark hair again, grabbing clumps in his fists to show his frustration. ‘I really don’t know,’ he said. ‘I usually have a gut instinct on this kind of stuff, but this is such an abnormal political situation. It’s the middle of summer; Parliament’s not even sitting at the moment. The news cycle is so slow that releasing the contract winner at this time of the year is like making an announcement from every rooftop and every town corner. You can’t hide this. That’s why we’re doing some stupid story about holidaymakers, there’s nothing else happening. Swanson’s made himself a target with this announcement, so he must have a bloody good reason.’

  They found Swanson where his PA had said he’d be – touring an abalone farm just outside Port Fairy. He was ostensibly on holiday, but had tipped off the media to a full day of visits in the small seaside town. Clay suspected the politician was suffering withdrawals after a short period of not being in front of a camera or a microphone.

  ‘Clay, good to see you again,’ said Swanson. They were in the car park outside the processing plant, where the unmistakeable seafood smell seemed to cancel out all other senses. Clay was barely aware of the too-firm handshake again or the rising heat. It was going to be another day above thirty degrees. Swanson was sweating in heavy patches, and looked a touch more wan than he had two weeks before.

  ‘How’s the holiday going, Wayne?’ said Clay.

  ‘Good, good. Always a good time when I’m in Port Fairy.’ He turned on the smarm. ‘And I see you’ve brought your Irish friend with you again.’

  Bec offered a polite smile. ‘Bec O’Connor, nice to see you again, sir,’ she said.

  ‘Please, call me Wayne. Now, what do you want to talk about, Clay? Something tells me it’s not abalone farms.’

  There were no other media outlets around. The metro papers were three hours away and either hadn’t arrived in the region yet or weren’t coming. Maybe I’m reading this whole thing wrong, thought Clay. Maybe I’ve been so focused on Kerry Collins it’s thrown my news sense out of whack.

  ‘No, Wayne, I want to talk about the Warrnambool Airport deal.’

  ‘Of course you do. Well, go on, fire away.’

  ‘The integrity of the Fullerton Gold Coast deal is being investigated and you’ve just gone and given Fullerton another deal. Some people are questioning the timing of today’s announcement.’ ‘Some people’ being me, he thought.

  ‘So what does that tell you, Clay?’

  ‘To be perfectly honest, it tells me you’re either a man of honour or a bloody idiot.’

  Swanson didn’t appear stunned so much as wary, raising an eyebrow on his moist brow. Clay watched him dab his forehead with a handkerchief, which looked like the equivalent of bailing out a boat with a thimble. ‘And which one do you think I am?’

  ‘Not my place to say, Wayne. And time will tell, I guess.’

  Swanson eased back his shoulders, straightened his spine. ‘I have full confidence in the due processes involved in both these tender selections and I have no doubt that confidence will be vindicated. As I have nothing to fear in these matters and I am certain due process has been done, it seemed prudent that, moving forward…’

  Clay felt the life draining from him; the man was a walking media release. He spouted platitudes like a fairground fortune teller and you didn’t even need to drop a buck.

  ‘I can guess the rest,’ said Clay.

  ‘Let me finish… moving forward, we could get the ball rolling on this deal to ensure the future growth of the region, benefitting the region and its constituents with jobs, infrastructure, tourism, and other economic benefits.’

  Clay held up his notepad to show he hadn’t written down any of Swanson’s prepared lines. ‘Some people are questioning the need for this airport revamp in the first place, Wayne. Warrnambool is a city of thirty-five thousand and no one has been crying out for more planes to land here. They want better roads and better trains. Some people are suggesting this is a waste of money.’

  ‘These people, these some people,’ hissed Swanson, ‘aren’t visionaries. They’re stuck in a cycle of whingeing and aren’t thinking about the future.’

  ‘Are you saying you’re a visionary?’

  ‘What I’m saying, Moloney, is it takes bold action and big ideas to grow the future.’

  ‘Some people are saying this isn’t so much a big idea as a big boost to your mate Lachlan Fullerton’s bank balance.’

  That one hit home, and Clay knew it. Swanson took a step forward, which would have been menacing if he hadn’t been half a head shorter than Clay. In the periphery of his vision the journalist could see Swanson’s minders, who had been hiding in the shade next to the minister’s car, but now started to move in to find out what the hell was going on.

  ‘I thought you were one of the good guys, Clay.’

  ‘I’m doing my job, Wayne. That makes me one of the good guys. And either way you look at this airport deal, it takes balls the size of watermelons to make the announcement you did today. That tends to worry people. That means journos need to ask questions. Are you going to be able to handle all the questions? Because the big question is, “How did your mate just get a hundred million dollar contract for an unnecessary project?” And I don’t think you can keep answering that one again and again without looking like a moron.’

  If Clay didn’t know better, he could have sworn the politician’s sweat glands had just burst open – the damp spots on his shirt were spreading. His breathing was up, too; he panted like a farm dog as he leaned in further, one skyward-pointing finger signalling he didn’t intend to take any more crap.

