Blaze (72 page)

‘Traditional fare?' queried Miche.

‘Very. Now, what are you looking for? How far back are you starting your research?'

‘Round the seventies, with the expansion of commercial and hobby vineyards. I want to weave in local colour, the old families, the immigrant influence, the lifestyle, tourism taking over from coalmining to become the huge, trendy business it is today.'

‘That is a big picture! I'll introduce you to our editor, Bruce Wilson. Bit of a history buff as well as a goldmine of gossip about who has made news and who may in the future.'

‘Do you keep the back issues here?' asked Miche, looking around the cluttered, cramped offices.

‘Not any more. They're at the town library, as are the microfilm versions.'

Bruce Wilson, Miche learned, was a mine of information. A local boy, at twenty he'd started writing the cricket reports for the local paper, had been hired as a cadet and from there worked his way to the top. He'd been editor for the past thirty years. He was a stickler for correct grammar – no split infinitives, and no clichés. He wore a tie to work every day, except for public holidays, and on special occasions wore his Journalists' Club version with pride.

‘Ah, we've been discovered at last,' he said with a grin. ‘A big spread in the international editions?'

‘Would be nice,' responded Miche. ‘I'm trying to write it from my perspective, a young person from abroad discovering the place, the region. But not just a puff, touristy piece.'

‘A personal slant on a story like that works best I'd say,' said Bruce and for the next fifteen minutes talked non-stop about people, places and past events that would help her recognise the diversity of angles available for her story.

Miche made notes and thanked him for being so generous with his time and knowledge. ‘A pleasure, but there's a price.'

‘Oh!'

‘A story for the
Advertiser
. About you, your assignment. And a picture. At the right time, of course. Don't want to have you scooped by the opposition. Just stay in touch with Jane. The locals will love the attention.'

‘Fair enough. Thanks for your help. Now, could you point me towards the town's library?'

‘It's just up the road. Any help you need Miche, give a yell.'

Miche was soon scrolling through microfilm pages of the
Advertiser
from the sixties, seventies and eighties. Occasionally she stopped to read a story under a headline that caught her eye. In the steady parade of pages, she caught a taste of life in the district and what made local news. While often covering parochial issues, the stories reflected national and international events. Farm and food prices, French wine subsidies, a suspected horse infection at a prominent stud, brought in from overseas.

After about twenty minutes of pleasurable scrolling and taking notes on stories that may provide background for something up to date, the steady flow of work came to an abrupt halt as one headline shattered the routine research.

Her hand froze on the scroll control and her eyes locked onto the story. She read the first few paragraphs of the front page story quickly, then stared at a blurry photograph, a head and shoulders shot of a woman.

‘My God,' she said softly. ‘Surely not.' She was shaking slightly as she stood up and found a librarian. ‘Can I see the original back copy of the
Advertiser
dated June 17 1982, please?'

‘No worries. We'll dig it out for you. We hold them here for safekeeping.'

The librarian eventually handed over the dusty leather-bound binder labelled the
Advertiser
,
1982
.

It didn't take long to find the story she was looking for and, with mounting tension, she read and re-read it and looked at the photograph. ‘Has to be,' she murmured to herself, astonished that she was staying so calm. She was making notes when the librarian passed by, paused and asked quite casually, ‘Having any luck?'

Miche almost bit her tongue, but it was too late. ‘Sure am. Astonishing,' and then seized up.

‘Oh, really,' said the librarian leaning forward to look over Miche's shoulder and clicked her tongue. ‘Terrible story. I remember when that happened. Shocked us all. I wonder what happened to her?'

Miche closed the large file. ‘I wonder indeed.' She left the library and walked slowly to her car, deep in thought.

Reg Craven lowered his voice as he spoke into the phone, even though he was alone in his office. ‘We have to talk. Meet you at the bonk hole. When can you get there?' He listened for a minute fiddling with his bow tie.

‘Christ, is that all you do, lunch? Okay, I'll see you at four this afternoon.'

