Tugga's Mob. Stephen Johnson
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shown the door. His gut instinct told him there was more to the Tugga Tancred cliff-diving story, but he doubted he would get the luxury of time to investigate it.
Curly reached the television station and steadily weaved through a rabbit warren of hallways and adjoining buildings towards the current affairs office. It was a long way from the management domain, which was both good and bad. Journalists never like being close to bean counters, but out of sight means out of mind for those who paid the wage bills. We keep getting time sheets from the south corner of the complex. Who lives down there?
The studios and facilities were built to cope with Australia’s first Olympic Games broadcast in 1956. No one had any idea what was required apart from walls, roofs, cameras and miles of electronic cables and other technical stuff. The original network expanded over several city blocks in the following decades before selling the premises and moving to bespoke facilities in Docklands. Curly’s employers hadn’t seen any need to mess with history. Why spend money upgrading studios, cameras, presentation suites, recording booths or news rooms? They were in the business of making money, not spending it. It was a miracle management agreed to dump the typewriters and install computers.
Curly was still 20 metres away from the office when he picked up the first sounds of battle – Jo. Another female voice – Kim. Then a male voice, the tone indicating he was under siege – Mac.
Bugger. Give up mate and just pay.
Curly slipped into the office and headed straight for his desk, hoping to fire up his terminal and take refuge from the combatants. The man under fire was David McKenzie, Melbourne Spotlight’s program producer, who was better known throughout media circles as Mac. Even his grandmother called him Mac. She could never remember his home address, so her Christmas card would be posted to Mac, care of whatever channel she thought was employing him. It sometimes took a longer trek, but everyone in Melbourne television newsrooms knew Mac and the card always ended up in pride of place on his office desk, usually with a few extra good wishes or ribald comments penned on granny’s envelope.
That industry respect wasn’t helping Mac at that moment as he was bracketed at the main production desk. The protagonists were Jo Trescowthick, production assistant and gofer extraordinaire, and Kim Prescott, the office researcher who was desperate to become a reporter. A showdown with the program producer at 8.23am on a Monday probably wasn’t going to help that career path. But there were principles at stake: the coffee and biscuit kitty had been raided, again.
It was an odd sight, Curly had to admit. Jo would make a hobbit look tall. Kim towered over her colleague by 20cm, but even she had to look up at Mac who was a tad under two metres. Yet his wavy red mane atop a 110kg frame that looked more suited to the movie set of Braveheart was not intimidating the wee inquisitors.
‘Curly,’ Mac implored, ‘give me a hand here. These harridans are accusing me of raiding the kitty. Why would I do that?’
Curly weighed up the options. Who can I afford to piss off here? Mac ran the show, but Curly knew where the real power lay – behind the throne. Jo could provide reliable camera crews, creative editors and all the other important elements needed to get his stories to air in a timely fashion. And Kim could turn out to be a handy ally if he was going to get the Tugga Tancred story to develop. Pragmatism won the day.
‘The pub probably declined your credit card again,’ Curly said with an apologetic shrug and half smile to his boss and good mate. The ladies turned to Mac with triumphant smiles and rattled the tin kitty which contained a few coins.
‘Oh, you Judas,’ Mac wailed as if standing before Pontius Pilate. Tearing at his imaginary crown of thorns wouldn’t do any good either; everyone knew Mac was guilty, although there would be no need for a crucifixion.
Kangaroo courts, with Jo and Kim as judge, jury and executioners, were becoming regular events after another of The Hatchet’s cost- cutting measures – recalling all the executive credit cards. The tea, coffee and biscuit kitty had become Mac’s alternative to the ATM when his plastic failed at the pub. Two ex-wives and three kids in private schools never left much beer money by Friday. Strictly speaking, Mac shouldn’t have qualified for a company credit card as Richard Templeton held the title of executive producer. But Mac arrived at the station under a previous administration and it had taken The Hatchet almost two years to discover that oversight. Most times Mac managed to replace the cash before the guardians of the kitty went shopping. Jo and Kim had now sprung him three times in a month, and Curly thought he knew why.
‘Did you back that nag the sports guys were tipping at Flemington on Saturday? Surely you checked the form, Mac. That horse hasn’t won in two years.’
‘I know that, but they said their mate was the trainer’s cousin and he was setting times better than Phar Lap before the Cup,’ Mac replied with a guilty look. He pulled out the lone $10 note in his wallet and promised to find the rest by lunch time. Mollified, the guardians departed for the nearest 7-Eleven for a caffeine fix as the tea, coffee and biscuit containers were nearly as empty as the kitty.
Fortunately, Mac’s lack of horse sense didn’t extend to his news judgement. He knew there was a reason Curly let the girls eviscerate him. ‘So, what have you got up your sleeve that you need Jo and Kim’s help with?’
Curly smiled. ‘Did you see that news story on the landscaper who drove off the cliff near Lorne on the weekend, the one I scrambled together for the news guys?’
‘Yeah, just a drunk falling asleep at the wheel, wasn’t it?’
Curly baited the hook. ‘Could be a bit more than that.’
Mac raised a bushy ginger eyebrow. ‘Okay, I’m listening.’
‘I managed to get right down to the wreck on the rocks,’ Curly elaborated. ‘Being out of a suit and not carrying a big camera can work in our favour at times. Anyway, I heard a cop questioning his sergeant about skid marks in the layby. It sounded like he’d spent time with one of those crash investigation units. He said another vehicle could have been involved.’
Mac absorbed the information for a moment before asking the pertinent question. ‘Did the cop think it was accidental involvement, or deliberate?’
‘Unfortunately, that’s when your citizen reporter was rumbled and sent back up to the road with the other ne’er-do-wells,’ Curly said, as he walked back to his desk to retrieve his mobile phone. He scrolled through to his picture gallery and presented it to Mac.
‘I went back to have a look at the skid marks after the news boys left.’ Curly tapped through several images. He then went back to the first of six pictures. ‘Initially I didn’t see anything strange. Looks like the drunk woke up as he started to drift towards the layby and braked to correct himself. You know, instinctive?’
Curly pointed at the first image which showed a short tyre mark. The next picture showed the angle of the skid in relation to the road. It seemed to support his hypothesis. Curly then moved through to another picture and another skid mark, this one on an angle away from the barrier and cliff. He then explained how he ensured he kept his alignment with the direction the car would have been travelling if the driver had woken up.
‘He’s braked twice,’ Curly pointed out to Mac, who was now listening intently. ‘Wouldn’t you think someone – even a drunk – who’s just woken to a nightmare on the Great Ocean Road would stand on the brakes once he realised he’s headed for the cliff ? There should have been a 40-metre-long trail of rubber there. Depending on his speed, he might even have slowed enough to be stopped by the barrier?’
Curly allowed his producer to mull that information for a moment before suggesting his possible scenario.
‘I think he’s been given a couple of nudges at speed.’
Still no response from the boss as he flicked back and forth between the pictures.
‘My suspicion is that Tugga Tancred wasn’t asleep when he was tapped the first time. See – that first skid mark is right at the entrance to the layby.’
Curly