only a little shorter than Drew, couldn’t match the Kiwis’ bulk. Their muscles had been toned on rugby fields and in North Island forests. Hackett’s youthful physique hadn’t survived the climb up the corporate ladder. Neither had his facial hair.
Curly scanned the other faces, stopping at Helen. She was attractive enough though the Dutch costume wasn’t flattering and made her look severe. He asked the most obvious question. ‘What about Helen? What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing. Not a mention anywhere on the Web that I can find so far. I guess that might be a good sign?’
‘If you mean it’s unlikely she’s also met with a recent accidental death. Maybe.’
Hackett’s eyes widened. ‘Four accidental deaths would make it too damn freaky, wouldn’t it?’
Curly nodded, pondering how much more there might be to drain from The Hatchet before revealing his own info about the police investigation into the second-car theory. That factual detail suddenly took on greater significance when thrown into the news blender with two other untimely deaths… and the possibly missing Helen.
But was she really missing? She probably married, possibly several times in 30 years, and Curly doubted The Hatchet had the investigative skills to do a proper search for his former friend.
Curly was about to throw that caution onto the pyre when The Hatchet’s mobile phone demanded attention.
Hackett glanced at the caller ID expecting he would be able to let it go to voice mail; after all, this journalist hadn’t revealed anything yet. The caller was Reg Bradley, the station chief executive and the only person Hackett couldn’t ignore. His phone greeting was politer than the conversation with Curly.
‘What the fuck do they want, Reg?’ Hackett shouted into the mobile as he paced the room. ‘I’ve given them all the data, the numbers all stack up, the timing is perfect. Why can’t they make a fucking decision?’
It was on Hackett’s second circuit of the office that he realised this was a conversation that Curly shouldn’t be hearing. ‘Where are you, Reg? Okay, I’ll be there in a moment.’
Hackett slammed the mobile on the desk and reached for the door handle. The Board’s failure to rubber stamp his AFL broadcasting rights coup was more critical than talking to a journalist about three dead travelling companions.
‘Look, something important has come up. I’ll have to catch you later.’ Hackett said as he exited the office, crossed the hallway to the other corner suite and entered without knocking.
The meeting exceeded Curly’s expectations. Journalists don’t need much to inflame suspicious natures: three accidental deaths among the same group of friends in a matter of weeks, plus a possible ‘missing’ fourth person, was like throwing a can of petrol onto a bonfire for the Spotlight producer.
Mac’s going to love this!
Curly knew The Hatchet was rattled by the news about his former travelling companions, but didn’t want to suggest, yet, the deaths were more sinister than accidents. That change in tone on the phone and Hackett’s subtle deferment didn’t escape the current affairs producer. Curly surmised it must have been the boss as Hackett didn’t even apologise for disrupting their meeting. He turned his eyes to appreciate the view again while absorbing the one-sided conversation. The Hatchet wasn’t happy.
Curly could still hear The Hatchet venting as he returned to the reception area and waited for the lift. Zara didn’t bother acknowledging his departure. If she had, she might have noticed Curly was leaving with something extra. The Volendam picture was overlapping Curly’s notebook held against his thigh.
Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.
