‘Yes, there have been a couple more surprises since Tugga drove off the cliff. I hadn’t seen or heard anything about him – or anyone, in fact from that trip – since Europe in ’86. You know, we just happened to book the same tour because it was the cheapest. We travelled around, saw Europe, had a great time and went our own ways. I saw a couple of passengers at pubs and parties in London over the following 12 months, but never set eyes on Tugga’s Mob again.’
‘Tugga’s Mob?’
‘That was a nickname that became popular on the bus. Tugga was big, loud and enjoyed a beer. He was always up for some fun. He naturally drew attention to himself and those around him.’
Hackett’s chair tilted back as he relaxed into memories of a younger life of adventure.
‘Groups used to form quickly on tours in those days. Most passengers were early 20s and away from home for the first time. It could be daunting with the different languages, new food, multiple currencies and new cultures every other day. Border guards could be intimidating and bureaucratic, and all the big cities had bloody gypsies hassling you for money while trying to pick your pockets; that sort of thing. Probably not politically correct to stereotype people like that these days, but that was the reality then.
‘Some travellers needed security in numbers. Others aligned themselves with people of similar interests. You would get the culture vultures who wanted to visit every museum, art gallery, castle and the birthplaces of famous composers or writers. And then there were the party people who wanted to enjoy themselves while still seeing the best of Europe. Those who gravitated towards the big fella were known as Tugga’s Mob.’
‘And which group were you in?’
Hackett rested his elbows on the desk before he replied. ‘Technically, the other passengers considered me part of Tugga’s Mob. I had a good time, probably drank more than I should have, but still saw all the highlights. I enjoyed their company at times and I also associated with lots of other people from the bus – and different tour groups.’
Looking at the 50-something television executive in his designer suit and silk tie, Curly struggled to visualise The Hatchet as a party animal in the ’80s. Hackett looked as if he was born in an office.
Curly shrugged. ‘It was much the same in the ‘90s when I did my own tripping around Europe, so to speak.’
Hackett ignored any kindred traveller connections. ‘Anyway, Tugga’s Mob pre-dated the trip. He arrived in London with a couple of mates from New Zealand – from memory they all worked in forestry chopping down trees – and there was a girl, Helen Franks. She was a bar worker they knew in Rotorua who had moved to Sydney. Helen chucked the Sydney job in and joined them in England just before the trip. She was always looking for a new adventure. I enjoyed a few beers in those days and that’s how, in theory, I became part of Tugga’s Mob.’
‘That was 30 years ago. You’ve had no contact with Tugga or other members of the Mob since, right?’
Hackett nodded.
‘So, what other surprises has Tugga’s plunge off the Great Ocean Road generated? Have the other mobsters emerged through Facebook or Twitter to express their condolences?’
Hackett squirmed, then looked Curly directly in the eyes for the first time. ‘No, far from it in fact. Tugga isn’t the only one to have met an accidental death. His two mates were both killed in accidents recently. A bit weird, don’t you think?’
Curly sat silently for almost five seconds as he weighed these new nuggets of information. Bloody gold!
‘Tugga and his two best mates are dead? From accidents? What time frame are we talking about: when, where and how?’ Curly kept his expression neutral despite the intensity of the questions. His initial gut instinct from the weekend might turn into an absolute cracker of a story. Where’s this all going to lead?
Hackett could sense the excitement that coursed through the journalist. Was there even more to these accidents?
‘They’re all quite recent,’ he said. ‘Although the other two – Drew Harvey and Gerry Daly – died in New Zealand. Drew drowned while rock fishing at the end of August and Gerry was knocked off his bicycle in September. And now Tugga on the weekend.’
Hackett explained how the news about Tugga naturally, and for the first time in years, brought back memories of the trip. And that consequently, prompted him to Google the other members of the tour party. He’d wondered if anyone had become famous, or successful in business like him? Instead he’d found out about Gerry’s accident, and then the third death amongst that tight group. He admitted he was sitting in shock when Curly’s request for background information had come through.
Curly spent a few more minutes milking information from Hackett about the New Zealand deaths.
But Hackett, having verbalised it for the first time, started to understand the journalist’s obvious suspicions.
Accidents, coincidence – or something else?
Hackett decided he should share the news about Helen – or the lack of it. He reached into a drawer on the right-hand side of the desk and pulled out the group picture from Volendam. He pushed it across towards Curly before speaking again.
‘That’s a tour group photo at Volendam, in the Netherlands. You probably did something similar on your trip?’
Curly nodded and waited for Hackett to continue as he picked up the picture.
‘You can see the big fella in the middle, at the back. Drew’s on his right, with me beside him and Gerry on his left. Helen is beside Gerry.’
Curly peered at Tugga’s Mob. The big and brawny Kiwis had assumed the traditional staunch rugby pose, with chins thrust forward, arms folded and no smiles. The 1980s version of Hackett, however, was a marked contrast to the grey corporate executive who sat across from him. Thick, unkempt hair sprouted from beneath his Dutch fishing hat. He sported a then-fashionable drooping moustache that couldn’t hide a broad smile. He appeared to be having the time of his life – the deep bags under the eyes were familiar signs of late nights in camping ground bars and continental taverns.
Hackett, only a little shorter than Drew, couldn’t match the Kiwis’ bulk. Their muscles had been toned on rugby fields and in North Island forests. Hackett’s youthful physique hadn’t survived the climb up the corporate ladder. Neither had his facial hair.
Curly scanned the other faces, stopping at Helen. She was attractive enough though the Dutch costume wasn’t flattering and made her look severe. He asked the most obvious question. ‘What about Helen? What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing. Not a mention anywhere on the Web that I can find so far. I guess that might be a good sign?’
‘If you mean it’s unlikely she’s also met with a recent accidental death. Maybe.’
Hackett’s eyes widened. ‘Four accidental deaths would make it too damn freaky, wouldn’t it?’
Curly nodded, pondering how much more there might be to drain from The Hatchet before revealing his own info about the police investigation into the second-car theory. That factual detail suddenly took on greater significance when thrown into the news blender with two other untimely deaths… and the possibly missing Helen.
But was she really missing? She probably married, possibly several times in 30 years, and Curly doubted The Hatchet had the investigative skills to do a proper search for his former friend.
Curly was about to throw that caution onto the pyre when The Hatchet’s mobile phone demanded attention.
Hackett glanced at the caller ID expecting he would be able to let it go to voice mail; after all, this journalist hadn’t revealed anything yet. The caller was Reg Bradley, the station chief executive and the only person