The Loss of the Golden Stripper

By Roz Bailey

The Loss of the Golden Stripper is a story of greed and power interwoven with a murky conundrum of politics, corruption, and drugs. Paul Baax is an investigative journalist who sets out to find the truth behind the sinking of the yacht, The Golden Stripper and the death of its owner, the beautiful Hunni Clarke. Intricately woven together, the story twists and turns, with death and mayhem, until it reaches its unexpected climax. Baax now relates the story, unable to be told in full before, to an interested young journalist, even though it brings back long-submerged, unpleasant memories.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Sep 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781499019469

Roz Bailey

Roz Bailey is a retired journalist who now lives in Cairns after working and living in many places. She is a widow and this is her first novel.

Book preview

Chapter 1

A booming rumble shattered the morning stillness. It thundered across the water and echoed from the city’s surrounding hillsides. Debris spattered down into churning water, and a moment later a swell, born of the explosion, smashed into the harbour wall, sending a soaring spray into the air and onto the boardwalk. Boats, tied at the quayside, rocked.

Paul Baax looked up from his computer and watched the debris fall; for a brief instant, a lick of flame coloured the sky as a wisp of black smoke rose above the foreshore buildings.

No official account was ever given of the disaster and the loss of the Golden Stripper and her colourful owner, Hunni Clarke, became a one-day headline as one of the biggest cyclones to hit Australia roared in from the Pacific.

Cyclone Megan began its devastating rampage off Fiji in January, gathering speed and strength as it crossed the ocean until smashing into the tourist coast at Mission Beach, a holiday community just south of where Baax lived in Reef City.

Horrendous devastation, caused by a cyclone equal to twelve hurricanes on the Beaufort scale, spread along five hundred kilometres of tropical coastline. Associated weather affected a further two thousand kilometres. Howling winds reached 285 km/h, dragging in storm surges and driving rain. Trees were shredded before the onslaught, power poles toppled, buildings shattered, rivers flooded, and drainage systems failed. It was devastation not seen before on this tourist coast.

Two weeks following Megan, a meeting came to a close in the administration chambers of the city. As files were flipped shut and briefcases closed, shouting erupted across the chamber, some unhappy with the way the meeting had been brought so abruptly to an end.

A man at the centre of the main table rose to his feet; pulling on a jacket, he straightened it with exaggerated care. His hand then went to smooth his hair, although the professionally styled silver thickness did not need attention. Looking down the table but not at anyone in particular, he smiled, his eyes contemptuous: ‘I’m so glad you saw things my way,’ he said and moved quickly to leave the room.

Immediately two men detached themselves from a group standing to one side in the room and reached the door in time to open it for the silver-haired man. Others quickly followed them out.

‘How the hell did we allow that to happen?’ a small, dapper middle-aged man spoke with disgust. He threw papers on to the table and glared at the only two colleagues left. ‘Jeezus, he ran rings around us. What are we going to do? Clive is out of hand. He’s going to ruin this city.’

‘Settle down, Mike,’ a smaller man across the room spoke quietly. ‘We knew all along it would end like this. He has his own agenda and he plans to enact it, one way or another.’

‘Oh, that’s all very well, but what sort of administration are we when we allow things to get so out of hand? We’re all to blame, the whole darn lot of us.’ Mike Constansis looked nonplussed at his fellow administrators.

He was usually a quiet astute man who, when debating in the chamber, stuck to facts and reasoning. His colleague, John Daly, was of similar temperament and both were considered, along with Marlene Renfold, the third person present, as the only councillors on the side of the people.

Marlene Renfold was, nevertheless, inclined to get a bit twitchy at times. She was not averse to ticking others off if they were, in her opinion, foolish.

Now she spoke assertively, saying she thought it time to take alternative action. ‘I intend to move on this, not go along with Soutain’s agenda.’

‘Don’t do anything rash, Marlene,’ John Daly warned. ‘Be careful what you do. If you are thinking of blowing the whistle, remember you could end up becoming a social pariah.’

‘Oh, I know that, John. Clive buys ink and time, and the media in this city have a habit of twisting anything anti-Soutain to make him look like a victim. I’ll be careful.’

Marlene Renfold picked up her case and, with a waggle of fingers at the two men, left the room.

Clive Soutain meanwhile settled back in his limousine with a smug grunt. ‘Get me Ray,’ he said curtly.

A rather dishevelled young man sitting next to the driver dialled a number before handing a car phone across to his boss in the back seat.

