Dead Air

By David Stephenson

Daryl Dee is a rookie reporter who joins Fever FM, a music radio station in Sydney, Australia in 1981. He is a country boy, but has been to university. He is far from a sophisticated city worker and enjoys playing the pump organ when he can find one.
Dee is hired by the station’s American owner, the bombastic Freddie Funker who says “th” instead of “f”. On the first morning Dee is ignored in the newsroom. He later attends the station’s ratings where he gets drunk, then goes to the beach with Terri, the deputy music director, Max, the top reporter, and Brett, the engineer.
Daryl, after getting friendly with Terri in the backseat of the car, rides a surfboard, then falls off, literally on to an exremely fat man from a boat who has apparently committed suicide.
They identify the body as Government communications minister John Rudge who had attended the party the night before. Brett and Terri flee the beach. A shot is fired from a house near the beach. It kills a dog which has come to investigate. Max insists they take the body back to his place, so he can have an exclusive story. He files a story back to the newsroom telling Sydney about the discovery of a dead body on the beach.
Greg Day, or G. Day, a very annoyed hitman arrives. He helps them to take the body back to Max’s place. Greg wants to be part of news and shows how infatuated he is with Fever FM and everyone who works there.
An Avon lady Bel arrives. She is excited about the Royal Wedding with Charles and Diana which is due to take place that evening. She is less excited about the sight of a dead body on the living room floor. Greg asks Max to find him a saw from the garden shed. He cuts off Rudge’s right arm with little ceremony.
Detective Inspector Blue, an image conscious detective with an eye for the television camera, arrives at Fever FM to talk to Freddie Funker, about the apparent disappearance of two of his staff, and Rudge, a “business associate”.
Max, Daryl, Bel and Greg deliver Rudge’s severed arm anonymously to a press conference held by Detective Blue.
Greg and his captives go to the Sydney Heads in the news car where they broadcast to the city. Bel is shot after winding up Greg. Her body is stored in the boot along with another of Rudge’s body parts.
Meanwhile Detective Blue and Sergeant Green, not the brightest detectives in the world, return to the station to discuss leads with colleagues. They come up with nothing.
Can the two detectives bumble their way towards the killer before Daryl has to take control?

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Stephenson
• Release date: Sep 25, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466095083

David Stephenson

David Stephenson (1961-) is an Australian journalist and novelist who lives in London. He works as the TV Editor on the Sunday Express newspaper.He has written several books, including How to Succeed in Newspaper Journalism, and Dead Air, a comedy thriller.His most recently published work is How To Be A Journalist series, published on Kindle.You can also download his new crime novel, Bondi Detective.

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Dead Air

By DA Stephenson

Copyright 2011 DA Stephenson

Smashwords Edition

PROLOGUE

Criminologists have long observed that serial killing is predominantly a cool-climate crime. As you might expect then, Australia’s emergence into this field, has been a little hampered. Two further aspects have conspired against its inevitable take-off. One, a lack of trained professionals. Two, a general disinclination among the criminal classes. The whole activity, it was thought, was such an effort, but for relatively little reward. Think of the mess, for one.

No one knew this better than Greg Day or Mr G. Day, as he was known to his bank manager. Yes, he was a killer, and a good one, but Day not yet realised the joys of accumulating multiple victims. He’d also never been really angry despite a lifetime of enduring the nickname, G’Day. That was until 1981. You see Greg was doing perfectly well, thank you very much, as a contract killer, a hit man. For years, G. Day, who was now 41, had been bumping off poor, and not so poor souls all over town for a handsome set fee of not less than $A10,000. Business was so perky that he’d recently purchased a desirable cliff edge house at Whale Beach, in Sydney’s exclusive northern suburbs. He’d called it Sea View. He liked the obvious. His neighbours never asked after his profession. It would have been too rude in these parts as he appeared far too rich to have a proper job. That was all they needed to know. The neighbours were probably criminals too. When they happened to see him they would simply smile agreeably as his funicular carriage elevated him to his mansion from his bijou garage housing his thrusting, dark purple Lamborghini. It was an enviable lifestyle, crying out to inspire a show like Top Gear.

On one unremarkable day in July 1981 his career took a new arc. G. Day, Greg took a call from someone who wanted a job done. Well, to be specific, he’d taken a call from his secretary. It was nice not to have to dirty his hands too much. She had given him the potential victim’s name and where he would be at a certain time. The hit, as she called it (Greg disliked the brutality of the expression really), had to take place there and then. Greg didn’t like this. Despite his lack of professional training (granted, not much was available), Greg liked to organise the whole thing himself. You know, recce the job with his own eyes. For each hit, he would place his rifle lovingly in a nice attaché case, put on an inconspicuous, tan safari suit and pack a modest picnic. This would include a Vegemite sandwich (white bread, no crusts), a Wagon Wheel, and a packet of Arnott’s Tim Tams biscuits. He would brook no substitutes, or no brands. Invariably, there was waiting involved. Then, with victim in sight, he would take aim. And pop! With silencer added. It went like that every time. One shot. One victim. One fee. He was a glorious perfectionist, a man of precision. He didn’t like anything to go wrong. But his new customer didn’t want that. Greg’s secretary said the victim had to be killed on his yacht on one particular July morning.

