Bay of Martyrs Page 7

  Deputy editor Terry Kenna was angry. He was ‘step into my office and close the door’ angry, although Clay was uncertain as to why he was getting berated by Kenna and not the editor. Tudor must have been in one of his seemingly endless meetings.

  ‘I mean we didn’t interview any holidaymakers, Terry. Not sure how I can spell that one out any clearer.’

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse with me, Moloney. Why?’

  ‘Why what? Why shouldn’t I be a smart-arse?’

  ‘No, bloody hell, why didn’t you interview any holidaymakers?’

  ‘There’s a multitude of reasons, Terry, some complex, some straightforward… I’m not sure you’ll be able to grasp it all, but I can bring in one of the whiteboards if it will help.’

  Clay loved winding up Terry Kenna. If winding up Terry Kenna was an Olympic sport, Clay fancied himself for the gold. They’d both been at the paper for about the same amount of time but had taken very different paths. Clay had been a good reporter with a nose for hard news, but masked his growing disinterest and cynicism with snide humour and a deprecating wit. Kenna was a below-average sports reporter who had risen through the ranks to deputy editor largely through brown-nosing and the fact that no one else wanted the gig.

  ‘Don’t be a smart-arse, Moloney. You were sent to Port Fairy to interview Swanson about the airport deal, then head to one of the caravan parks and get us a nice page-three pic story about some wankers from Queensland who’ve come down to sip lattes on East Beach, or some such crap.’

  ‘We did the airport story. It took longer than expected. We went to Lachlan Fullerton’s house. Didn’t leave time for lattesippers. Bec had other jobs to get to back in Warrnambool. So we hit the road.’

  ‘Now I’ve got no page-three pic story. And as much as I’d love to chuck a page-three girl on there, that kind of thing is frowned upon. So for all intensive purposes, we’re screwed.’

  Intensive purposes. Hearing that from a fellow journo made Clay’s blood pressure spike; he promptly felt justified in not only ditching the story, but being unapologetic about it to Terry Kenna, too. The solution was simple enough, but Kenna didn’t have the gumption to figure it out for himself. How did this man climb the steps to the office every morning?

  ‘We’re not screwed, stop being melodramatic, you idiot. Just get one of the photogs to go take a weather shot, maybe get some holidaymakers down at the Warrnambool beach. Hell, you might even get a bikini shot out of it.’

  Terry seemed to take to the idea. Nothing like the mention of bikinis to distract him, thought Clay. It was the journalistic equivalent of raising a ball for a dog and bouncing it off the wall; if that didn’t grab the required attention, nothing would. He watched the deputy editor for a bit as Terry sat there with a dumb grin on his face. It faded after a time and Terry leant forward, trying to adopt a more serious look. He tapped the eraser-end of a yellow pencil on the desk as he spoke. ‘I don’t mean to break your balls, Clay. I mean, we’re mates, after all. I just happen to be deputy editor.’ Clay resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He didn’t consider Terry a mate. He was a workmate, nothing more. A sexist, a casual racist, and a meathead who happened to outrank him, if only by default, but not a mate. Terry’s idea of mateship was tied up with ape-like chanting at the footy match or shooting roos at dusk.

  ‘But I feel like I should warn you,’ said Terry. ‘As a mate.’

  ‘Warn me?’

  ‘Not official like. Not an official warning or anything. I mean, I feel I should give you a heads up. As a mate.’

  ‘Spit it out, for Chrissake, Terry.’

  ‘Tudor’s got it in for ya. And skipping out on jobs like you did today, well, that’s the kinda thing he’s looking out for. The bosses in Sydney say we’re overstaffed, so they’re squeezing Tudor’s balls, and he’s gunna have to squeeze someone else’s balls in return.’

  Clay couldn’t restrain a laugh at Terry’s vivid imagery, but Terry waved him down with the utmost sincerity.

  ‘This is serious, Clay. Tudor wants to axe someone, and you’re the chook that’s first in line for the chopping block.’

  ‘Terry, we’re the only two people in the office that have been here longer than two minutes. He’s not going to sack me.’

