The sunbaker, p.30
The Sunbaker, page 30
A short time later, Jack was done, by which time Novak was pacing backwards and forwards. She’d made three phone calls, none of which had improved her mood.
Jack shared the story with Ricky and Caitlin and they all began a final check.
Lawyer Y!
Remember the disaster that was Lawyer X, when a barrister who had provided counsel to convicted persons was used by Victorian police as a secret informant, and that informant provided information to police against the people she was defending? There was universal condemnation of the Victorian Police and of the lawyer. Thousands of convictions were deemed tainted. A High Court ruling stated, ‘It is greatly hoped that it will never be repeated.’
The Beacon has evidence that NSW Police have also been using a criminal defence barrister as an unregistered, and therefore illegal, informant. The lawyer, Michael Brown, was recently found murdered in his home in Byron Bay. It is believed his murder was unrelated to his activities as an informant.
Michael Brown has for years defended members of outlaw motorcycle gangs, in particular the Grim Reapers. He received more than a quarter of a million dollars over four years, paid to him in cash by a senior police officer who is second-in-charge of the NSW Police major organised crime unit, the Harrier Squad, Chief Inspector Mitzevich.
Jack interrupted his reading. ‘Ricky, just double-checking that Mitzevich did pay Brown over a quarter of a million.’
‘Closer to three hundred thou,’ said Ricky.
‘That’s bullshit,’ said Kleinman.
‘If you say so,’ said Ricky.
By the time they’d finished rechecking the article, Novak and the stormtroopers were all pacing.
Jack turned the laptop towards Novak. ‘Would you like to proofread it before we upload it to The Beacon’s website and send it to head office for national distribution?’
Pointer finger was slicing the air again. ‘I’ve told you not to publish that.’
Caitlin said, ‘We can do what we like unless you can show me a suppression order.’
‘It’s on its way.’
Ricky leaned back and folded his arms. ‘And which magistrate are you waiting on?’
‘None of your business.’
‘It wouldn’t be Magistrate Gerometta would it?’
She stopped pacing and looked at Ricky, concern in her face. ‘Why?’
‘He’s a very old family friend.’
Her mouth fell open. She said, ‘You knew all the time. You strung us along.’
Ricky was grinning. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s not coming, is it?’
‘How would I know? Why don’t you check in with your sources.’
Jack pointed to the laptop. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like to check anything? Just to make sure the messaging is clear and that I’ve spelled your name correctly, that sort of thing. Then I can start working on the next story.’
‘Which next one?’
‘We have a voice recording provided by a whistle-blower of the president of the Grim Reapers talking to your boss, Tim Pitman, about the special arrangement they have.’
‘What special arrangement?’
‘Ask your friends.’
She turned to each of the stormtroopers in turn; both avoided her gaze.
‘How is your CV going?’ asked Jack.
Novak spun around and click-clacked down the stairs as fast as she could. The door slammed after her.
‘You don’t have any recording,’ said Kleinman.
Ricky’s fingers skated quickly over the keyboard and then one of the recordings from the police station began playing. Jack recognised Ricky’s godfather’s voice, then Senior Sergeant Tim Pitman.
‘No way. You were supposed to look busy by picking off a few things around the edges, a few guys we didn’t like. But no, you were trying to bring down the whole thing. And by using our own lawyer, for fuck’s sake.’
‘I told you, it had nothing to do with me.’
‘I don’t give a shit who it was, we had an agreement.’
‘But we both want to keep this quiet.’
The stormtroopers glanced at each other. Garcia moved quickly, snatching for the laptop across the table, but Ricky was too fast and pulled it out of reach.
‘If any of that goes public,’ said Garcia, ‘you’re a dead man.’
‘I’d be very careful of what you say,’ said Ricky, pointing to three different places around the room. ‘Cameras.’
‘I don’t care, I’m going to come after—’
Kleinman grabbed Garcia by the arm and pulled him away. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Not until you’ve cleaned up all the mess on the floor,’ said Ricky.
‘Fuck you,’ said Garcia, as both stormtroopers left.
Jack surveyed the chaos around them. It was worth it.
‘That was fun,’ said Jack, ‘but we can’t really write a story based on a conversation recorded illegally and in which your godfather effectively admits to criminal activity with the Harriers.’
Ricky waved a hand dismissively. ‘I’ve already spoken to Trouble. He wants to help clean out all the cops that double-crossed the Reapers so he can make a new deal with the replacements. I’ll mask his voice and we don’t have to say we recorded it in a police station. Trouble’s already sent some more stuff through on Signal, like a photo of Kleinman taking cash from the Reapers’ sergeant-at-arms.’
Jack logged back into his laptop and uploaded the Lawyer Y story to the online edition of The Beacon. He then sent it to the night editor at Harris Media in Melbourne.
Ten minutes later, his phone rang. He was surprised to see it was the big cheese himself, the editor-in-chief. He sounded as if he’d been dragged from his bed.
‘Jack, is this for real?’
Jack reassured him it was, and promised to upload all the source material he could.
