by Tony Black
‘No, I can’t pretend I’m happy either,’ said Clay. ‘But thanks, Eddie. I know this is chewing you up.’ Clay watched as Eddie gave Bec a peck on the cheek and headed out through the glass doors leading back into the bar.
A heavy silence pulled up a seat as Clay watched Bec stare through the window and into the bar until Eddie was gone from sight. She stirred a gin and tonic with a straw. She’d had just one sip from it, but it was taking up all her attention.
‘I’m sorry I upset you the other day,’ said Clay in a croaky voice, as he pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it. ‘I’ll stop calling Eddie your boyfriend.’
‘It’s not that,’ she said, weariness weighing on her tone. ‘I’m sorry I snapped. It’s just this whole situation… it’s so, y’know, intense.’
‘Which bit?’
‘What are we doing, Clay?’ said Bec, her voice wringing with exasperation. ‘Eddie’s right. We’re not cops. We’re not private investigators. I’m a bloody photographer. You’re a journalist. Last week we did a job together about a bloody Rotary club holding a game of cow pat lotto to raise money for the local hospital. And yet in between such riveting stories as that, here I am, following you around when I really don’t need to while you interview drug dealers and prostitutes who you think might be connected to a murder. What the hell are we doing?’
Clay took a drag on his cigarette and sighed as he exhaled the smoke. ‘Beats me, Bec.’
‘I mean, I understand some of this was for the paper, but it’s not any more. You haven’t written anything about this stuff for weeks. The Kerry Collins case, the airport stuff, now Jacinta Porter… you’re flailing in the dark, Clay, hoping you can land a punch with one of these stories.’
‘My only hope is to put things right… a young woman was murdered, two young women, and it’s happened right under our noses. Is it wrong to care about that?’
Bec shook her head. ‘Of course it’s not. But you’re missing the point. Where will this end? You seem to be getting beaten up an awful lot. Once I can believe, but twice? And by a cop? I like you, Clay, I like you a lot. But I’m worried about you and some of the choices you’ve been making lately.’
‘Is this, by any chance, a drugs lecture?’
‘Clay, I remember what you said about Kerry Collins being the same age as your daughter, and honestly, I think that’s triggered a whole wave of mental issues you weren’t prepared for and aren’t dealing with. Kerry Collins’ death got to you; I know this, you told me this. But it’s unlocked some misguided notion that you have to prove yourself to a daughter you’ve never known. Is this your mid-life crisis? Most guys just hook up with a twenty-two-year-old with perky tits, and buy a convertible, but you’ve decided to play cop or vigilante or something. It’s not healthy. It’s bloody dangerous.’
Clay waited for Bec to finish. He felt tired and sore, and didn’t have the energy to fight. Besides, he thought, she’s probably right about most of that – the thing is whether I concede that fact or not. He puffed on his cigarette and let her monologue sink in.
‘If I admit you’re right about a lot of that,’ he said, ‘will you believe me about Anderson coming to my apartment and assaulting me today? Because it’s true. And I need you on my side.’
Bec inclined her head. ‘Why? Why do you need me? You’ve known me for three minutes.’
‘I don’t know why. But I feel like we…’ He trailed off. The end of his sentence would sound like a corny line from a bad movie and he couldn’t bear to say it. ‘Look, I need someone in my corner, if for no other reason than to keep me in line. Like you’re doing. But I also need you to trust me. And believe me. Can you do that?’
She paused, then nodded. ‘OK. I can do that. I can even say I believe you if that really helps. But will you please give these murder investigations a rest for a bit? Will you please stay away from the cops and promise me you won’t go chasing after this Lerner character?’
Clay took a long drag on his cigarette. He didn’t want to back away from the Porter story, or the Collins case, despite it having gone cold. And he certainly didn’t want to let Anderson off the hook. But he knew it wasn’t his place and he knew Bec was right. He exhaled.
‘I promise,’ he said.
Chapter 30
Monday morning was a beautiful one. Warrnambool was burnished by a golden sunshine that made everything look crisp and clear. It was the perfect February day. The temperature was mild and the wind was a zephyr, instead of the usual gusty sea breezes and flaming northerlies of the summer so far. In times like this nothing could touch the town, nothing bad. Only good things happened beneath the sun’s rays, and even in the shade, dappled bursts chased away any threat of shadows.
