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  “As my father’s son,” said Townsend.

  The comment was greeted with a ripple of laughter.

  “Please carry on as if I weren’t here,” said Townsend. “I don’t intend to be the sort of publisher who interferes with editorial decisions.” He walked over to the corner of the room, sat on the window ledge and watched as Bailey continued to conduct the morning conference. He hadn’t lost any of his skills, or, it seemed, his desire to use the paper to campaign on behalf of any underdog he felt was getting a rough deal.

  “Right, what’s looking like the lead story tomorrow?” he asked. Three hands shot up.

  “Dave,” said the editor, pointing a pencil at the chief crime reporter. “Let’s hear your bid.”

  “It looks as if we might get a verdict on the Sammy Taylor trial today. The judge is expected to finish his summing-up later this afternoon.”

  “Well, if the way he’s conducted the trial so far is anything to go by, the poor bastard hasn’t a hope in hell. That man would string Taylor up given the slightest excuse.”

  “I know,” said Dave.

  “If it’s a guilty verdict, I’ll give the front page over to it and write a leader on the travesty of justice any Aboriginal can expect in our courts. Is the courthouse still being picketed by Abo protesters?”

  “Sure is. It’s become a night-and-day vigil. They’ve taken to sleeping on the pavement since we published those pictures of their leaders being dragged off by the police.”

  “Right, if we get a verdict today, and it’s guilty, you get the front page. Jane,” he said, turning to the features editor, “I’ll need a thousand words on Abos’ rights and how disgracefully this trial has been conducted. Travesty of justice, racial prejudice, you know the sort of thing I want.”

  “What if the jury decides he’s not guilty?” asked Dave.

  “In that unlikely event, you get the right-hand column on the front page and Jane can give me five hundred words for page seven on the strength of the jury system, Australia at last coming out of the dark ages, etc., etc.”

  Bailey turned his attention to the other side of the room, and pointed his pencil at a woman whose hand had remained up. “Maureen,” he said.

  “We may have a mystery illness at the Royal Adelaide Hospital. Three young children have died in the last ten days and the hospital’s chief administrator, Gyles Dunn, is refusing to make a statement of any kind, however hard I push him.”

  “Are all the children local?”

  “Yep,” replied Maureen. “They all come from the Port Adelaide area.”

  “Ages?” said Frank.

  “Four, three and four. Two girls, one boy.”

  “Right, get hold of their parents, especially the mothers. I want pictures, history of the families, everything you can find out about them. Try and discover if the families have any connection with each other, however remote. Are they related? Do they know each other or work at the same place? Do they have any shared interests, however remote, that could just connect the three cases? And I want some sort of statement out of Gyles Dunn, even if it’s ‘No comment.’”

  Maureen gave Bailey a quick nod before he turned his attention to the picture editor. “Get me a picture of Dunn looking harassed that will be good enough to put on the front page. You’ll have the front-page lead, Maureen, if the Taylor verdict is not guilty, otherwise I’ll give you page four with a possible run-on to page five. Try and get pictures of all three children. Family albums is what I’m after—happy, healthy children, preferably on holiday. And I want you to get inside that hospital. If Dunn still refuses to say anything, find someone who will. A doctor, a nurse, even a porter, but make sure the statement is either witnessed or recorded. I don’t want another fiasco like the one we had last month with that Mrs. Kendal and her complaints against the fire brigade. And Dave,” the editor said, turning his attention back to the chief crime reporter, “I’ll need to know as soon as possible if the verdict on Taylor is likely to be held up, so we can get to work on the layout of the front page. Anyone else got anything to offer?”

  “Thomas Playford will be making what’s promised to be an important statement at eleven o’clock this morning,” said Jim West, a political reporter. Groans went up around the room.

  “I’m not interested,” said Frank, “unless he’s going to announce his resignation. If it’s the usual photo call and public relations exercise, producing more bogus figures about what he’s supposed to have achieved for the local community, relegate it to a single column on page eleven. Sport, Harry?”

  A rather overweight man, seated in the corner opposite Townsend, blinked and turned to a young associate who sat behind him. The young man whispered in his ear.

  “Oh, yes,” the sports editor said. “Some time today the selectors will be announcing our team for the first Test against England, starting on Thursday.”

  “Are there likely to be any Adelaide lads in the side?”

  Townsend sat through the hour-long conference but didn’t say anything, despite feeling that several questions had been left unanswered. When the conference finally broke up, he waited until all the journalists had left before he handed Frank the notes he had written earlier in the back of the taxi. The editor glanced at the scribbled figures, and promised he would study them more carefully just as soon as he had a minute. Without thinking, he deposited them in his out tray.

  “Do drop in whenever you want to catch up on anything, Keith,” he said. “My door is always open.” Townsend nodded. As he turned to leave, Frank added, “You know, your father and I always had a good working relationship. Until quite recently he used to fly over from Melbourne to see me at least once a month.”

  Townsend smiled and closed the editor’s door quietly behind him. He walked back through the tapping typewriters, and took the lift to the top floor.

  He felt a shiver as he entered his father’s office, conscious for the first time that he would never have the chance to prove to him that he would be a worthy successor. He glanced around the room, his eyes settling on the picture of his mother on the corner of the desk. He smiled at the thought that she was the one person who need have no fear of being replaced in the near future.

  He heard a little cough, and turned round to find Miss Bunting standing by the door. She had served as his father’s secretary for the past thirty-seven years. As a child Townsend had often heard his mother describe Bunty as “a wee slip of a girl.” He doubted if she was five feet tall, even if you measured to the top of her neatly tied bun. He had never seen her hair done in any other way, and Bunty certainly made no concession to fashion. Her straight skirt and sensible cardigan allowed only a glimpse of her ankles and neck, she wore no jewelry, and apparently no one had ever told her about nylons. “Welcome home, Mr. Keith,” she said, her Scottish accent undiminished by nearly forty years of living in Adelaide. “I’ve just been getting things in order, so that everything would be ready for your return. I am of course due for retirement soon, but will quite understand if you want to bring in someone new to replace me before then.”

  Townsend felt that she must have rehearsed every word of that little speech, and had been determined to deliver it before he had a chance to say anything. He smiled at her. “I shall not be looking for anyone to replace you, Miss Bunting.” He had no idea what her first name was, only that his father called her “Bunty.” “The one change I would appreciate is if you went back to calling me Keith.”

  She smiled. “Where would you like to begin?”

  “I’ll spend the rest of the day going over the files, then I’ll start first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Bunty looked as if she wanted to say something, but bit her lip. “Will first thing mean the same as it did for your father?” she asked innocently.

  “I’m afraid it will,” replied Townsend with a grin.

  * * *

  Townsend was back at the Gazette by seven the following morning. He took the lift to the second floor, and walked aroun