‘Bloody hell, this is going to be massive. I’ll rope in as many journos as I can, and a sub-editor, so this turd is fully polished for tomorrow’s dailies. Lawyer fucking Y. Unbelievable.’
After the call, Jack was handed a beer and they began working on the next story.
Moira yawned. ‘Time to go to my bed. You’re welcome to sleep downstairs with me, it’s much tidier than here.’
Chapter Fifty-nine
Caitlin grew increasingly anxious as the evening dragged on. Nicola was on her way to see Jack and whenever they were together, she felt uneasy. Nicola was tall, attractive, smart and, most concerning of all, she was interested in Jack – it was obvious in the way she looked at him, her gaze lingering way too long, her laugh too easy. She reprimanded herself for not having opened the dreaded envelope. If she had she would have known for certain what to do: fight for Jack, or not.
It was past midnight when they finished the story on the collusion between the Harriers and the Grim Reapers. Another hour passed before they uploaded a third story, this one about Bernard Henderson killing Michael Brown and Christian Moreau, then taking his own life. There were further disbelieving calls from the editor-in-chief, who now sounded fully awake and, for the first time in more than a decade, had abandoned his bed and had joined the growing ranks of journalists doing the graveyard shift at head office.
The doorbell rang, startling Caitlin more than it should have. That would be Nicola. She jumped up before Jack could move. ‘I’ll get it.’ She walked slowly down the stairs, wishing all the while it would be anyone but the pathologist.
When she opened the door, she was greeted by an exhausted-looking Nicola.
‘Hello, Caitlin.’
‘Come in. You look tired. You should have just phoned instead of driving all this way.’
Nicola entered. ‘I need to see Jack.’
‘He’s pretty busy – writing stories for The Beacon about the events of the last few weeks.’
‘Does that include about Bernard?’
‘Especially Bernard.’
Jack was waiting for them at the top of the stairs. Nicola gave him a long hug and didn’t let go, burrowing herself tightly into him.
Jack said, ‘I’m so sorry, Nicola, this must be very difficult for you; I know how close you were to him.’
Nicola nodded. ‘I didn’t know who else to talk to.’
‘What about your sister?’ said Caitlin. ‘Where’s she?’
‘She’s not answering her phone. She’s gone to some silent retreat. At Repentance Creek.’
Nicola and Jack slowly peeled apart, but then Jack took her hand.
Caitlin said, ‘Let me find somewhere for you to sit, Nicola.’ She cleared some of the detritus away from the lounge.
Nicola didn’t move. She said, ‘He was my hero, my inspiration. I can’t believe he killed those people.’
‘It wasn’t really him, it was the brain tumour, eating away at his inhibitions.’
‘I know, but it’s so horrible.’ Nicola held Jack’s hand with both of hers.
Caitlin tried a different tack to separate them. ‘Would you like tea, Nicola?’
There was no answer. Instead, Nicola looked at Jack. ‘He was like family to me.’
Jack led Nicola to the lounge, where they sat, his arm around her, her head resting on his shoulder. Caitlin was burning up at the sight of them huddled together, even though she knew she was being unfair – Nicola had just lost someone she loved, and she needed comfort. But from Jack? And why were his eyes closed as he rested his head on hers.
She couldn’t watch any more. She ran down the stairs, collected her skateboard, and was gone, skating home as fast as she could, the loud buzzing of the ball bearings and the clickety clack of the wheels on the pavement going unnoticed above the thrumming of her thoughts.
Chapter Sixty
Wednesday, 11th March
Caitlin carried her skateboard up the gravel drive, physically tired from the exertion of the ride home, and emotionally overwrought. She stopped at the front stairs and took a moment as she drew the cooler night air deep into her lungs. She stared at the myriad stars arcing across the sky in the Milky Way; there was a whole universe out there, spanning billions of years, spinning and shining and making bright new stars as others collapsed into blackness – all of which was beyond any influence of hers. But here, on Earth, there were things she could influence. She was used to running at things head on. If she had Huntington’s, she’d run at that too, twice as fast as she was now. And if she didn’t have Huntington’s she’d still keep running; there was so much to see, so much to do. And she might be able to share it all with Jack.
It was time.
She went inside.
She was going to do this right. She wanted the moment to be special, to be memorable – not some soulless moment in a consulting room with Dr Bannerman while spotty kids howled beyond the door.
The envelope sat on the table where she’d left it. The radio was still on and the slow movement of a cello sonata warmed the room.
In the bathroom she stripped out of her sweaty clothes and stood under the shower with the icy-cold water beating on her head. Even though it was the early hours of the morning, she dressed again: stretch jeans, Doc Martens and her INXS T-shirt, her favourite, the last gift from her mother, now so worn there were holes in it.
She returned to the lounge room and made final adjustments. She dimmed the lights, lit one of her father’s candles and moved the wedding photo of her parents closer to the envelope. In the kitchen she salted the rim of a glass and made herself a margarita, then carried it back and set it on the table.
Everything seemed right: the soft light, the vanilla scent from the candle, her parents watching over her. She sat down and tasted the cocktail, the sourness of the lime balancing perfectly with the sweetness of the Cointreau.