Clay met the day with a frown, however. His life was in a holding pattern, he was a pilot circling the runway waiting for ground control to say a slot had appeared. But it hadn’t… would it ever? A level of depressed angst that he hadn’t felt in months started to grip him.
The morning news conference dragged, and afterwards Clay slumped at his desk unable to muster the effort to do anything beyond read and delete the emails that had amassed over the weekend. He didn’t want to blame Bec, but telling her he was going to back off from the Porter story had deflated him. His motivation was gone, replaced by a state of depressed nihilism, and it was all because he had given in to Bec and her concerns. Had that really been the right thing to do?
His desk phone rang, trilled loudly beside him, but Clay could barely be bothered to answer it.
‘Hello?’ he said flatly, not even finding the enthusiasm to give his name or the name of the paper.
‘Ah… hello? Is this Clayton Moloney?’ said a woman’s voice.
‘Yeah, it is. How can I help you?’
‘Liz Fitzgerald gave me your name and number. She said you were doing some digging around about Wayne Swanson.’
The mention of Swanson was unexpected, it hit him like a shot of adrenalin. ‘Yes. Yes I am.’ Clay sat upright in his chair and pulled his notepad closer.
‘I may have something for you. I…’ She hesitated. ‘Can we meet in person? It feels weird talking about this over the phone.’
‘Are you in Warrnambool?’
‘No. I’m in Port Fairy. Can you come and meet me over here?’
Clay nodded with the phone in his hand. ‘Absolutely. I can be there in half an hour.’
‘That would be fine…’
Thirty minutes later, Clay sat at a table outside Charlie’s, a little coffee and lunch café run out of the Port Fairy Surf Life Saving Club overlooking East Beach. The perfect day in Warrnambool extended as far as Port Fairy. The temperature was rising in the stillness of the day, but the clear skies meant Clay could see all the way across the bay to Warrnambool. For a second he realised he wasn’t far from Lachlan Fullerton’s palatial beach house, but his thoughts were disrupted by a stunning woman who had stopped at his table. She wore a white and yellow sundress that stuck to sensuous curves. Dark sunglasses rested on a strong Greek nose, perched above full lips that were painted a shimmering red. Her long dark hair, tied in a glossy ponytail, reached her shoulders and shone in the sun.
‘Are you Clayton?’ said the woman.
Clay stood and offered a hand. ‘That’s me.’
The woman shook his hand. ‘I’m Theresa.’
‘A pleasure.’ Clay directed Theresa to the chair opposite him. A waitress arrived within seconds of them sitting down and coffees were ordered.
‘So is this an off-the-record or on-the-record chat?’ asked Clay.
‘Sadly it has to be off-the-record.’ Theresa removed her sunglasses, revealing bright hazel eyes with long lashes. ‘Although I may change my mind once I’ve heard what you know.’
‘What did Liz tell you?’
‘She said you were digging for dirt on Wayne Swanson. We both worked for Wayne for a couple of years and Liz thought I might be able to help you. But first, tell me what you know.’
Cla
y eased himself forward, resting his elbows on the table, and told Theresa about the airport deal and the Sydney Morning Herald reporter’s theory about Fullerton blackmailing Swanson. Clay watched Theresa, waiting for her to respond, as the coffees arrived, allowing her some time to pause.
‘As far as I know, I’m not the reason he’s being blackmailed, but I could be,’ she said finally. ‘This is still off the record, by the way.’
Clay nodded, but could feel the frustration mounting. Maybe Theresa sensed it. ‘I’m sorry but I shouldn’t even be talking to you,’ she said. ‘I’ll explain. Do you mind if I smoke?’
