‘To call it a beach house makes it sound grander than it is. It’s rustic you might say, not much above a shack. The location is close enough to town but still reasonably isolated. Apparently, he didn’t have many visitors. He would chat to everyone in the local bar, buy them drinks, but no one can recall visiting his place in the 20-odd years he lived there. The old farmer who sold him the land died soon after and the gullies weren’t considered good for anything. But it seems Tugga found a way to make money.’
‘Okay, you’ve got me on the hook. What did you find, not the old farmer’s body I hope?’
Laidlaw laughed. ‘No, the old boy’s pushing up daisies in town. It turns out Tugga had quite the green thumb. He might’ve spent all week chopping down trees but he made up for it on weekends by growing stuff. Tugga’s secret hobby was growing dope.’
Curly wanted to leap up and do a double fist pump. His hunch was correct, there was far more to this story and they needed to get to Lorne and Apollo Bay ASAP.
He waved to Mac and Jo and gave a thumbs-up. Curly then pointed at a reporter sitting at their terminal – a sure indication no story had been assigned to them yet – whirled his hand like a helicopter and mimed Lorne. That was enough to get Jo rolling. The chopper was a joint share between news and current affairs. As the Spotlight crew rarely worked on weekends they had first claim on the machine on Monday.
Curly turned his attention back to squeezing more information out of the extremely accommodating Lorne copper.
‘How much dope are we talking about? Was he supplying?’
‘I think he was small time, the local cops found 20 plants and two bags containing a kilo of grass ready for sale. He was clever enough to stay below our radar on the coast. Our guess is he was selling it back in Geelong. He had the perfect front for the operation. That ute was always full of vegetable matter and junk, no one would ever have suspected. Probably made more from dealing in the green stuff than grinding it up.’
‘Okay, so we could describe him as a small-time grower and dealer?’ ‘Looks that way.’
‘Is there a chance his death and the tap from the second car might be related, that it was drug related?’
Again, there was a pause on the phone, long enough for Curly to wonder again why this cop was providing so much detail. Usually pulling teeth was easier than extracting information from police.
‘On the record, I’ll say we can’t make any assumptions like that. Off the record, it’s one angle that we’ll definitely look at.’
‘You know I’m going to need what you can give me on the record, and to get some shots of Tugga’s property and the dope you’ve found up there. I can get a crew there in about 90 minutes. You happy to front for an interview?’
The delay wasn’t as long as Curly expected.
‘Yep, I guess I’ve kicked over the beehive, so I should do the right thing and front up.’
‘That’s brilliant, Jim. I’ll go brief my boss and get the reporter and chopper on the way. They’ll check in when they land and confirm your location. No doubt we’ll be talking more in the days ahead depending on how things go. Just a couple of final things before I go.’
‘Yep, fire away.’
‘Firstly, what made you curious about the tyre marks in the first place?’
‘I moved here from the Major Collision Investigation Unit. I spent a few years dealing with accident scenes, solving mysteries became second nature to me I suppose, until my wife decided she wanted the coastal life.’
‘And I guess that last comment might partly answer my next question. Why have you been so forward with information? Doesn’t happen too often in our business.’
Laidlaw laughed, he understood it was a rare situation. ‘Well, the dope angle would have surfaced in a day or two from one of the pubs down here. The surfies are pissed off they didn’t know about Tugga’s stash sitting up in the bush, otherwise they would have helped themselves to a few plants when he was back in Geelong. But you’re right, there’s something about this accident that doesn’t stack up, so I want answers, whichever way I can get them.’
Curly was fizzing at the bung after he hung up the phone. He quickly updated Mac on the new angle – the famous Kiwi landscaper was a coastal drug kingpin. And the local cop believed a second vehicle was involved. Mac wanted to go a step further and suggest the accident might have been a hit by a rival gang, but Curly knew that angle would risk losing his new best Victoria Police friend in Lorne.
They swiftly dispatched the reporter and camera operator to the chopper base with shot lists, questions, contact details and preferred locations for pieces to camera. It was agreed that Curly’s time would be better spent at the station, to script, commission graphics and source supplementary vision for when the reporter returned in a panic late in the afternoon. The reporter’s name and face would be on the story, but it would be Curly’s production.
It was good old-fashioned journalism – a gut instinct proved correct – and both producers were chuffed.
Then Mac had another thought from left-field. ‘Hey, do you know what would make this story even better?’
‘What? We’ve got two fresh angles the other stations don’t have. How greedy do we need to be Mac?’
‘Just imagine if The Hatchet is involved in the drug operation? Is he the Melbourne Mr Big?’
Curly looked up from his terminal to see Mac with a broad smile; teasing. Or was he?
The reference to Hackett reminded him to check his email inbox. There were the usual half a dozen corporate messages and a few from mates commenting on his weekend story.
Crap quality on the pictures mate, but good on you for getting so close.
But the email that caught his attention was the briefest. It was from Hackett.
‘Jeezus,’ Curly called out to Mac. ‘The Hatchet wants to talk to me – as soon as possible.’
Chapter 9
The view from Andrew Hackett’s tenth floor office was impressive. South Melbourne, Port Melbourne, Albert Park, Middle Park, a slice of St Kilda and a big chunk of Port Philip Bay were framed by his corporate eyrie. Most days he allowed himself a few minutes to enjoy the panorama. It was confirmation of his success. Only the smart and wealthy made it to these heights to indulge themselves with these perks.
The morning haze had evaporated, although a few low clouds drifted past from the south west. Hackett’s eyes were fixed on the horizon, but this morning they didn’t register the changing weather. He should have been revelling in the success of his early meeting with the Chief Executive about the AFL broadcasting rights. The next step, a mere formality, was to get the TV station’s board to approve the budget.
But it was not the great start to his business day that preoccupied Hackett. His mind was focused on the strange death of another member of Tugga’s Mob.
Hackett turned back to the news article that had stunned him more than the first two deaths, or perhaps it was simply accumulated shock. Gerry Daly had been killed while cycling in New Zealand in September.
Tugga, Drew – and now Gerry.
Three of Tugga’s Mob all accidentally killed within two months of each other. This was more than weird; it was creepy.
Tugga’s Mob has been obliterated. Well almost.
He read the news story one more time, hoping it might provide something more illuminating. It was dated 20 September.
Cyclist killed on Coromandel Road
Police are continuing their search for the vehicle involved in