  ‘Listen here, Moloney – and this is off the record – but I’m not a moron. And I can take it, whatever peanuts you in the press gallery throw at me, I can take it. But you might want to be careful. There aren’t many truly powerful people in the south-west of Victoria, but you’re starting to piss a couple of them off. So just keep that in mind.’

  ‘Are you threatening me?’

  ‘Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’ He let out a piranha smirk; it looked practised, if not well-used. ‘I’m trying to help you.’ Swanson’s minders were at his side, and he took that as his cue to leave. ‘See ya, Clay, can’t wait to see the story in tomorrow’s paper.’

  ‘What the hell was all that about?’ said Bec as they trudged back to the Subaru.

  Clay watched as Swanson’s car spun up a cloud of dry red dust as it left the abalone farm’s car park. ‘I was trying to rattle him. I wanted to see what happened if I pushed him a little bit. The daft bastard’s had it too easy from us for too long. Something’s not right here.’

  ‘You said before that the airport deal could be either a stroke of genius or the dumbest thing ever. I take it you’re siding with the latter now. Do you smell a rat?’

  ‘A fat one. Let’s face it, given the choice between an honest politician or a dumb politician, it’s pretty obvious which one is more common.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Let’s go and pay Lachlan Fullerton a vis
it.’

  ‘Clay, we’ve got holidaymakers to interview. Tudor said—’

  ‘I think this is a bit more important, don’t you, Bec? Come on, I’ll show you how the other half lives down here.’

  Chapter 11

  No bad houses overlooked Port Fairy’s East Beach.

  Even the lesser ones, the old fishermen’s shacks given a lick of paint, a modern kitchen and an indoor toilet, were worth close to a million dollars. It was all about the view. To the far right was the lighthouse, and everything to the left of that was open water and a semi-circle of beach. On a clear day, you could see all the way across the bay to Warrnambool, and off to the left the long extinct volcano-turned-nature reserve known as Tower Hill. The real beauty of the East Beach properties was no one could ever build there again – all the houses along the three-kilometre stretch were built before the environmentalists got involved and started forbidding such things as erecting McMansions on sand dunes.

  Lachlan Fullerton’s house did not look like a renovated fisherman’s shack. It was a three-storey monstrosity on a block that reached from the top of the dune and down towards the Moyne River on the other side. The bottom-level three-bay garage was practically carved into the sand dune, and on the top level was a huge outdoor undercover decking to maximise the house’s party potential and the prodigious view. From the outside, everything looked expensive – lots of glass and brass. Even the door appeared pricey, probably made out of some centuries-old tree cut from a Tasmanian heritage-listed wilderness area, thought Clay as he rapped on it.

  ‘What are the odds he’s actually home?’ said Bec.

  ‘He’s home,’ said Clay. ‘He’s got houses all over the country that I couldn’t account for, but when he’s here, I know.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Even billionaires have to book a round at Port Fairy Golf Club. I checked with a friendly receptionist before we left.’

  As if on cue, the door opened and there stood the CEO of Fullerton Industries. Clay gauged him to be about forty. He was a little shorter than Clay, but with a better tan, whiter teeth, and swept-back black hair that was beginning to recede at the temples, where it seemed to have been dyed to hide the creeping grey. Fullerton looked fit and was dressed for the golf course.

  Clay introduced himself and Bec, half expecting the door to be closed in his face. Instead, Lachlan Fullerton invited them in with a wave of his hand.

  The exterior’s impression of wealth was not merely a façade; inside looked like a shot from Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous. Clay and Bec were asked to sit on one of two large white leather couches in a vast open-living area, with a sunken lounge and a mezzanine overhead. The room wasn’t high enough to get the sea views, that was reserved for the top floor, so the windows opened out the other way, across the river and the wharf. The main draw was a life-sized statue of Athena in white marble and gold filigree detailing that dominated the floor space, drawing attention from all around. The paintings on the walls tried to compete but failed, even though they were instantly familiar as the works of well-known Australian artists: a John Brack, a Brett Whiteley, a Sidney Nolan, a Ben Quilty.

  ‘You’re doing a story for the paper about the airport deal, right?’ asked Fullerton as they sat. Despite being born and raised in Warrnambool, he spoke with the more formal accent of a Sydneysider, Clay noticed.

  ‘That’s right. We’ve just been talking to Wayne Swanson.’

  ‘Good man, Swanson. What did he have to say for himself?’

  ‘Well, he was, ah, a little annoyed by my line of questioning.’

  ‘Let me guess – deals for mates, why spend so much on an airport in Warrnambool, Gold Coast hospital, blah, blah, blah, et cetera, et cetera?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  Fullerton perched himself on the arm of the opposite couch and a small paunch revealed itself above his belt. ‘And now you’re here to ask me the same questions, no doubt.’

  ‘Well…’

  ‘Tell me, Mr… Moloney, wasn’t it? Tell me, Mr Moloney, what would you like me to say? Because I’m going to tell you the same thing Mr Swanson told you – that everything is above board, that this is a good investment for the region, and that I fear no investigation, into either this deal or the Gold Coast one. So unless you have something else to ask, I’m afraid we’re only wasting each other’s time.’