Clay pulled out his own pack. They both lit up and Theresa began. ‘When I started working for Swanson the other girls in the office, particularly Liz, bless her, told me to watch what I wore to work. She said Swanson could get a bit grabby. I didn’t think too much of it. Or rather, I thought I could handle it. Figured it would be just a bit of friendly office fun. Harmless, you know? I soon learnt Liz wasn’t kidding. One day I wore the shortest skirt I owned to work. Swanson didn’t leave me alone all day. And by the end of the day he was practically dryhumping my leg, like a dog. At first I kind of laughed it off. He was like a randy teenager. But it just got worse, especially after Liz quit.’
She drew on her cigarette, leaving a red ring on the filter. ‘I swear, one day I caught him just standing there in the office, staring at me, touching himself through his pants.’
‘That’s quite a picture,’ said Clay.
Theresa shuddered. ‘Eventually I made a complaint. Except I wasn’t sure who to complain to. I talked to the other girls in the office, but they didn’t seem bothered about it and they didn’t want to rock the boat. I spoke to his press secretary in Canberra, who pretty much hung up on me. So I let it go. But then he got worse. He got really grabby. One day he bailed me up in the tearoom. He was pressing himself up against me and I could feel…’ She broke off, shuddering again. Theresa stared out to sea, smoking her cigarette for a while, composing herself before she continued. ‘If one of the other girls in the office hadn’t come into the tearoom, I don’t know what would have happened.’
‘What did you do?’ asked Clay.
‘I called his press secretary again. I was in tears. I told him I was going to the press unless something was done. I wish I had gone to the press. Instead, they asked me to clean out my desk and not make a fuss. They reminded me about some clauses in the contract I’d signed about speaking with the media. I went home in tears and the next day some lawyers turned up at my door. They paid me well – really well – but part of the redundancy package was a non-disclosure agreement. Hence why I can’t talk to you on the record about this. I still work in politics. If some others girls had come out with similar stories, maybe I would jump in, but I… I don’t want to be the lone woman crying foul. You know what happens to women in the public service who do that – they get thought of as either a victim, a whistleblower, or some kind of psycho-feminist. And they don’t get many job offers.’
‘That’s messed up,’ said Clay. ‘I thought we were past all that.’
Theresa shrugged. ‘Apparently not.’
They both sipped their coffee and returned to their cigarettes, watching the waves roll in on East Beach. A few tourists wandered along the sand.
Clay rolled over Theresa’s information, and how he might present it in the paper. It was a shocking case, but all it really amounted to was an anonymous story. Tudor would be nervous to print it at the best of times, but now it would give him heart palpitations. On top of all that, if she was the only girl Swanson had paid off they’d identify her easily, and that would make Theresa’s life very difficult. She’d already been through enough.
‘I appreciate you telling me your story,’ said Clay. ‘It’s given me a lot to think about. And I’m very sorry to hear what happened to you.’
‘Has it been any help to you?’
‘A big help… Look, I doubt I can take this any further right now—’
Theresa cut in. ‘That’s fine. I mean, I didn’t think I was going to tell you anything you hadn’t heard already, there’ll be a lot of similar stories out there. I just thought, with enough to go on, you might begin to get a picture of what kind of guy Wayne Swanson really is.’
‘Oh, I’m getting the picture now. In neon lights, it has to be said.’ Clay rose from the table, picked up his cigarettes. ‘Thanks, Theresa.’
‘No. Thank you for listening. I think, more than anything, I just wanted to tell someone about it all. A few people I tried to tell refused to believe me. They were like, “How could someone in such a position of power do that?” They dismissed me, called me a liar. Can you believe that?’
Clay gave Theresa a sympathetic smile. ‘Believe it or not, I truly can.’
Chapter 31
Clay was still mulling over Theresa’s story when he got back to the office. He was sorry for everything that she had been through, and more than a little angered at Swanson’s behaviour, but he knew there was no chance of it getting into newsprint. He had one of the best stories of his career just waiting to be told, and he could do nothing with it. People deserved to know, they deserved better. Clay lost himself in the happy scenario of Swanson being publicly flogged and almost bumped into Al, the arts reporter, who was hurrying towards him.
‘If I was you, I’d get the hell out of here,’ said Al, rushing out the words. ‘You’re about to enter a shitstorm.’
‘What? What’s going on?’
Before Al could answer, the voice of Bradley Tudor bellowed from the editor’s office. ‘Moloney! In here! Now!’
