Tugga's Mob. Stephen Johnson
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what I heard about this Tugga, he was a big guy, not likely to be pushed about. I think he jumped on the brakes when he felt the first whack at the start of the layby. Then the ego kicked in – you don’t tangle with Tugga Tancred. He planted the foot on the accelerator to outrun the idiot causing him grief.
‘That’s when he was hit the second time. Tugga suddenly found himself heading straight for the cliff, he stood on the brakes again, but it was too late and he went flying into Bass Strait.’
Mac didn’t say anything for another 20 seconds as he flipped back and forth between the pictures. Finally, he broke the silence as he heard more reporters and camera crews arrive for their first planning session. He handed back the phone. ‘Interesting theory, mate, but it’s thin.’
Curly was undeterred. Mac hadn’t dismissed him outright. ‘Well, there is more potential evidence.’ He found another picture from his Saturday sequence and turned it around to show Mac. It revealed red brake light fragments on tar seal.
‘See that? It was scattered around the first skid mark.’
‘Yeah,’ Mac sighed. ‘But that could have been from any car – at any time.’
‘Well, that cop who raised doubts about Tugga’s flying act thought it was important.’ Curly held up his final picture, a profile shot of the policeman with the glass in an evidence bag.
Mac rubbed a hand through hair that looked as if it would require shearer’s clippers to cut. ‘Did you get that cop’s name?’
‘Yep. I think he’s based in Lorne but I’ll get the Media Centre to confirm that.’
‘How are you placed for your stories this week? You know we have to keep churning it out to justify our existence.’
Curly sensed he was winning the battle. ‘Tuesday’s story is almost in the can, I need a couple of finishing edits tomorrow. And Kim is helping line up interviews for the other stories. She could even do one or two of them if this takes off. So, I’m under control. I think it’s worth digging into Tugga’s story. If this is murder, not an accident, we’ll have the jump on everyone.’
‘Okay, you’ve got today to find something solid, otherwise you owe me another four and half minutes of scintillating television,’ Mac said. He headed towards the conference room to get the meeting underway.
Curly did a little fist pump as he returned to his desk to retrieve a notebook for the production meeting. The elation was witnessed by Kim who had returned from the coffee run with Jo.
‘What’s got you so excited today?’
Curly knew there was no need to be circumspect about the story. It was time to share the information with his colleagues as he was going to need their help. He joined Kim and the crew as they shuffled their way into the small conference room. ‘I have a new angle on that landscaper who plunged off the Great Ocean Road. I think there was a second car involved.’
News ears are highly tuned to random comments and several heads swivelled towards Curly; eyebrows raised in silent demands for more information. However, it was 35-year-old senior camera operator Dugal Cameron who sideswiped the discussion.
‘Maybe it was The Hatchet,’ Cameron suggested as he slung an armful of camera cables onto the table.
All conversation stopped for a moment. No doubt, for a few in the room, Dugal’s comment fleetingly raised hopes the penny- pinching Hackett might be found guilty of murder and banished from their TV station, forever.
Curly was a realist and knew they could never be that lucky. More chance of winning Tattslotto!
But everyone was curious about The Hatchet’s implied involvement in Curly’s story. They all looked at Dugal and waited for him to back up his bombshell comment.
‘I was chatting to Ciaran O’Malley on the way into work. He said The Hatchet knew the guy who parked on the rocks at Lorne. Maybe the guy owed him $10?’ Dugal finished with a shrug.
A collective sigh of disappointment escaped the room. Several staff were secretly fantasising about The Hatchet taking up residence in Barwon Prison with an over-sexed 300-kilogram cellmate.
Mac snapped them back to the business of the day. ‘Thanks for that, Dugal. I guess you don’t want to tag along with Curly when he pops upstairs to inquire whether The H– um, whether Hackett, was driving to Lorne on Friday night?’
A quick shake of the head was Dugal’s only response while Curly blanched.
‘Fuck, Mac! Do I have to talk to him? I’ve got enough to work on. There’s the cop, the skid marks and the brake-light glass. Plus, I’ve got a wife, kids, mortgage and tickets to next year’s Grand Final to save for. He doesn’t know I exist down here.’
Mac joined in the laughter as he took revenge for the lack of support during the coffee kitty kangaroo court. ‘Yep, your idea mate, so you have to chase down any potential angles. No palming it off to Kim either. And I would suggest you don’t start by asking him for overtime on the weekend.
‘Right, people. How are we going to fill the gaps between those incredibly well-paid and important commercials tonight?’
June 30, 1986
Greece is boiling – and the locals say it’s not even the hottest month of the year! If the temperature got to 25 degrees in Te Awamutu everyone would hop on their ponies and go chill in the river. Jump in the water in Greece and it’s more like a bath. I guess us Kiwis don’t handle the heat.
Athens is different from Corfu. Lots more crumblies, which is like Italy I suppose, but the locals are even more laid back.
The Acropolis is majestic as it towers over the city, but I can’t understand how they let things get this way. Dad would have a fit at the lack of maintenance throughout Greece. Maybe it’s the economy, or the oppressive heat. Either way, vast swathes of the country look like they need a change in farm management.
The Greeks were the centre of the civilised world and now they are history’s backwater (okay, I admit I heard a tour guide say that bit).
Corfu was very touristy – Denise and I loved the B52 cocktails at Ipsos Beach – and our camp site was close to the water.
We were a bit jealous watching the Top Deck passengers cruising around on their yachts for four days. We still caught up with them at tavernas and restaurants thanks to rented scooters and bikes. There have been some excellent parties and I’ve developed a big appetite for calamari. It’s so tender and tasty compared to the rubbery squid one of the Hamilton pubs used to dish up every Friday night. Send their chefs to Greece for training. The food’s a positive for Greece, but there’s not much else I would recommend about Athens to other backpackers.
The city beaches look shabby by comparison to Italy and the camp site pool is empty. It’s not flash at all. No wonder the other tour companies aren’t here. We’re off to the sound-and-light show tonight at the base of the Acropolis, so we’re hoping that will be special. I’m looking forward to seeing Gallipoli in a few days as well. I must take lots of pictures for Dad as Poppa fought there for several months. I still have the list of battle zones – somewhere.
Funny how I’m looking forward to getting out of Athens, whereas everywhere else I wanted more time. There’s more history here but either it doesn’t appeal to me or they haven’t packaged it properly for young tourists. I guess most visitors just want to go to the islands and enjoy the sun, sea and sex.
Speaking of which, I have to be more careful. I’ve lost a packet of my pills and I have no idea how to get more. I might have to revert to my good convent girl habits again. Or be more careful.
Mind you, the Greek men don’t get me as giddy as those Italians – or another lad closer to home, or rather, the bus.
Ha ha. God, I can never let anyone else ever read this! Well, maybe Charlotte when I get home in a couple of years. And only if she promises never to tell Russell.