It was an old Sydney landmark. The building stood at the edge of the city – a stone edifice with views across Elizabeth Street to Hyde Park. Musty offices of father and son accountants, solicitors and city agents for country organisations were clustered on the quiet lower floors behind frosted glass doors with gold lettering. The building's owners were on the top floors, which used to belong to a fusty publishing company that printed comic books and niche market magazines featuring photographs of muscled men and girls wearing bikinis. In recent years the company, struggling from dying circulations, had been sold to one of the biggest advertising and media buying outlets in the country. The magazines were closed down and the offices had been redesigned in modern, high-tech style. Part of the basement was now a recreation centre, gym and squash courts.

The building was overshadowed by taller, gleaming structures, offices and hotels filled with glittering shops, salons and restaurants. So the little ‘burger building', as it was called because of its squat, bun-shaped dome, was easily overlooked and little notice was taken of the figures who slipped in and out of its arched stone doorway.

Even so, Reg Craven still looked over his shoulder as he entered the building at 4 p.m. He need not have been nervous about being seen, as many well-known media people had business at the ad agencies at the top of the building and this was adequate cover. Reg, however, walked past the restored iron-cage lifts, turned left and went through an unmarked door to a flight of steps that went to the basement.

He walked beyond the gym and used a pass-key card to access a tiny, softly lit and sparsely furnished sitting room with two more doors. Both were closed. He lowered his bulk onto the small chaise longue, glancing at his watch. After a few minutes, one door opened and an older man dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and dark tie appeared. His face was expressionless. He spoke in reserved, polite tones that seemed subservient, but to a listener who paid attention, his voice resonated with a thinly veiled disdain.

‘Mr Cox is in the green room, sir. He asked that you join him.'

Reg winced. ‘I'm here for a business meeting, I was hoping we could go somewhere else.'

‘It may be best if you discussed that with him, sir.'

Reg knew it would be pointless sending the valet back upstairs. He stood, thinking that Tony was becoming more flaky and difficult the more time he spent with Jacques. At first, Reg had found it titillating to be included in the powerful young brat pack of Jacques, the media mogul's son, and Tony, the heir to an Australian fortune thanks to his developer father. But Reg was canny enough to know he would always be an outsider. He may be the office sleaze after a few drinks, but he was still a married man with young kids. He was an old man by the standards of Jacques and Tony, and they included him in deals like the wine club only to do their bidding when it suited them. Reg had played along with the blokes when it was mainly about booze and girls, but now Jacques was sailing into more treacherous deals involving drugs and prostitutes. While Tony was an eager crew member, Reg could see only storms ahead.

Very few people knew of this private club's existence, and Reg assumed the licensing authorities were being paid off. It gave him a certain satisfaction to know he held a key card to a very, very exclusive, if scary, world.

At the top of the narrow flight of stairs, Reg tapped at the door and heard Tony's voice. ‘Come in, sport.'

Tony was lying in his underpants on the large bed beside a girl with huge breasts spilling out of a lacy corset with suspenders and black stockings. She wore red, spike stilettos and a long strand of fake pearls. She was glamorous and looked like what she was – this month's men's mag pin-up.

‘Hey, man, what's up? Wanna join us?' Tony's voice was slurred, whether from cocaine or vodka he couldn't tell. Tony reached for the bottle of Russian fire and waved it at Reg. ‘Have a drink, mate. Take the tie off, for God's sake.'

Reg absently fiddled with the knot of his tie, but left it in place. ‘Tony, we have to talk.' He looked at the girl.

‘Business stuff, about Connoisseur.'

‘Can't it wait?'

‘No. Where's Jacques?'

Tony grinned and inclined his head towards a small curtain on the wall. Reg stepped over to it and drew the short drapes aside, revealing a two-way mirror. It showed the bedroom on the other side in which a naked Jacques was in bed with two women wearing black leather. Reg turned away. What had once excited him now made him feel ill.

‘Listen, mate, there's a big problem. Nina is asking questions about the wine club. She's sharp.' Reg hadn't been officially told what Jacques and Tony were doing with the wine club except that it was a lucrative cover for an international deal. Reg had made a few guesses, then stopped asking questions, deciding ignorance was safer.

