Tugga's Mob. Stephen Johnson
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The diary holder always felt angry when reading that entry. A potential problem was identified, yet Judy didn’t treat it seriously. What happened to the sensible woman everyone loved at the pharmacy? Judy was so attentive to their prescriptions and requirements, yet a few weeks travelling made her careless about her own needs. The hands holding the diary trembled as a twinge of guilt swept through. Was it too harsh to judge from a distance, not being privy to the morality, influences and passions of those times? But all acts and oversights have consequences, the diary holder believed. The diary was once again laid to a silky rest for another time. The final pieces of the puzzle were coming together and new plans had to be finalised.
Chapter 8
Camera crews and reporters wandered out of the Spotlight office in dribs and drabs after the production meeting, while Curly procrastinated about The Hatchet. He wondered what pertinent information the financial executive could provide; after all, the last contact with Tugga Tancred was 30 years before. Curly doubted he would even get to speak to The Hatchet, who was notorious for ignoring requests from journalists. It wouldn’t cost The Hatchet anything to share background information on Tugga. Phone calls to the financial caller were a waste of time, therefore Curly chose the cover-your-butt option – an email. That way there was proof he tried to establish contact.
Curly quickly bashed out a message to Hackett via the internal server, asking for a chat about his connection to Tugga. He briefly pondered whether to reveal the theory that a second vehicle might have been involved in the accident. That was the only reason for pursuing the story further, but Curly decided to keep that information to himself. He would share his suspicion that Tugga was pushed over the cliff if Hackett agreed to meet. He tapped the send button, then turned his attention to the cop who believed Tugga’s ute might have been whacked from behind.
The Victoria Police Media Centre confirmed the officer – Jim Laidlaw – was a constable assigned to Lorne. It was a small station and they suggested the officer might be on a day off after working the weekend.
The Media Centre wasn’t overly curious about Curly’s inquiry, especially after he spun them a storyline about staying alert on the Great Ocean Road over summer. Curly embellished the pitch with his first-hand experience of being at the crash site, noting the grim but heroic work of the police and rescue staff. Curly wanted to help prevent other horrific scenes, he said.
The former newspaper journo on duty in the Media Centre thought it sounded like a good PR feature. His office was busy enough with matters in Melbourne, so no one wanted to drive all the way to Lorne and back to hold a constable’s hand through a puff piece on road safety.
Curly decided to strike swiftly, in case the media office sent a message to the Lorne cop outlining the story they had approved. He dialled the Lorne station number and was rewarded with a prompt pick up.
‘Lorne Police, Constable Laidlaw speaking.’
Bingo! Curly was in luck.
‘G’day Constable Laidlaw, it’s Curly Rogers here from Spotlight, you know, the Melbourne current affairs show?’ Curly never used his real name – Christopher. Too many calls from outside contacts weren’t passed through because his own colleagues never knew him as anything other than Curly. If they couldn’t see a Christopher in the office, and the call didn’t relate to any of their own stories, journalists were inclined to send it back to reception – or lose it.
‘I remember you – the cheeky bugger with the mobile phone who scrambled down to the wreck on Saturday. The sergeant was spitting tacks when he saw the TV news that night.’
Curly was worried he might have blown this potential source already. He stayed silent, hoping it was only the sergeant who was angry about his rock visit and not Laidlaw.
‘Lucky for you we said it must have been one of the search and rescue mob who sent you the pictures. Saved us getting our arses kicked for letting you get that close. So, what further trouble are you going to cause me, Mr Rogers?’
Curly quickly decided Jim Laidlaw was a good sort: no mug and not likely to create trouble for himself or Victoria Police, but also not likely to sweat the small stuff. He decided against trying to bluff the country cop and went straight to the point.
‘Firstly, thanks for saving my butt with your boss and, secondly, hopefully, I won’t be causing any problems, but…’ and Curly paused a moment for the cop to digest his good intentions, ‘I am checking up on a couple of unusual aspects I noticed about the Tugga Tancred crash.’
‘Unusual?’
Curly didn’t want Laidlaw to cop flak from his sergeant for initiating the ‘second-vehicle theory,’ so, in case the phone call was recorded, he wanted it on the record that it was the journalist’s own diligence at the crash site that sparked the follow-up.
‘Look, I noticed fresh tyre marks and some broken glass in the layby. It suggests to me that the victim may have been trying to brake.’
There was a pause before Laidlaw responded.
‘And what do you think happened?’
Curly was encouraged. The cop wasn’t trying to steer him away from the theory he was about to put on the record.
‘I would’ve thought someone alert enough to realise they were heading for a cliff would throw out all the anchors. There would have been a continuous skid mark from the first to the second mark at least; if not all the way to the cliff-edge. And what reason would there be for broken glass at the start of the layby? Could another vehicle have been involved?’
The second-vehicle theory was now on the table and Curly waited for confirmation.
‘You saw me collecting the glass, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I got pictures of the glass and you scooping it up.’
The line went quiet for 10 seconds.
‘Look, I won’t bullshit you. Sure, there are thousands of cars and dumb tourists looking at the view rather than where they’re parking – and anybody could have left the marks and glass. But we might need some help if we’re going to find out what happened to Tugga.’
That surprised Curly and he took the risk of taking a momentary tangent. ‘You knew him?’
‘More by reputation, but I had seen him around. He was a big fella, hard to miss in a bar. Usually cunning enough to avoid any breathalyser patrols. I’ve only been here a few months, but yeah, I knew who he was.’
‘And by saying you want to know what happened to Tugga, you also suspect another vehicle might have been involved – accidentally. Or deliberately?’
‘Back up the bus on your deliberately theory. I don’t want that out there – at the moment. But yes, I suspect another vehicle was involved.’
Curly contained his excitement, realising he had to get this information on the record. Again, time and distance were not going to help him, they needed to get the new angle on air that evening before one of the other stations or newspapers stumbled onto the story. Or, were they already ahead of him?
‘Look Jim, do you mind telling me if there have been any calls from other media asking about a second vehicle being involved?’
‘Not yet. I think most people took it at face value. You know, drunk driver falls asleep and drives off into oblivion. The final 15 minutes of fame for the big fella.’
Curly thought back to Constable Laidlaw at the crash site. He was about 30; too young to be so cynical about the public’s news attention span.
You’re too clever to be twiddling your thumbs in Lorne, mate.
‘Okay, so you’re investigating that angle, as in what caused him to brake, the two tyre marks and the glass?’
There was another pause before the country cop answered, as if weighing how much information he should be sharing with a journalist.
‘Yes.