The client would like it that way, Greg, she insisted. And off Whale Beach, she added.

Off Whale Beach!? asked Greg.

Is there a problem with that? My contact has been very specific, she said.

Well, I live in Whale Beach. It’s, ah, a desirable area.

Don’t shit in your own backyard, eh? Well, can you make an exception this time? It’s a VIP. Worth 50 grand.

Fifty? Oh. Right. Yes.

It was done then.

So it was on this day that Greg decided he would make an exception. At least he wouldn’t have to pack a picnic.

On the morning in question, Greg woke, showered and dressed. He turned on his beloved radio. He listened to it all the time: at home, in the car, in the shower, the loo, around the swimming pool. He couldn’t get enough of it. Greg would even ring up the radio stations with requests. You thought these people didn’t exist. Or he would just call to talk to the DJs to keep them company. They seemed to like it.

As he was not venturing into town that day, he applied his much loved Old Spice with slightly less abandon. Its potent aroma was enough to intoxicate nearby wildlife, with seagulls adjusting their flight paths. He decided not to break from tradition and wore his usual suit. He decided on tan. Again. As strange as it would seem, he would lounge around his own pool that morning in business attire. But, of course, he wasn’t really be lounging. You don’t take aim at your quarry while basking on a sun lounger, however good you are. Greg knew this.

The hitman kept his kit in a downstairs broom cupboard. No one would ever look there, he thought. It was such an unlikely event anyway that anyone visited, he’d concluded. He was probably right. This was the land where a man could go about his business with little hindrance. Greg even paid tax. He put himself down as a self-employed, swimming pool maintenance engineer. He would often imagine – he had many idle moments – the conversation he would have with a tax inspector if he ever visited his house. It’s amazing what you can accumulate with a little hard work, mate, he would say to him. The man would nod, agreeably.

Greg retrieved the attaché case from the cupboard. It was nestled below an unused floor mop and telescopic pool cleaner. Also unused. Black, with a tortoise shell handle, the attaché case should have spoken of a property deals past, important documents that needed to be ferried with the utmost urgency. However, inside was a state-of-the-art, high velocity rifle, with telescopic sights. In four parts, Greg could assemble his piece in seconds. Not that he liked to rush. There was no need. He planned everything to the second.

It was shortly before sunrise when he made his way to his terraced pool which overlooked the ocean. Below, he could hear the breakers. What a beautiful sound. The surf was up. Not huge but big enough. Greg didn’t surf actually. He hated it, particularly the sand in his shorts and liked wearing socks with sandals too. Generally speaking, beaches were very messy, he thought. Swimming pools were his bag.

The brief was difficult. Greg was to hit the victim – someone big in broadcasting – on his luxury yacht, at sunrise, when the man took his customary walk on deck. One chance, one shot. Greg was never nervous. With his piece now assembled and balanced on a tripod next to a sun lounger, Australia’s best contract killer (ever) took up his position. Settled, Greg looked to the horizon, sniffed the air and waited. It was the view he really appreciated. Then, his 50 grand pay day appeared. Greg immediately put his finger to the trigger, and brought his eyes to the telescopic sights. The hit filled the target beautifully.

CHAPTER ONE

Daryl Dee had always been impressed with his own name. He was a strange one in that. He liked the fact that it sounded close to the now defunct chocolate shop Darrell Lea. That tickled him quite a lot. When he was a little boy, holding his mummy’s hand on the main street, he would pause at the shop’s sign in the small town of Blayney, and look up at mummy and think, That must be why she named me Daryl Dee. Bonzer. It wasn’t as it turned out.

But Daryl’s name made all the difference to the American whom he met the day he arrived at Fever FM in Sydney in 1981. This American liked alliteration a lot. He had to with a name like Freddie Funker. He liked his own name intensely too. It goes without saying that Funker hadn’t gotten on well at school. It hadn’t helped that his parents had given him a name he couldn’t say either. You see Fs were his problem. They sounded like th. So Freddie Funker became Theddie Thunker.

So it was with the words, Mr Funker will see you now, that the life of Daryl Dee changed that day.

I love alliteration, boy! barked the big man, who was gnawing at the end of a can of Pepsi. He was wearing a blue and white hoop striped T-shirt with a strikingly large collar that appeared to be growing towards his armpits like a small tropical plant.