‘It's Jacques' magazine, too. He can advertise his own business in it.'

‘There are a few other problems. Ali is not going to carry the can on this one 'cause she didn't know about it.'

‘Told ya we should've cut her in,' grinned Tony.

‘Nina is back in the saddle. Jacques can't keep stirring things up in town. Nina will close the magazine before allowing her name to be rubbed in dirt. There are rumblings about shady operations,' said Reg pointedly. While Reg had helped set up a few deals with advertisers for holidays at a luxury resort, kickbacks of products and a car deal for a contest winner related to clients, he had not been included in the far bigger deal being engineered by Jacques and Tony. While he hadn't wanted to know the details, he suspected Jacques was using the wine club as a money-laundering exercise to cover the retailing of drugs and prostitution, a far more profitable operation than selling wine. Even the best wines.

‘I don't want any part in your deals,' said Reg, opening the door to leave. ‘I'm writing off my interest in the wine club.'

‘You mean you're handing me your shares in Connoisseur,' said Tony with a smirk. ‘If you want out, there's a penalty, mate.'

Reg knew he was going to lose what they'd talked him into investing. It might be a small amount to Tony, but it was the cost of taking the wife and kids on a family skiing holiday on his budget. In a normal commercial deal, he would have sold his interest, the lack of option to do that was another indication there was nothing normal about this little operation. ‘Okay, on the understanding my name is wiped off the record. When the shit hits the fan, I know nothing.' Reg glanced at the girl who was finishing a champagne and looking bored.

‘You're a wimp. Take your eyes off your arse, Reggie. Hey, speaking of arses.' Tony reached for the girl, grabbing her backside and pulling her onto the bed.

Reg turned to leave. ‘Take it easy, Tony. Your days are numbered if you get caught in sleazy deals. Watch the company you keep,' advised Reg.

‘I am. Believe me I am, and I like it very much.' He laughed as he rolled the girl over onto her stomach. ‘I'm riding high with the new young guns of Sydney town. The old guard is on the way out, Reggie. Check your super fund, old fellow, you may be dipping into it sooner than you think.' Tony turned his full attention to the girl.

Reg turned and strode out, ignoring the little squeals coming from the bed . . . He wouldn't be back in here again.

*

‘You're very quiet,' said Jeremy as Miche settled into the room set aside for her at the Palmerstons' vineyard.

‘I'm tired after the drive from Sydney. And I stopped in Cessnock to talk to your friend at the paper. Jane was very helpful.'

‘How is the research going? Found any interesting angles, ideas?' he asked watching her unpack her bag.

‘I think I have a long way to go,' said Miche in a weary voice and she made no attempt to explain the enigmatic statement.

Jeremy gave her a questioning look, clearly puzzled by her attitude, then tried to change the atmosphere. ‘There's a nice bottle of wine chilling,' he announced brightly. ‘When you're ready, come and have a drink.'

‘Sounds inviting. You finished your work? How are plans coming along for the big wine conference?' said Miche in an effort to respond to Jeremy's good intentions.

‘Pretty well together. Steve and Helen have hosted this before. A lot of important winemakers are coming from all over the country and a few from overseas. A few members of the foreign media too.'

‘I may find something for my story then.'

‘I'll be surprised if you don't. This sort of event doesn't happen every day around here. I'll see you by the fire.'

Miche touched up her hair and changed her top and splashed on a little of her favourite Jonquil perfume before joining Jeremy in the family room where a log fire burned. Usually there were lots of people about the large and gracious home, but this evening Jeremy and Miche had the place to themselves.

‘Lots of conference planning meetings on at the moment,' he explained. Jeremy rose and poured her a glass of wine. ‘Here's to you, Miche.'

She sank into the deep, soft cushions of the big lounge, ‘Lovely, just what I need.' She smiled at him and sipped her wine, then leaned her head back and closed her eyes. ‘This is bliss.'