Yes, at last it was time.
She reached for the envelope, but the sound of a car on the gravel driveway interrupted her. Headlights cut a swathe across the room.
She stayed where she was, the moment broken. So very close.
There was a knock and a voice called her name. ‘Caitlin.’ Jack’s voice.
For the first time she was annoyed with him; this was her moment. She needed to do it now and to do it alone. She thought about hiding the envelope, but left it where it was and went to the door.
Jack was by himself. ‘Caitlin. You just ran off. I was worried.’
Caitlin didn’t say what she was thinking: that he can’t have been that worried if it took him this long to get here.
‘I came straight here as soon as I got Nicola to bed. She was very upset.’
With that she felt a little ashamed of her feelings. ‘Come in.’
When they reached the lounge room, Jack stopped for a moment and took it all in. ‘Wow. Is this a party for one?’
‘Oh, Jack.’
‘What’s that?’ He pointed to the envelope.
‘You’d better sit.’
He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t press her, instead lowering himself into a chair opposite her.
‘Jack, I decided to take the test.’
Jack frowned. She could see the confusion in his eyes. ‘But why? You’ve always been absolutely determined not to know.’
‘Because of you, Jack. I had to know. If I can, I would like to be with you, if you’ll still have me after telling you to go away so many times.’
He waved around the room. ‘And so that’s what this is all about? You were going to find out, here, tonight, on your own?’
She nodded.
‘Well, it’s lucky I’m here.’
‘No, Jack, I didn’t want to tell you if the test was positive.’
‘Oh, Caitlin.’
He reached for her hand, but she snatched it away.
‘Let’s find out the result first.’
She took a deep breath, then slowly extended her hand towards the envelope. But before she could pick it up, Jack placed his hand on it.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Before you open it, I just want to say that it doesn’t matter what the answer is, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Even if it’s positive?’
An eternity seemed to pass as she waited for his answer.
‘Yes, even if it’s positive.’
A wave of happiness swept through her. She picked up the envelope. It felt far too light and flimsy for the enormous portent it held within. Did she really want this envelope to change her life? She looked at Jack, and he smiled at her. If he didn’t care what the result was, neither did she.
She held the corner of the envelope over the candle and the paper immediately caught fire, flames curling along the edges, pungent black smoke spiralling upwards. She held the envelope until the flames licked at her fingers, then dropped the burning remnant into the margarita, where, with a sizzle, it was instantly extinguished.
Jack came around the table, pulled her up from the chair, and enfolded her in his arms.
She buried her head in his chest, unable to remember when she’d last been so happy. Nothing else mattered, not even the piercing shriek of the smoke detector; she couldn’t have cared if the house was burning down.
Jack bent his head and whispered in her ear, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Mr Huntington can go fuck himself.’
Acknowledgements
In crime fiction, there must be people behaving badly and, obviously, a crime. For these fictional purposes I have portrayed some police as corrupt. In real life, the vast majority of police are not corrupt. Their job is difficult, challenging, and at times requires them to put their personal safety at risk. In The Sunbaker, I have created a fictitious police unit called the Harrier Squad, deliberately avoiding the names of any New South Wales Police strike forces so as not to cast aspersions on those officers. They have the difficult and dangerous task of tackling violent and organised crime networks.
Any errors in police procedure, deliberate or otherwise, are my own and not those of the police officers who patiently provided me with advice. Heartfelt thanks to Mick Chaffey for your generosity. That vivid orange vinyl is permanently burned into my retinas. My gratitude also to Simon and Emma for your valuable and often entertaining insights into police procedures.
Spoiler alert! For those, like me, who turn to the acknowledgements before reading a novel, you should jump to the next paragraph now. In The Sunbaker, I make reference to Voluntary Assisted Dying (VAD), even though VAD did not commence in New South Wales until November 2023, a few years after the setting of the novel. I would particularly like to thank the subject-matter expert who provided invaluable advice on VAD, but who wished to remain anonymous. I acknowledge the important work undertaken by VAD professionals in bringing relief to those with intractable suffering.
I took several other liberties in the interest of story. In actuality, names are not redacted from court transcripts. Genetic testing for Huntington’s disease can only be requested by an authorised person, not a GP.
As always, I’m indebted to the members of my writing group, The Dead Darlings Society: Deanna Antoniolli, Mary Chang, Dan Fallon, Karen Hollands, Kaja Holzheimer, Nikki Mottram, Nicky Peelgrane, Isabel Prior, Fiona Reilly, Fiona Robertson and Warren Ward. You are a special part of my life, providing invaluable expert critiques always accompanied by a soundtrack of laughter. Special thanks to the remarkably talented Deanna Antoniolli for her dedicated review of the manuscript.
Thanks also to my Northern-Rivers-based writing group, The Poncy Pricks: Lee Adendorff, Vivienne Pearson and John Stevens, not only for your support, but for the sheer joy of your company. I have again managed to squeeze ‘lamb roast’ into the text, but I hope you realise how much this obligation curbs creative freedom – I’ve already had to rule out setting my next novel during a power blackout, in a lifeboat, or on a desert island.