  Clay looked at Fullerton and then let his gaze wander around the room. The sound of the sea rolling onto East Beach could be heard, punctuated by the cries of seagulls. It wasn’t a bad spot to soak up your days.

  ‘It’s a hell of a place you’ve got here, Mr Fullerton,’ said Clay. ‘How often do you get back to south-west Victoria?’

  ‘If I could, I’d get back here every weekend, but alas, it’s more like once a month.’

  ‘Did you grow up in Port Fairy or Warrnambool?’

  ‘Warrnambool, but every school holiday was spent here. This was the site of my grandfather’s home-away-from-home – his fishing hut, he called it. We tore it down after he died and built this. Indoor plumbing’s a hell of a thing.’ Fullerton offered a relaxed smile but Clay was starting to dislike him more by the second – the stench of wealth was getting up his nose. ‘I loved spending time here as a kid. We’d go fishing every day, either on the river or out at sea if it was calm enough to take granddad’s tinny out on the bay. Of course, nowadays, I have a slightly better boat than an old tinny.’

  ‘Probably a couple of boats, I’d wager.’ Clay kept his tone even, disguising his disgust.

  ‘Four, actually. One here, one in Warrnambool, one in Sydney, one on the Gold Coast.’

  ‘And a couple of houses?’

  ‘Four or five, yes.’

  ‘And a couple of planes?’

  ‘Ha, no, just one of those. You only ever need one plane, Mr Moloney. Anything more is excessive.’

  Clay didn’t think Fullerton had a proper grasp of the concept of excess. He could see that enough was never going to be enough for this man. He worshipped wealth, wore the robes of a religion that was a mystery to the uninitiated. ‘And you’re not an excessive man.’

  ‘I’m a practical man, Mr Moloney. That’s how people like me make their fortunes. By being practical. By assessing situations and deals and working out the practicalities for both parties.’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t hurt to have friends in high places.’

  ‘It never hurts to have friends, whether they be in high places or low.’

  The two men sat staring at each other; opposite ends of a class divide that was continually widening. Fullerton’s face showed nothing but measured patience, and it infuriated Clay even more. This guy is a rich, smug bastard, he thought, with his own private fleet and his four or five houses. Take that away and he’s nothing, the same as everyone else. Clay was sure Fullerton would die – or kill – before he let that happen, though.

  ‘You obviously have a good eye,’ said Clay.

  ‘A good eye?’

  ‘Well, the art on your wall, for one. And the design of this house. The furniture in it. Everything looks amazing. It looks a million dollars. You obviously give some thought to the way things look.’

  Fullerton nodded. ‘I suppose so. Doesn’t everyone?’

  ‘True. So how do you think this airport deal looks? From the outside, I mean.’

  ‘I don’t follow…’

  ‘You’re being investigated over the Gold Coast hospital deal. There’s nothing to be gained by Swanson giving you the Warrnambool Airport deal right now. There’s no political imperative, no desperate need for the infrastructure, and it will attract the kind of attention the Right Honourable Member for Warrnambool doesn’t really need at the moment. So how do you think that looks… from the outside?’

  Clay thought he saw Fullerton’s mask of serenity flicker, revealing a layer of something else beneath. Annoyance? Contempt? Hate? But it was a nanosecond. To the untrained eye, Fullerton was calmer than a Buddhist temple on meditation
day.

  ‘From the outside, Mr Moloney, it looks to me like a lot of jobs, a lot of tourists, and a lot of benefits for south-west Victoria. How does it look to you?’

  Clay attempted to return Fullerton’s beatific smile. ‘How did you put it before? Deals for mates? Yeah, that’s it. But your point about practicalities was interesting, especially about making deals work for both parties. I see how this works for you, but not Swanson. And that makes me suspicious. Forgive me, but I trust politicians about as far as I can kick them, and I haven’t played footy since I was in high school.’

  ‘As a member of the fourth estate, I would expect nothing less.’ Fullerton stood. ‘I have enjoyed our little chat, but I’m afraid you’re making me late for eighteen holes at the Port Fairy Golf Club.’

  Bec and Clay rose and walked to the door. ‘Thank you for your time, Mr Fullerton,’ said Clay. ‘I’m sure you’ll read tomorrow’s paper with interest.’

  ‘Well, I didn’t see you use your notepad once, so I sure hope you quote me correctly.’ Fullerton ushered them outside. ‘Thanks for dropping by. Feel free to do so any time.’

  The door closed before Clay or Bec could say anything more and they trudged back to the car.

  ‘That went well,’ said Bec.

  ‘You were quiet in there.’

  ‘You were doing fine all by yourself. Besides, I’m the photographer, you’re the reporter.’

  ‘I didn’t see you taking any photos.’

  ‘What did you want? A Cribs shoot?’

  ‘I’d settle for a smoking gun.’

  ‘Did you really expect to just ask the right question and he’d blurt out a confession? “You’ve got me, I admit it! I’m giving Swanson brown paper bags full of kickbacks every week.”’

  ‘No. I just wanted to see the look on the smug bastard’s face so I can remember it when I take him down.’

  Chapter 12

  ‘What do you mean, you didn’t interview any holidaymakers?’