for the vehicle involved in an early morning hit-and-run accident that claimed the life of a Conservation Ranger on Monday.
Gerald Daly, 54, an enthusiastic cyclist, was found in bush on a steep incline about three km south of Kuaotunu.
Police say the driver would know they had struck the cyclist. The badly damaged bike was discovered some distance from the body. Police suspect the driver might have panicked and urged them to make contact as soon as possible.
Daly lived on a lifestyle block near Whitianga and was often seen cycling the roads around Coromandel by himself. A search started on Monday when he failed to report for work. A friend saw Daly cycling towards Kuaotunu at about 6am which helped narrow the search area.
Colleagues say Daly was a respected member of the community and that he was a safety conscious rider. They say Daly started his working life in forestry but turned to conservation work after returning from Europe in 1986.
Police are urging motorists who used Highway 25 on Monday morning to contact them.
There were several more stories over the following days, but the mystery driver never came forward. The case was still open and New Zealand police were treating it as an accident.
Hackett had already made his latest grim discovery when the email from Curly had arrived with a muted ping. His adrenalin spiked. The Spotlight team was proposing a follow-up story on Tugga’s death and wanted some background information on the big fella.
Hackett didn’t trust journalists. Finely tuned instincts, and a healthy dose of paranoia helped him survive more than three decades in the corporate world. Right now, his gut told him the news bastards had inside information from the cops about Tugga’s demise – and he wanted to know. Hackett glanced briefly at the name of the journalist who sent the request for a chat. Curly Rogers didn’t ring any bells with him. He noted from the automated signature that Rogers was a producer on Spotlight, so that might explain why he couldn’t put a face to the name.
Too ugly for TV, or too old?
Hackett knew little about the structure of the news and current affairs departments; things like who wrote or reported or filmed or did what to whom at whatever time did not interest him. He did know they spent a fortune every day.
Perhaps this interaction with the staff might be doubly productive. Hackett could glean the latest information on Tugga’s death and assess the smarts of this producer. Curly’s name could be added to the next round of redundancies if he didn’t impress.
He composed a terse reply and hit send, smiling at the thought that Curly was unaware the command to ascend to the top floor had more at stake than background information.
Hackett also considered how much he should share about the deaths of Drew and Gerry. His own shock had certainly turned to curiosity.
Three accidental deaths – what are the odds?
There was also a momentary flicker of apprehension that the deaths of his three friends from a lifetime ago should concern him; he was, after all, now the only surviving male from Tugga’s Mob.
Will this producer knob think I’m just being paranoid?
Or, would Curly struggle to hide his glee that The Hatchet might be the next member of Tugga’s Mob to suffer an accident?
That was the nub of the matter: three mates, three accidental deaths, all in a few weeks. How could it be coincidental?
From Hackett’s experience, journalists were always willing to latch onto a conspiracy. They could milk the story for days, or weeks, until it ran out of steam with readers or viewers. They then quietly let them slide and moved on to the next drama that might sell newspapers or TV shows. Although some people loved their 15 minutes of fame, Hackett’s ego didn’t require that sort of stroking and, professionally, his corporate image could do without any potential dirt that might stick from Tugga’s exit.
Hackett’s next meeting was 45 minutes away, and he had no idea when Curly would find his way to the corporate suites, so he decided it was time to track down the other surviving member of Tugga’s Mob – Helen Franks.
Casting his mind back to the end of the tour again, Hackett realised he couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Helen. He didn’t recall her being part of the space cake buffet on the final evening in Amsterdam. And there weren’t any memories of Helen around the camp site during the final pack up. Mind you, that wasn’t a surprise given his near catatonic state from the cannabis binge.
Hackett turned to Google again to launch another search, this time hoping for a better result: another living member of Tugga’s Mob apart from himself. Less than a second produced 933,000 results for Helen Franks. Once again, he ignored LinkedIn and Wikipedia as potential sources.
You were never that classy, Helen.
July 3, 1986
We’ve just experienced a couple of the most emotional yet amazing days of the tour – Gallipoli. I thought I knew the history from school and listening to dad after a couple of glasses of Tawny Port on a Sunday night, but being here and walking amongst the graves and seeing the ages of the soldiers made me cry, several times.
Many of the ANZACs were younger than me, and I’m only 25. They volunteered for king and country and honour and glory and all that stuff that sounds so silly to me now. But here they lie, buried half a world away from home, their Big OEs a few months of terror in sunbaked trenches with flies, atrocious food and unimaginable slaughter.
I can’t help asking, was it worth it? The Ataturk message at the Ari Burnu Memorial made me cry the most. It was the first time I understood that we were invaders. Of course the Turks were going to defend their homes and families as fiercely as they could. I always thought the ANZACs were on a noble mission to end the First World War. That’s what school told us, and even dad’s potted history lessons followed the same themes.
The Turks must have wondered who these crazy Colonials were charging over their hills and trying to kill them. Yet the Ataturk message is so noble and forgiving, telling foreign mothers who lost sons on these shores that they now lie in peace, side by side with Turkish sons, sharing the soil of a friendly country. I wonder if we could ever be that kind to former enemies?
That might seem a bit maudlin but we were all glad to experience such important history. We spent an afternoon visiting the various battle sites and cemeteries. Brian found a Turkish cartridge which Andreas spent hours trying to swap. I laughed at his persistence and told him to go find his own, which didn’t impress him.
I managed to walk Plugge’s Plateau where Poppa scrambled across under fire on that first day. I even saw a black snake curled up on a track, soaking up the sun. It was interesting to see it – and give it a wide berth – as we were never taught anything about those Gallipoli dangers at school.
We finished the day by following a Top Deck bus south along the coast to a small Turkish camp site. It was right on the water and basic, but beautifully located. People were saying it was hard to imagine such a lovely camp site could be that close to a battlefield. One of the Turkish managers told us the entire peninsula was a battlefield. It wasn’t just Aussies and Kiwis – there were French, Indian, British and even a contingent from Newfoundland fighting the Turks, Germans and Austrians. Our education was finally being brought up to date.
It was an amazing night, sitting under