Soutain lowered his voice as he spoke, ‘It’s done. Some of them had more fight in them than I thought they would, but it went through. I’d have called in their IOUs if they hadn’t passed it, and they were sensible, or scared enough, to know it.’ He listened quietly for a while, then with a grunt agreed to what had been said.

‘Yeah, I think it’s time we took action to—ah, how shall I put it?—publicly show up in a less favourable light those not amenable to our plans. I’ll be over tonight. Get everyone together. Oh, get this straight from the start, Ray, I don’t want any stuff-ups this time.’

Again he listened for a while before adding, ‘That’s all very well, but we were lucky to get away with the other business. If it hadn’t been for the bloody cyclone, we would have been in trouble.’ With that, he threw the phone back to the young man in the front seat.

Clive Soutain looked distinguished, was urbane, and to those who knew him well, specious. His public image was of a man who could do no wrong, a man of the people. As his car pulled in under the portico of a large, imposing building, he sat forward, passing a hand over his hair in his familiar vanity. Then he stepped from the car with a chameleon smile, hand outstretched, greeting the waiting crowd.

Not far from where Soutain stepped from the vehicle, a small motley group lounged, straddled, and flopped around a large office. Computers, coffee mugs, papers, and general mess covered every flat surface, even the floor. No one seeing them would have thought the group was the crack team they were.

A tallish man lounged in a chair and, although dressed the same as everyone else, in jeans and tee, still gave the impression of being a leader.

There were two young men, one straddling a chair, the other on the floor, leaning against a wall next to a young woman with wild, untamed, curly blonde hair who was lying on the floor with her head propped on a cushion. A dark-haired older woman and an older man sat on a settee. All were listening intently.

Paul Baax eyed his team, a team of reporters loosely formed to scrutinise politics, corporations, crime, and their own profession, in the top end of the state. They had achieved much in the twenty months of operation. They were the investigative group of a large national news group and were considered the best in the profession.

His offsider in the team was Angie Coulter, who had worked for some time with Baax. She was a journo who put ethics and accountability ahead of sensationalism; she now spoke. ‘You don’t know where this tape came from, if it’s a set-up, corporate, political, there’s no indication at all?’

‘No idea whatsoever, it was hanging from the door handle when I arrived this morning. So far I haven’t been able to identify what the content is aligned to, or who it is likely to have come from. That’s why I want Lydia and Mike to trawl it. All I know is the bit I heard is dynamite and the picture content very clear. Whoever did the work was a professional. It could be doctored, of course, keep that in mind. It does appear to be notes of meetings, financial pages from somewhere. There’s also sound in one part, where you can hear someone speaking off camera, could be more.’

‘It sounds like this is going to be full on. When we find something more about the tape do you want us to continue searching, or come back to you first?’ Lydia Thule was the team anchor and manned the office at all times.

‘Keep searching but keep me informed at all stages.’

‘Looks like I need to bring in a few supplies to keep us going.’ Lydia laughed as she moved to a monitor at a desk just outside the office. Richard Evans, the financial analyst on the team, moved to another opposite her.

‘Yeah, not a bad idea. There is a lot going on.’ Paul Baax stirred from his chair.

‘We all agree to investigate Hunni Clarke’s death. There are numerous lines of enquiry to be made: police, harbour board, relatives, friends, and colleagues. Her sister, Pixi Clarke, rang me a short time ago, wanting to see me about something she wouldn’t talk about on the phone.’

‘Marlene Renfold also wants to see me. So I’m going to be busy. Ange, if you could work on the outside angle with police, et cetera, and Richard, concentrate on the financial pages on the tape. You know the drill. Stay loose in case I need you.’

‘Tay and Brodie, you’ll have to go cross-eyed, I’m afraid, looking through all photographic and live media coverage of Hunni Clarke. Try and pick up on anyone she was seen with regularly, or the same faces hovering in the background, that type of thing. You might see about doing a photo stream for us. I’ll follow up the Clarke woman and Marlene.’

Tay Cox and Brodie Everhard were a team. Sound technicians and lensmen, their skills were legendary. Working together on many assignments, they were invaluable members of Baax’s team, doubling on research when needed. Both just nodded at Baax, acknowledging what he asked.

‘Everyone happy? Okay, see ya.’

Baax drove from the rear car park of the building. Monsoonal rain battered the windscreen and its wipers strained in effort, forcing the tropical downpour aside. He turned and drove down the Esplanade, following the bayside route to where multistorey apartment blocks lined the foreshore.

