Chapter 62

 

 

On Sunday mornings, the Western Times workroom ran a skeleton staff. This Sunday was no different, more or less silent except for Snitchel and Bernadette talking opposite each other at the editor’s desk.

The editor read from her own computer screen. “Ewen is passé. I’ve scanned my favourite sites and all I’ve found is one pissy little follow-on story. Just goes to show, work will always be available for a capable journalist because the public will forever crave the new.”

The after-hours buzzer sounded. Snitchel checked the wall clock, grudgingly rose from her seat, walked across her office and pushed the intercom. “Your friendly Sunday janitor speaking.”

“Cut the crap, Noelene. It’s Christen Nesbit.”

“More dumbass questions from Perth’s number one detective I presume?”

“Bernadette Schofield. She holed up in this ghetto?”

The editor eyed her reporter. “Nesbit, fantastic work, you’ve found her. No wonder you’re number one.” After she pushed the door release switch, she stabbed the intercom again. “Don’t pinch any lollies from the front counter.” She leant against the doorjamb, and sucked on her bottom lip.

“I’m gathering,” said Bernadette, staring mildly, “you know each other?”

“As affectionately as the mongoose and the cobra.” She sat. “Ready to lie to the police?”

Bernadette minimised her Hogmyre story and sat up straight.

 

Christen Nesbit and Lance Absalom rambled across the empty newsroom and in through the editor’s doorway.

“Look at this,” said Christen. “The boss having to slave on a Sunday.”

“You, also. What, too many kiddies smoking pot these days? No wonder the drug squad reformed out of major crime. You would have been flat-chat in the seventies.”

“Cut your bullshit, Noelene.”

“That’s what I tell my reporters every day. Want a job?”

“The only reason this paper still prints is because poor people can’t afford toilet paper.”

“Poor souls. Just like you; eyes in their arses.”

“Don’t fucken bait me. Your Sunday investigative journalism sure ain’t gunna rescue your drug dealing employee, so why are you even here?”

“Language. Ladies present.”

“Lady, as in singular.”

“Language.” Snitchel pointed to the ceiling security camera. “Bluetoothed. The entire floor. Tiny processor. A pittance to run. Dollar a day for all that footage.”

“Tell someone who cares.” His stare slewed. “Bernadette Schofield?”

She nodded.

“Where were you yesterday?”

“Here.”

“We were here in the morning. You weren’t.”

“No. I swam at City Beach with the other half of Perth, then worked here after lunch.

“We tried your mobile.”

“It was flat in the morning and I’d left my charger on my desk. You didn’t ring in the afternoon.”

“Friday night?”

“With friends,” she said. “Everyone discussing Ewen.”

“Names?” asked Absalom, flipping open his notepad.

“Noelene Cynthia Snitchel.”

“Not you, cockhead,” said Absalom.

Christen Nesbit rocked on the spot. Fists jammed deep into pants pockets, he stared at the editor gumming her lips and feigning dumb.

Absalom pointed his pen at Bernadette. “Your alibi friends’ names?”

Christen kept rocking until his partner ceased writing. “I’ll ask again, Snitchel? You, the night of Ewen’s breakout?”

“Where ever you want me to be is what I’ve heard.”

“You’re a serious pain.”

“If I’ve ever seen a more convincing argument for bringing back tits on page three,” said the editor, “it is standing right before me. Help the restless blow off some steam.”

“Friday fucken night?”

“Do you seriously believe Ewen will turn up on my doorstep? Or is this another pitiful excuse to get back at the paper?”

“Friday fucken night!” he screamed.

“As I said last time. At home with the dog.” She turned to Absalom. “Boab.”

“What?”

“My dog’s name if you need to jot it down.”

Only Bernadette’s eyes moved, wider.

“Your lackey’s history!” yelled Nesbit. The air-conditioning wasn’t cold enough. His face stayed red. “Need any pictures of his disguise; the shaven head routine? Well, we have some. Real beauties. Oh, and your drug dealing reporter handing in a hundred-dollar note to lost and found, how touching.” He relished a sarcastic smile and stabbed a finger towards the editor. “We’ll nail scag-head and his mate Frank within forty-eight hours. Whataya reckon about that, sweet-cheeks?”

“I’m as comfortable as a Cottesloe mum in a coffee shop.” She yawned.

Nesbit turned and flogged it across the workroom and reefed open the door.

The editor yelled to their backs. “I’ve changed my mind; you can take a lolly. Stabilise your blood sugar.”

Bernadette gawked at her boss. “Mongoose is the word.”

Snitchel stared at the workroom’s closed door. “You’re in the firing line.”

“From them?”

“Nesbit’s heading towards retirement. He’d be there, behind a desk, if it weren’t for the increase in crime. But don’t worry about him. This newspaper’s brought the drug squad to its knees once. He’d be a brave or well-informed soul to mess with us.” She turned to her worker. “Hogmyre’s the person who will come after you.”