Al gave Clay a look that Clay assumed was similar to the ones given to condemned men on the way to the gallows. This is going to suck, he thought. Clay drew in a deep breath, strapped on a fake smile and breezed into Tudor’s office.
‘Bradley,’ said Clay with pre-heated enthusiasm. ‘How’s your day? How’s the missus?’
‘Sit.’ Tudor had his back to the door and appeared to be looking out the window. Clay hated him with a sharpening vigour. The editor was posing – it was like something Tudor had probably seen in a movie; nothing too high-brow, though. Kindergarten Cop perhaps, that was about his level.
‘Clay, can you tell me why I’ve had the police in my office for half the morning?’
Despite his better judgement, Clay couldn’t help himself. ‘Because they’ve finally arrested you as the Timboon horse rooter?’ he said.
Tudor whipped around like Clay had shot him in the arse with an air rifle. Clay continued smiling, but now it was genuine – he’d broken Tudor’s big dramatic moment.
‘What?’ said Tudor. ‘No…’
Clay was delighted. He’d really thrown Tudor off his game. ‘Oh, that’s right,’ said Clay. ‘They caught that guy, didn’t they? How did he refer to himself in court? Oh yes, that’s right – “Shetland pony enthusiast”. That was a great story—’
‘Focus, Clay. I had the police in here this morning. They were complaining about you.’
‘Really? Was Detective Sergeant Frank Anderson complaining about the bruising my ribs caused his fist yesterday? Or maybe he left his nightstick behind when he was illegally searching my apartment?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m talking about Frank Anderson and two of his henchmen illegally ransacking my place yesterday and assaulting me. Did that come up in the conversation?’
‘No, it did not.’ Tudor was silent as he sat and stared intently at Clay. Clay knew what he was doing; he was doing the same thing Bec and Eddie had done, he was trying to figure out if Clay was lying or not.
‘I’m not making this up,’ said Clay. ‘And I would very much like for you to believe me right now. I’ve had a rough few weeks.’
Tudor nodded in a small, minimal way. He still looked like he was sizing Clay up, but he was running some employee relations rules at the same time.
‘Does this change what you wanted to ask me about?’ sa
id Clay.
‘Not really,’ said Tudor, finally averting his gaze. ‘Anderson was here accusing you of… well, a whole bunch of stuff.’
‘Let me guess; hampering a police investigation, maybe something to do with drugs. Am I close?’
‘You left out interfering with witnesses, stealing police records, and harassing a couple of well-known local identities, namely Lachlan Fullerton and Wayne Swanson.’
‘That’s pretty funny, Tudor. I haven’t seen Fullerton and Swanson for over a month.’
‘What about the rest of Anderson’s accusations?’
‘I’ve been doing my job. Interviewing people, chasing leads, investigating. You know – journalism.’ The last point was a jab he didn’t intend to deliver, but Clay was irritated. Anderson was really playing dirty. If the incident in Clay’s apartment wasn’t bad enough, it seemed like he was now trying to get Clay fired. Where this was going, Clay could only guess. But it didn’t look good.
‘Where are the results of this “journalism”?’ said Tudor.
‘What?’ Clay was caught off guard.
‘Where are the articles? What have these leads and interviews become? When do I get to print some of your so-called “journalism”? Or have you forgotten about the final stage of the process?’
Clay felt the temperature under his collar rise half a degree. Stay cool, he willed himself. Tudor’s onside for now.
‘I’m onto something big,’ said Clay. He was thinking on his feet. ‘Anderson’s as crooked as they come, he’s as bent as a boomerang. We’ve got two recent murders in Warrnambool that he’s deliberately not investigating.’
‘But you are?’
‘Damn right. I’ve got solid leads on both of them. Nothing printable yet, but I’m close. Think about it. I’m on the brink of solving two murders before the police… imagine the headlines. Imagine the hits on our website. Imagine the circulation.’ Clay was exaggerating, but he was trying to put it into terms Tudor would understand and get excited about. He needed Tudor behind him, but preferably far enough away so Clay could continue his investigation unhindered.