Funker was sitting at a glass-top desk on a dull orange leather, swivel chair. A 180-degree panorama of Sydney Harbor had an azure glow behind him. It was the laziest view on the planet.

Lurrvve your name, he oozed. OTT enthusiasm was his strong suit. Is it yours?

Ah, yes? said Daryl, confused. He wanted to think of something clever to say, but never quite could. It was an early sign of his potential as a DJ.

Which is it then, boy? pressed Funker.

Yes, said Daryl as firmly as he could. My name is Daryl Dee, mate.

It wasn’t a mate like it belonged at the end of a sentence. It was the mate of bonding, Aussie style. To an American, it didn’t work. Funker swivelled more intensely. It doesn’t matter anyway. Do you think anyone cares if your name is made up or not?

This was far too esoteric a challenge for Daryl. His perception of himself would have to wait for a far off distant day.

Ah, no. Maybe not, replied Daryl.

Correct again! I like the way you almost answer questions.

Daryl took a deep breath and looked out the window with some relief. He was on the top floor of an eight storey office block and he was watching a Manly Ferry edge through the swell on Sydney Harbor. This was the life, he thought. An office overlooking this paradise. The temperature was rising outside and he wondered, not if, but when he would make it to the beach today.

The big boss fired up again. As an American he was forging a role in talking what would become appreciated as corporate bollocks. He turned his chair to face the harbor, his favourite angle. He leant back. Now, let me tell you something about Thever Theff M. It’s a music station, and a wonderful music station. That’s what you can hear coming through those speakers. They’re everywhere in the building. You can’t escape them, so don’t try. They’re in the staff room, in the car park underneath, in the lav. You can’t even shit without listening to us. Everywhere you will go you will hear Fever FM. It’s just as we say, ‘We’re hot; we’re everywhere’.

Fuck, thought Daryl. What’s all this about? He thought about the beach again. A large seagull suddenly decorated the office window outside at two o’clock high, above Funker’s head. Some of it matched the styling of his shirt.

Errrrrrrrrr! How disgusting, said Funker. I hate birds. Really thucking hate them. The worst thing about this god-dammed country. Thucking wildlife. Hate it!

Thucking? queried Daryl.

Yeah, really thucking hate them, boy!!

That was clear now. He fumped the intercom. Danielle, remove all seagulls thorthwith from this building!

There was a pause. Which extended into a silence. The interview continued.

So do you like music, Daryl?

Yes.

Have you ever read the news before?

Daryl contorted his mouth slightly. It wasn’t a pleasant reaction.

No, he finally replied.

Have you ever done any proper reporting?

Not really.

Right. Have you ever gone live to air?

Only at college.

Christ! You’ve been to college! You’re hired!

Daryl walked from the office in something of a daze. He’d been employed, apparently. This was clearly the year that mugs got jobs. Probably some government initiative. Mugs called Daryl, who came down from the country, were especially targeted, because of their kipper ties and knitted tank tops. Their shoulder length, matted hair helped the image too.

As he shut the door behind him, singer Jimmy Barnes blasted on to the airwaves. Good old, Jimmy Barnes. Daryl had seen him in concert once, thrashing about the stage. This was a man in overly tight trousers, with a troubled past to disguise. Shipping Steel, shipping steel, dnnn, dnnn, dnnn.....

Daryl stared blankly, with his mouth half-open, at Funker’s PA Danielle outside Funker’s office. It was a bad habit of his, blankly. It almost suggested interest on his part. The great thing about piping the radio show throughout the building was that there was never an aching moment of silence. Just aching moments of dreadful songs that you would grow to love over and over again, thanks to the ingenious format devised by Funker. In short, it meant repeating your favourite songs every three hours – Jimmy, Elton, of course, Phil (Collins), Michael (Jackson) – until you hated them. You heard them so much of them, you were on first name terms. You would find yourself chatting about Phil’s latest at the office urinal. Yeah. Michael’s sounding great, too, would come the reply. At which point, the conversation would fall limp. Some subjects were not suitable for the loo.

Daryl didn’t really know what to say to Funker’s PA. They simply stared each other against the background of Shipping Steel, swaying their heads a little, without realising it. She was a picture of beauty: ethereal, distant and mysterious. He was a picture of country innocence, in a wonky hand knit. Sweating slightly across the forehead, Daryl gave her a watery smile.

Before he could think of anything to say, she directed him to the first floor, where the newsroom was located. This was probably a good thing, the lack of small talk. Daryl would not have been able to rise to it at this point.