None of the buildings showed architectural merit, except one. Most were concrete boxes, high-rise and monstrous. Only one stood out, a white, ultra-modern high-rise, where Baax turned into a forecourt area and parked. A muted click allowed entry to the luxury foyer where a concierge queried him as to his purpose. After speaking by phone to Pixi Clarke, Baax was allowed entry to a perfumed lift, its mirrored interior speeding him to the fourteenth floor, where a young woman awaited his arrival.

‘I’m Pixi,’ she said by way of introduction and turned to lead Baax into the apartment.

Tall, thick wooden doors clicked shut as he followed the woman into a large room with a glass wall overlooking the bay. Pixi Clarke curled herself into a silk-covered settee, a graceful hand indicating to Baax he should take the chair opposite.

‘Thanks for coming. I needed to talk with someone,’ she said, looking steadily across at Baax.

‘Why is that?’ Baax asked as he settled himself in the chair. It was amazing to Baax the similarities between Pixi and her late sister.

‘I want to talk about my sister and some tapes I found.’

‘Why not try the police?’

‘I have, many times since arriving here. In fact I’ve haunted them,’ the woman replied. ‘They couldn’t care less about Hunni, the explosion, the tapes, or anything else to do with her death.’

‘Obviously they have been busy. There’s been a lot happening since the accident.’

‘Yes, but they are not interested in even looking at the incident. It’s a closed case, accidental death by tragic circumstances. I thought you might be interested in looking further.’

‘I do agree there are a few answers still needed. You say you arrived here. Where do you usually live?’

‘I’m from Sydney. This is—was Hunni’s place. I had a key and the police said I could use it as they had finished with it.’

‘So, they did look into her death a little, you think?’

‘Evidently, but I don’t think they did much, just preliminary. That’s what they say. Then, of course, the cyclone hit. By the time I arrived, they really didn’t want to do anything.’

‘You’re her next of kin?’

‘Yes, but I don’t know if I inherit. If she made a will, nobody knows about it. Since being here, I’ve looked through drawers but nothing is there. I found a safe, and despite trying various combinations, I haven’t been able to open it.’

‘And you found some tapes, you said. What’s on them?’ Baax was wary. Was this where the mysterious tape came from he had received in the morning?

Fear sprang into Pixi’s eyes before she took a tape from a side table and handed it across to Baax.

‘It’s from the answering machine. Hunni kept all messages. The other day, the machine was flashing—when I went to listen to it, I pressed the wrong button, recalling the saved messages instead. Some were quite scary. I … I—this is the one I took to the police. They said to forget it.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Because last night when sorting through Hunni’s things, I found a store of tapes at the back of a wardrobe. They were behind a false panel. Hunni must have kept them for a reason.’

Baax sat looking at the girl. ‘Can I see them?’ he finally asked.

‘Sure. They’re upstairs,’ Pixi rose and crossed to an archway leading back into the hallway. A spiral staircase, in tribute to master craftsmanship, circled in timber and tile around the panelled space to the upper floor.

Hunni Clarke had lived well. She had owned two units, which in turn were renovated into one huge, luxurious apartment. Baax took in the obvious opulence, which the best of interior designers, or even Hunni Clarke herself, had created. Exotic fabrics and furniture, a blended mix of antique and new, filled the rooms. Large chandeliers hung from ornate ceilings. Oils and watercolours filled the walls.

Pixi took Baax into a large airy room, which, like downstairs, overlooked the bay. A panelled door led to dressing room where Pixi pushed aside evening gowns and reached into the back. There was a click and a small door swung open revealing piles of tapes.

‘Have you listened to them all?’ Baax asked.

‘Some. What I did hear wasn’t very nice. In fact, it actually scared me. If I told my friends at home they would think I’d gone—what is it you say up here—ah, troppo?’

‘That bad? What did you hear?’

‘Well, the one I took to the police had three messages at different times. In between, there were other normal types of things, you know, business and that sort of thing.’

‘Was the first message threatening?’

‘No, but as I wound forward trying to find the last message—this was the tape in the phone, you understand—I didn’t go far enough and picked up one of the messages mid-way. Two or three messages later, the same voice said something like You obviously don’t believe me, your life is over, lady, and you won’t look pretty when you breathe your last. As it didn’t make sense and it was the same voice as I had heard before—very distinctive and gravelly—I rewound it farther back before finding it again. It said, Don’t think you can get away with it, you bitch, hand it over, we know you’ve got it. Later there was another, We warned you, the big man is very unhappy. Nasty things can happen to good-looking bitches like you, so you’d better hand it over. Take this as your last warning. Or words something like that.’