  ‘Don’t be so sure, mate. Us old-timers, we get paid more. Sacking you puts a bit more cash back into the bottom line. Hell, they could sack you, hire that cadet with the nice tits that couldn’t spell “Canberra”, and still turn a profit on the whole thing.’

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘It’s fair dinkum, Clay. Your arse is over a barrel, and Tudor is just waiting for a cock-up.’

  Clay was impressed by the Carry On-style double entendre until he realised Terry was completely oblivious he’d even done it. ‘Thanks for the rather vivid advice, Terry,’ said Clay.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Terry, still failing to twig.

  Bec had noticed Clay skulking around the photographers’ desks for the last ten minutes, obviously waiting for something. It turned out he was waiting for the other photographer to leave so he could have a quiet word with her. He zipped over, swerved excitedly between the desks and started to rub his hands together.

  ‘Fancy a knock-off drink, Bec?’

  ‘Clay, it’s Monday,’ she said. ‘Can’t you lay off the booze for one day?’

  ‘I said “a drink”. Not “let’s get shit-faced”. Although you’re more than welcome to sleep on my couch again.’ A roguish grin appeared on Clay’s face.

  ‘Spare me. Took me two days to recover from that last time.’

  ‘Ha. Look, I promise you’ll be able to drive home after this. Plus, I kind of need you to drive me to where we’re going for a drink.’

  Suddenly the image he was painting altered.

  ‘Where are we going for a drink?’

  ‘I’ll tell you when we get in the car.’

  Bec smiled and caught herself. Clay was the kind of guy you had to watch, she told herself. Charm usually hid something; plus, it never lasted. She’d moved to south-west Victoria for a less complicated life, and a man like Clay inevitably complicated things. Even when he wasn’t trying to.

  ‘All right, fine,’ said Bec. ‘Let me finish up and log off and I’ll meet you in the car park.’

  Clay was leaning against her car, a beat-up red Mazda from the Nineties, when she got out to the car park. ‘This your wheels?’ he asked.

  ‘How did you know?’

  He looked around, waved a hand in desultory fashion. ‘This one seemed like your car. Sturdy, reliable, probably had a bit of zip back in its day, bit rough around the edges now but still kinda cute.’

  ‘I have no idea how to take that. I think I’m insulted.’

  ‘That was a compliment.’

  ‘Really? Take a mental note, hotshot – never liken a woman to a car. And especially never use the word “sturdy” when describing a woman.’

  ‘I wasn’t describing a woman. I was talking about your car.’

  ‘Just get in.’

  The Mazda started with the slightest of coughs – it obviously wasn’t as fresh as it used to be – but worked steadily through the gears.

  Clay refused to tell Bec their destination, instead directing her eastwards along the highway that ran through the middle of Warrnambool. Between the two dual carriageways, massive ancient-looking Norfolk pines lined the median strip, their long rod-like needles banking up in the gutters.

  They turned between the trees when they reached the old Fletcher Jones factory and its expansive gardens, crossing the highway and heading into an ordinary-looking neighbourhood. The factory was long closed and had become a second-hand market, but its beautiful gardens were still a local focal point. Families had laid out picnic blankets on the well-kept lawns and children chased each other in the late afternoon sun. A group of twenty-somethings had set up a game of croquet at one end of the garden. At the other end, a mother and daughter fed ducks in a pond. Bec was intrigued by the g
iant silver ball standing on three huge red legs some fifty metres in the air, towering over the scene.

  ‘A War of the Worlds leftover,’ said Clay.

  ‘A what?’

  ‘I’m kidding. It’s the old water storage for the factory’s sprinkler system.’

  ‘They never took it away?’

  ‘Built to last, I guess. Bit of a Warrnambool icon now. God forbid anyone ever tries to pull it down – the locals would go ballistic.’

  Past the gardens and they were into a hodgepodge suburbia. None of the houses looked the same and every front yard had a different expression. Kids gathered with their bicycles outside a milk bar. Old men in terry towel hats watered their gardens. Mums in Activewear jogged along with all-terrain prams.

  Bec was enamoured with the scene. As she directed her car along the residential street she found herself feeling a warm familial sensation that she’d experienced only a handful of times over the past two decades. It was a sense of belonging, of relaxing into a place and succumbing to its charms.