“What did legal say?”

“If it was up to me, I’d say we’re green. The owners requested the run past.” Snitchel checked the wall clock again. “Another half hour should see it sorted.” She wheeled her seat round to her reporter’s laptop and re-read the story. Together they tinkered with the words.

 

Forty minutes later, the intercom sounded.

Snitchel spoke into it. “Juliet, I’m hoping.”

“Hope no longer,” said the female voice.

 

The workroom door opened. It halted any discussion.

In walked a woman wearing a sleeveless yellow low cut cotton dress. Her natural blonde hair, lean legs and tanned skin pointed towards fifty. Probably used to compliments of forty. Eyes locked onto Snitchel, she sashayed across the room and relaxed against the editor’s doorjamb. “Noelene. Ever heard of a Sunday session? Well, this isn’t it.”

Snitchel sat back. “The Sunday session at your age?”

“I’m divorced, remember.”

“What’s that have to do with it?”

“It’s called menopause. Not man-on-pause.”

“Juliet, meet Bernadette.”

She nodded to Bernadette, and turned to Noelene. “What’s with the Minties strewn across the foyer floor?”

“Outstanding.”

The lawyer eyed her for an answer.

“The police ransacked us.”

“Who?”

“Nesbit. He was here on the pretence of asking questions. Complete bullshit. The prick was here to gloat.”

“Nesbit, in this building. It’s a wonder he didn’t torch the place. But then again, he mightn’t have to; the guy smells blood. And for good reason. With the spike in heroin deaths, Ewen is Perth’s prick of the week.”

The editor stood, and pointed to Francis Hogmyre’s picture on Bernadette’s laptop. “Take a seat.”

Juliet read the proposed article.

After she finished, she leaned back in quiet contemplation. “Ewen’s on the run. The paper’s reputation is a bit shattered. I’ll place reputation in quotation marks. And here you are, Sunday morning, ready to piss off Francis Hogmyre.” She accidently right clicked the mouse. She cleared the popup. “Ewen had landed in-depth interviews with Hogmyre, so, let me guess. Either Ewen has accessed privileged information or this article is a hatchet job. Or, Hogmyre has something to do with Ewen’s bust. Because, with your boy on the bolt, why create the controversy?”

“The article,” said Snitchel. “How do we stand?”

“The source?”

“Ninety-five per cent confident it’s legit,” said Bernadette. “No. Let’s say ninety-nine.”

“Off the record?”

“Yes.”

“Second source?”

“No.”

“Have you fully worked the paper trail?”

“Yes,” said Bernadette.

“And?”

“Fairly certain we can trace it all the way.”

“Are you looking into tracing it all the way, to verify Hogmyre’s at the end?”

“We can’t wait,” said Bernadette.

“As in you can’t wait to see your name in lights? Or, because time is a factor? Like time is a factor to Ewen?”

“Time’s a factor,” said Snitchel.

She studied them both. “If you’re ninety-nine per cent sure, I can’t see a problem. But it is Hogmyre; so he’ll make it a problem and come after the paper. What do the owners think?”

“They said Hogmyre is welcome to sue. If he wins, he’d only get the paper; it’s a wholly separate entity; a hobby. They recently dined with the guy. They’re newspapermen at heart though. Anyway, Hogmyre isn’t on their Christmas card list.”

“Hank, Len and Will.” The lawyer smiled. “True. They’ll be as happy as a geek at Google.” Her smile turned serious when she eyed Bernadette. “He may come after you though. What do you own?”

“Half the family farm.”

“Who owns the other half?”

“My brother.”

“Trust him?”

She nodded.

“Come to the office tomorrow and we’ll look into signing it over to him.” She quizzed the editor. “I’d hate to see the paper go under.”

“Miss the work?”

“No, I’d actually miss the paper. I still miss the tits on page three. All those years ago, drawn in by the boosies and became addicted to sensationalism I guess.” She stood. “Your source better be spot on. And best if it’s not Ewen. Heard from him?”

“No comment.”

“So you have. Was it his heroin?”

“No,” said the editor.

“I didn’t think so.” She went to leave, made it as far as the door, turned back, hung off the jamb and squinted in ponder. “Why don’t men like Nesbit shave their heads? Half their hair is dead and the other half is mortally wounded. You’d put it out of its misery wouldn’t you?”

She and Noelene shot hand pistols at each other.

They’d earnt Bernadette’s respect and silence.

The visitor headed towards the foyer.

“Juliet,” said Snitchel, “the Hogmyre story you read. Spread the word like a gossip columnist. And also that more stories are coming.”

The lawyer neither looked back nor broke her stride. “Goody. I might manage to pay off my Saab.”

“Saab? Probably a sailboat.”

Juliet flipped the bird and continued across the empty workroom.