Martin shakes the old reporter’s hand. ‘All the better for seeing you, Flanno. What are you drinking?’
Flanagan looks forlornly at his beer. ‘Don’t really drink much nowadays. Just like to have one to keep me company. Same with the gee-gees.’ He pushes the form guide away. ‘But seeing as you’re buying.’ And he breaks into another grin.
Martin orders a couple of schooners at the bar, brings them back to the table, pulling up a stool. Flanagan drains his beer and accepts the larger glass with a welcoming chuckle. ‘Good on you, Martin.’
‘How’s things, Flanno?’
‘Shit, mate. Pure shit. You down here for Max’s funeral?’
‘Has a date been set?’
‘Nah. Can’t be long, though. Thought you might have heard.’
‘Not yet.’
‘So what brings you to the harbour city, if not that? I hope you’re working up another true crime book. I fucking loved the first two.’
‘Something like that.’
‘You couldn’t put in a good word for me with Wellington Smith, could you? He’s your publisher, isn’t he?’
‘Sure. You writing something?’
‘Not really. But the bean counters at the Herald will pension me off soon enough. Too old, too expensive. They’d prefer me to die, of course, but fuck that.’
‘Cheer up, Flanno. You must know how highly they value you.’
‘Nothing is valued anymore, let alone highly. Look what they did to you. Look what they did to Max. Look at this shithole of a bar—not a decent pub left within spitting distance of the courts.’
‘Listen, Flanno. I need your help. You heard what happened to Max and Elizabeth Torbett?’
‘Who hasn’t? Word is it wasn’t suicide. Far from it.’
‘You’re on the money there.’ Martin takes a draught of his beer; it would taste better in summer. ‘Here’s the thing: they couldn’t stand each other. Yet when they were killed, they were working closely. On a big story.’
‘I know. Max told me about it.’
‘Really?’ Martin wasn’t expecting this. ‘What did he tell you?’
‘Tell me? Nothing. Ask me? Plenty.’
‘Like what?’
‘If I’d heard any rumours of jury fixing, of judges taking bribes.’
‘And had you?’
‘No. It was news to me. Still is.’ Abruptly, Flanagan looks forlorn. ‘Forty years here, and I didn’t even have the foggiest what he was on about. Says something about me, doesn’t it? How much I really know, how much I don’t, all the skulduggery that goes on under the wigs and beneath the gowns.’ Martin is unsure what to say, is deciding whether he should be pushing for more information or offering moral support, when Flanagan continues. ‘It has to be connected to the suppression order, but he hardly needed my help with that. Not if he was working with Elizabeth Torbett.’
Martin is alert. ‘What suppression order?’
Flanagan looks surprised. ‘Sorry. I thought you would’ve known about that. Everybody else does. I thought that protégé of yours, Bethanie Glass, would have told you.’
Martin lets the reference to the police reporter pass: tensions between crime and court reporters are nothing new, nor are intergenerational stresses between old male reporters and up-and-coming women. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I can’t; I’d be breaking the law.’ And Flanno beams with mischief, raises his glass and downs a healthy chug of beer. ‘Even the suppression order is suppressed. So don’t go telling anyone I told you about it. It’ll put both of us in the shit.’
‘Scout’s honour. You ready for another beer?’
‘My shout.’
Martin has barely touched his drink, Flanagan has almost finished his. ‘It’s okay, Flanno. I can claim it.’
‘You sure?’
‘Absolutely.’
After Martin returns with a fresh schooner, the court reporter is ready to talk. ‘Okay. The order is very broad and very vague. It simply prohibits the publication by any means of material that might compromise the reputation and standing of a Land and Environment Court judge.’
‘The Land and Environment Court? Sounds like a bit of a sideshow.’
‘Don’t let a millennial hear you say that. They’ll string you up by the balls. Crimes against wokefulness.’
‘But does it carry much weight? The court?’
‘Are you shitting me? It has the same standing and status as the New South Wales Supreme Court.’
‘So what’s the story with the judge?’
‘The scuttlebutt is that there are compromising photographs. Sexual photographs.’
‘Male or female judge?’
‘Probably a bloke, but I can’t say for certain.’
‘Oh, come on. Lawyers gossip as much as journos. Someone must know.’
‘The gossip’s the problem. I’ve heard four different names already, and there are only half-a-dozen judges. Wouldn’t be surprised if someone is running a book on it.’
Martin thinks it over. ‘A big part of the court’s work would be ruling on whether developments go ahead or not, right? That sort of thing?’
‘That’s it in a nutshell.’
‘So, there’s big money involved.’
‘Shit, yeah.’
‘Sounds like local government. Ripe for corruption.’
Flanno shakes his head. ‘No. You’re right about local councils; crooked as a dog’s hind leg. Same with some of the cops. But not judges. If they wanted money, they’d have stayed barristers or corporate counsels. Moolah is not a motivator.’
‘What is?’
‘Status. Reputation. Service to the community.’
‘Christ. You make them sound like saints.’
‘Only compared to the rest of us.’
‘Flanno, these photos. Has anyone seen them?’
‘Not firsthand, not that I know of. It’s only rumour, but what I’ve been told is that the photos have the judge going at it, dressed in kinky underwear. Wearing stockings and a suspender belt. Doing the business.’ Flanagan starts to look concerned. ‘You all right, Martin?’
Martin isn’t: the description has sucked him back to the murder scene in Bellevue Hill, the bodies dressed in lingerie. He can see the gore, smell the blood, Max Fuller’s bulging blue tongue, the yawning hole in the back of Elizabeth Torbett’s head. ‘Sorry. It’s nothing.’ He drinks some beer, as if to cleanse the taste from his mouth. ‘But, tell me: the suppression order—you sure it’s a Land and Environment Court justice?’
‘Yeah, that’s about the only fact we know for sure.’
‘Is there any way to find out who the judge is?’
‘I can ask about. But I can’t promise you anything. As I said, it’s like the