  They drove on, under a rail bridge dotted with graffiti, past a carefully maintained cemetery and on towards the river. As they pulled into a car park near a timber building with a red tin roof, Bec gazed across the dark blue waters of the Hopkins River. Beyond the slow-moving current, large expensive-looking houses gazed out across the vista from atop a short limestone cliff.

  They parked and Bec followed Clay into the timber building past a sign marked Proudfoots Boathouse.

  ‘Looks nice here,’ said Bec.

  ‘Break your arm for a table on the weekend.’

  Winding their way down some stairs to only a metre or so above water level, she found herself in a cosy little room with a bar on one side and tables set up for dinner service. A sheltered deck ran around the outside of the building, where dozens of people sat at small tables, drinking and laughing in the afternoon sun.

  Clay snagged the last available table and lit a cigarette as he sat, gesturing for Bec to take the seat opposite him, which had the best views of the river. She marvelled at the scenery as she gazed up the water. A cruise boat sat next to a pier further along, while several small tinnies held docile fishermen in the centre of the calm blue waterway. The scene was peaceful.

  ‘This is magnificent,’ she said.

  Clay exhaled. ‘Yeah, it’s not bad.’ It was typical Australian understatement.

  A waiter approached and Bec judged him to be of Middle Eastern extraction. One thing she’d noticed about Warrnambool was a distinct lack of ethnic diversity, which made the handsome dark-haired waiter stand out to her.

  ‘Clay. What’s happening, bro?’ said the waiter, shaking hands with the journo as soon as he was within reach.

  ‘Not much, JT. JT, this is Bec. She works with me.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Bec.’ JT shook her hand too. ‘What can I get yas?’ His voice gave no hint of accent other than the drawling Australian one common in Warrnambool.

  They both ordered beers and JT sauntered off to get them.

  ‘Where in the Middle East is he from?’ said Bec once JT had left.

  ‘Who? JT?’ Clay proceeded to laugh. ‘He’s from Geelong.’

  ‘No, I mean what’s his heritage?’

  ‘Welsh.’

  ‘Really?’

  Clay continued to laugh. ‘Yeah. He gets the Middle Eastern thing a lot. It’s great – he goes into bars and gets people to guess his heritage. Bets they can’t get it in ten guesses. If they can’t, they buy him a beer. No one ever guesses Wales. He gets a lot of free beers. It’s always funny to watch.’

  Clay finished off his cigarette and Bec looked past him out across the water.

  ‘I appreciate you bringing me here,’ said Bec. ‘I mean, this view is something else. But I can’t help but feel you didn’t have me drive you here so I could admire the river.’

  Before Clay could answer, JT returned with the beers.

  ‘You got a sec?’ said Clay to the waiter.

  ‘Sure, man,’ said JT. ‘What’s up?’ Bec watched as JT looked around at the other two waiters to see they weren’t being run off their feet before pulling up a spare seat.

  ‘Did you know that girl, Kerry Collins?’ asked Clay.

  ‘The one that washed up at the Bay of Martyrs? Not real well, but yeah. That was real sad.’

  ‘Had she been working here long?’

  ‘Six months, eight months, maybe. Got the hang of it real quick. Smart kid.’

  ‘What was she like?’

  ‘She was a real sweetie. Got along with everyone here. Seemed to have a lot of friends. She’d just finished school and was keen for a lot of shifts over summer. Things have been a little bit hectic here since she died. We had to cover her shifts, plus it hit a few of the other girls here pretty hard and they took some time off, too.’

  ‘So she was close to some of the other girls?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, for sure.’

  ‘Did any of them know where she was working the night she went missing? We heard she was supposed to be working at a private function.’

  ‘I dunno. I could ask them for ya.’

  ‘That would be great, JT. Sorry to be a pain. I’m sure they’ve already had to go through all this with the cops.’

  ‘What? Nah, man. The cops just talked to the boss. They didn’t interview the staff or nothing.’ JT rose and pushed his chair back in. ‘I better get back to work, but I’ll keep you posted. I’ll text ya.’ With that he headed off across the deck.

  Bec gazed at Clay and sipped her beer. ‘I can practically see the cogs in your mind turning, Clay,’ she said.

  He lit another cigarette. ‘The cops didn’t even interview her co-workers. What does that tell you?’