From a speaker above his head, he heard: And now the traffic on Fever FM. Here’s Bindi Brown. ‘You wouldn’t really call it traffic, but there is something heading north, up the northern beaches. SURFIES!!! They tell me there’s a bit of surf around. If you’re heading out in the Combi, maties, go to the good old Wakehurst Parkway. The bush run. Bewdiful. Koalas in the trees, blowies through the window. You will bloody love it. Sorry, can’t say that on radio anymore. More detail in twenty mins if there is any. If ya bothered. And don’t throw any bloody cigarette butts out the window. I mean it. Last thing we want to see is that lovely great bush up in smoke. Oh, and my thought for the day. Beware men from Blayney. They make look sweet and innocent but you never know what they’ve got in their tucker bag and they sweat too much. Surreal but true. You give me fever. Honest you do. This is Bindi Brown, on the roads. Lit-rally!’

Daryl was now seated in the newsroom, and spent a profitless afternoon watching the view from the window. He found he had some talent for that. Everyone else got on with the news business, as much as they did at a music station. He was completely ignored. Funker had a habit of hiring idiots. Around six, Daryl headed upstairs for what everyone was describing as a ratings’ party. This was hopefully a chance for the station to celebrate having more listeners than anyone else. Everyone celebrated, but no one knew why they had so many listeners. Daryl didn’t have a clue what the whole thing was about anyway. Ratings? People are actually listening? But he did understand the word party. He knew what it was like to attend a barn dance in Blayney on a hot summer’s evening.

On the top floor, Daryl edged his way towards a big solid pine door having lost his colleagues on the ascent. He was the low life after all and no one quite knew what he was for yet. The door suddenly swung open in his face. The sight that greeted his eyes startled him in the same way that drinking six cans of Pepsi does. Gone was Phil Collins for a start. Midnight Oil, a trendy pop combo, was now thumping out the Beds are Burning and the throng was grooving to the beat, as much as they could. It wasn’t really dancing, just swaying from the vertical. The party was on a mezzanine level and it was packed. Fully glassed, ceiling and walls, Daryl had a 360 degree panorama of Sydney Harbor and the stars.

The crowd was chucking down champers from the bottle and there were empties strewn about the floor everywhere. People were looking very tired for six o’clock, thought Daryl. Probably because they were working so hard getting ratings. Across the ceiling, from one side of the room to the other, was a banner declaring, Fever FM Number One (Again!) (How boring!!) Number one at what? wondered Daryl. And why boring?

I reckon you’d like a drink, mate, said a slightly husky voice from behind him.

Daryl turned around.

Hello, you, she said.

Hi. Yeah. Mr Funker’s secretary?

You can call me, Danielle.

Okay, Danielle.

You’re from Blayney, eh? she asked.

Yeah, Blayney. In New South Wales.

We all know where Blayney is, love.

How are you finding the big smoke?

Yeah. Big, said Daryl. And smokey.

Don’t worry, we’ll look after you. Take this.

She passed him a bottle of champagne.

Drink it.

Danielle – Danny to her real friends – glided away from Daryl like he’d been turned to stone. Little did she realise that she was walking away from one of the world’s great never-to-be-discovered raconteurs. 

Daryl remained near the doorway and started to drink. From a large, heavy bottle. It’s almost interesting, he thought, the way in which champagne, rather free champagne, can be thrown down your insides without a care to the consequences.

An hour later, the party was in overdrive. The only person Daryl recognised was the dreaded Freddie Funker who was sucking on yet another can of Pepsi with a very important-looking suited bloke in the far corner of the room. They were definitely mates, thought Daryl. It was the creed of the day. You scratch my back, mate and I’ll scratch yours. If Daryl was any sort of an operator he would have been over there. But Daryl didn’t network, because it hadn’t been invented yet. You didn’t need to network in Eighties. You got there by accident. In fact, he wanted networking to come to him. And he didn’t think that Mr Funker would want to be reminded of their first encounter. Not yet. Not that Daryl had thought he’d done anything wrong. He just hadn’t done anything at all.

Then from the middle of the mêlée, a man approached. He was heading straight for Daryl like he knew him. He was drinking a can of Fosters – what an independent spirit! – and he was intent on button-holing Daryl.

So you’re the new wanker, he said.

Me? asked Daryl meekly.

Yes, you. Hello! Anyone in there?!

It was Max Thommo Thompson, Fever FM’s most unreconstructed radio reporter, not that the notion of reconstruction was widely discussed at Fever FM. Feminism was happening somewhere else.

Max was also the scourge of the local police. He committed more crimes in making live on air citizen arrests than the criminals themselves. Max was a one-man justice system, cleaning up the apparently filthy streets of the inner-city.

Yes, replied Daryl.

You’re a talkative bloke, said Max.

He looked Daryl up and down, took a swig, and then paused before pronouncing: You seem like a nice bloke so I don’t want to say what I’m going to, but I am.

He looked down at Daryl’s feet.

Never wear those shoes again, mate.

Right. Yeah, responding like he’d received an important piece of life-changing advice.

They went out in the late Seventies. At least two years ago, continued Max, warming to his theme.