Pixi looked up at Baax. ‘The police said it was just someone having Hunni on, but it sounded pretty serious to me.’

‘This man only rang with threatening messages. There weren’t any ordinary messages from him?’ Baax interrupted.

‘No, when I played a tape from this lot here,’ (she indicated a smaller pile) ‘he didn’t seem threatening at all. He made references to your friend or the big man, but they weren’t threatening or anything, he seemed to be setting up meetings, or something with—’

‘What sort of meetings?’ Baax again interrupted.

Pixi looked away. ‘I loved my sister, Mr Baax, but knew she was no angel.’

‘You think Hunni could have been having an illicit affair, maybe with someone well known? Into drugs, maybe?’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I knew Hunni was popular with men, especially those who like to be seen with beautiful women. I just don’t know who she went out with, that’s all.’

When Baax remained silent, Pixi, mistaking his silence for disbelief, said, ‘Look, Mr Baax, I lived in Sydney. Hunni lived here. She didn’t know who I went out with. I didn’t know anything about her private life.’

‘No, I understand that, Pixi. She never mentioned anyone to you? A celebrity name … anyone. Any name?’

‘No. She went to lots of parties. Hunni was synonymous with popular. She was successful, rich—her own woman. No one owned her. She didn’t want to own anyone. She was a party girl.’ Pixi stumbled to an embarrassed silence.

‘Okay. Now, among the messages, were there any that were unusual? Not threatening, just a bit out of the ordinary?’

‘No … oh yes, there was one, the voice was nice, different, younger. He left a message. It was the one, according to the dates, preceding the one in the phone. He says, Raise the flag on the day of glory, whatever that means. What do you think?’

‘I think we need to examine the tapes more closely. Leave it with me. I’ll have to come back later, I’m afraid. I may bring someone from the team with me. Okay?’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you. I’ll look and see if I can find anything else, diaries or something.’

‘Good idea. Oh, and call me Paul, all right?’

‘Okay. I feel so much better having spoken with you. At least you took the time to listen to me.’

As Baax drove from the building, he realised the rain had passed and knew the humidity would be rising. He drove slowly, thinking more about what had been said in the apartment he had just left rather than what he was about to hear. It was not until he was almost to his appointment with Marlene Renfold that he turned his thoughts to what the administrator might want.

Chapter 2

Baax was used to this routine. A journalist switched from one story to another in the course of a day, and it was not until deadlines drew near that stories were written.

Marlene Renfold had made her appointment with Baax at her home, and although Baax had been here before, it was his first professional visit.

Her driveway was long and straight, but a secondary pathway to her front door wound its way through thick tropical plants. He pressed a buzzer to the left of the door and heard a discreet peal inside.

Marlene Renfold was a big woman. Her voice was big, her manner brusque. She was popular with her electorate but not the corporate elite, with whom she often clashed when her questioning and probing of their schemes delved too deeply into what they wanted to hide.

A few years before, one of her opponents had referred to her as a perfumed dredge because of her capacity to probe data and dig deep. The appellation had stuck.

Baax now looked across at the formidable administrator who always intrigued him. They first met during her campaign for election. They were blunt with each other, which he found refreshing. He also believed in her honesty because in all the years he had known her, although she might stall, never, as far as he could find out, had she told a deliberate lie.

‘What’s the problem, Marlene?’ Baax asked.

‘Oh, what isn’t the problem? You name it. It’s this administration. Clive Soutain is getting worse. He’s dictatorial, threatening. In fact, he has turned the Adnubustration into a monocrasy. He always was a bit autocratic but now he’s contemptuous, singular, and just states—this is in camera—what is going to happen. Then when it gets to the chamber, he gags all debate.’

‘So, what’s new?’

‘He’s getting worse. Yesterday an issue arose for a completely inappropriate development planned for the city. It involves moving people from their homes to acquire land, allowing for a mega road to be built at public expense, which will eventually enable development of land that should be retained for flood mitigation.’

‘Who’s behind the development?’

‘Ostensibly it’s an investment group called HRS Family Investments Ltd. I’ve been trying to find out who is involved in the company, but it appears it’s a private concern and I can’t get to the names of those involved. I’m fairly certain, though, the S in the name is for Soutain. Someone in the know should be able to access who’s what in it.’

‘It’s not the first time authorities have planned infrastructure to assist a development. Look at the bypass road a few years back, all the pollies bought up the land through which the road would run. They then rezoned from agriculture to commercial and domestic. Soutain made a windfall from that little venture.’