  ‘They did a bad job?’

  ‘Maybe. The cynic in me says they didn’t want to dig too hard, for some reason.’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ said Bec, exasperation creeping into her voice. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re seeing a conspiracy here. I don’t want to be the Scully to your Mulder. I mean, it’s Warrnambool, for Chrissake. We’re in the middle of rural, quiet, country Australia. Look at this place. This is not the city. This is a sleepy town, not some hotbed of dodgy deals. Don’t you think it’s more likely the cops were just lazy or overworked rather than up to their eyeballs in a cover-up?’

  ‘Let’s wait and see what Kerry’s co-workers say and we might have an answer to that question.’

  Chapter 13

  Ordinarily Clay had no time for blues music.

  At home in his little apartment, he was likely to listen to the classics of his teenage years. Nirvana. Soundgarden. Pearl Jam. Blur. Radiohead. Lately he’d been revisiting his Aussie favourites. You Am I. Custard. Regurgitator. Spiderbait. But there was not a single blues CD in his collection.

  Despite this, Clay was at The Loft, listening to a blues band. The sound of the music had wafted across the street and into his lounge room window, beckoning him out into the night. ‘Wouldn’t you rather be out, lost in a crowd,’ the music seemed to ask, ‘rather than stuck in your apartment, not sleeping, yet again?’

  It was an invitation he couldn’t pass up and his Thursday night was improving because of it. The Loft was a small upstairs music venue furnished in polished timber, stark metal, and rock’n’roll memorabilia. The place was buzzing to the sounds of the local musicians churning through a list of blues standards. The crowd was enthusiastic and joyful, grateful for the weekend warm-up. The beer was also flowing, which helped Clay let go of some of the anger he had for Fullerton’s arrogance and the police inaction that JT had pointed out in Proudfoots. Nothing was going to wash away the growing sense of injustice he carried in him, though. A young girl had died, and nobody seemed to care; least of all those who should care the most.

  A song came to a clamorous end and punters cheered. Clay took the opportunity of a break in the music to head downstairs and onto the street for a smoke. There were plenty of familiar faces puffing on their rollies and
tailories, standing in small groups a short distance from the doorway. Usually he would have joined them, but tonight he moved beyond the fringe and leaned on the doorway of a neighbouring restaurant with a closed sign hanging in the window. Away from the music and buzz of the bar, Clay felt tired all over again. A sleepless night here and there had started to roll into an insomniac streak. His muscles ached, a dull and heavy listlessness that felt far worse than any exercise-induced fatigue.

  The low notes of the next song crept out the door of The Loft and into the warm night air, mingling with the din of conversation, and Clay closed his eyes for a minute as he exhaled his cigarette smoke. There, in the darkness of his eyelids, he could see Kerry Collins’ face again, at once real and living as it had been in the portraits on the walls of her family home. At the same time, it was also the face he’d seen tangled in the decaying seaweed at the Bay of Martyrs.

  Clay opened his eyes again, grabbed a deep gulp of air. He was startled to see Senior Constable Eddie Boulton standing before him, dressed in a gaudy Hawaiian shirt that was louder than the blues band inside.

  ‘Catching up on your beauty sleep, Clay?’ said the cop.

  ‘Yeah, it’s not working… Does Weird Al know you can access his wardrobe?’

  ‘Ha. Good one. And you’re right, the beauty sleep isn’t working.’ Eddie laughed and gestured to a man standing next to him; he had short brown hair and the tanned complexion of those who work outdoors. ‘This is Dave, a mate of mine. Used to go to school together. Dave, this is Clay. He works at the paper, but don’t hold that against him.’

  Clay ignored the jibe and shook Dave’s hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. You still live around here?’

  ‘Nah, just down visiting the folks with the missus,’ said Dave. ‘Although you never know, I might have to move back in with my parents the way things are going.’ He gave Eddie a knowing look.

  ‘Why’s that?’ said Clay.

  ‘I just lost my job. Got the arse. Pack of wankers.’

  ‘Bummer. What happened?’

  ‘I was working on construction up on the Gold Coast. Was good coin, especially ’cos I’d made it to foreman, so there was a bit of responsibility and a bit of extra money.’