‘This new caper will produce more than a mint, it is mind-boggling what is being talked about. Mind you, the development wasn’t mentioned when the infrastructure proposal was put forward. It supposedly came from Main Roads stating it was needed to move the people quickly to the outer suburbs. Some people will jump on board; others, who know the consequences of the work and speak out, will be demonised.’

‘Where did the directive to Main Roads to seek this alternative route come from originally?’

‘Well, it should have come from the administration requesting the state government look into it. It didn’t, though. None of us knew about it until yesterday when Clive told us.’

‘Didn’t you question it?’

‘Three of us did. The others just folded and accepted it. Mind you, most owe Soutain money. He bankrolled them to get elected in the first place. A couple of them ran up gambling debts, so he bailed them out. So, they don’t say anything, just rubber-stamp what he says.’

‘Hmm.’ Baax sat in thought.

‘What do you—’ Baax broke off as his pager chirped. He looked at the caller and clicked it off before resuming, ‘want me to do?’

‘I’m giving you all the documents. I’m giving you all data I have assembled about the investment company. I’m giving you information I have recorded secretly, copies of emails and text messages. I’m giving you access codes to electronic data, most I don’t even understand. In fact I’m breaking the law and if found out will end up in prison.’

‘It’s a big risk to take.’

‘Yes, I know but I can’t just sit by and let this happen. Will you do it? Will you take on this investigation? I’ll always be available to fill in any info pertaining to any of the data I give you. I just ask that, for the present at least, you keep my name concealed. That way I think I’ll be of more benefit to you.’

‘That’s not a problem, you know that.’

‘A warning, also, I am being followed and I’m sure my phone is tapped—at least this home phone. I don’t know about my office. Don’t contact me either way. I called you from a friend’s home on her line.’

‘Okay. Can you give me a safe number?’

‘Ring my friend. Leave only cryptic messages.’

‘Tomorrow, I’ll ring you at work as a confirmation of something innocent we supposedly spoke about today. I’ll think of something. I’ll follow up the call with a fax. It will be something completely inconsequential, you reply as you see fit. Do you really believe you are being watched?’

‘Oh, yes. When you leave, watch for a white Camry with single male driver. He’ll be parked nearby, somewhere. His number plate starts with an F, something 18 something. It’s old and worn.’

‘Also, a pretty ordinary car. I’ll watch out for it.’

Baax stood as the administrator rose from her chair and held out her hand, her face very solemn. ‘Take care,’ she said, as they shook hands in agreement.

A white Camry was parked two houses along in the street. It pulled out and followed Baax as he left.

Chapter 3

Bee Adams crossed the Richmond Heads bar in the late evening. He had sat off Frankland Islands until the cruise and dive boats began their inward journey, and then followed them in. His action had been one of desperation, as he knew how notorious the bar could be, not wanting to chance anything going wrong on the run home and not trusting his own seamanship to make the entry solo.

Entering the safer waters of the Richmond-Morton, Adams steered the Lazy Lady in behind the boats and followed them upstream. His fishing boat was usually under the control of a master, but as Bee Adams owned the boat, he had taken her out solo although not ticketed to do so. Insurance-wise it had been a bit of a gamble, particularly when he encountered cyclonic weather.

He laid anchor off Days Landing and, taking to the dinghy, came ashore. Leaping from the smaller boat at the foot of the ramp, he went to an old blue Land Cruiser parked amongst the trees on the bank. He then drove round onto the landing, picked up the dinghy on the trailer, and headed down the road to the yard where he stored it when ashore.

As he drove in, a tall, broad, sandy-haired man greeted him with a ‘Had a g’day?’ welcome. Adams did not reply but raised an arm, acknowledged the greeting. Stowing the dinghy, he entered the yard office, his walk a slow lope.

‘Hi, Jodie. Weather reports say we should see the trough break up soon. Maybe we’ll get some fine weather for a few days. How much do I owe you?’

‘Bee!’ The delight at seeing the young man was evident on the young girl’s face.

‘Reports are favourable but I don’t expect much, trough’s still too active. Hasn’t moved far enough north yet. Shame you had bad weather. How long you been out, must be what, two, three weeks? Don’t imagine you caught much, not with the weather we’ve been having.’ When Bee only grunted in reply, Jodie turned to the files and took out a card.

‘Let’s see. Hmm, well, you were paid up to the twenty-fifth last, so if you want to pay an advance, it will be thirty bucks.’

Adams reached