Chapter 5

Roy wasn’t a fan of television. He considered most of it mindless filler, but a quiet curiosity had lingered since Sonia Street’s unexpected appearance at his event. So the next day he tuned in to ChTV1 out of half-hearted interest.

The segment she fronted was fairly routine—an overview of local businesses struggling in a sluggish economy. “Don’t I know it,” Roy muttered, although he was quietly thankful his own company was weathering the downturn better than most. Building consents were down, yes, but his reputation—honest quotes, high standards, on-time delivery—was holding the line.

He was just reaching for the remote when Sonia’s voice caught his ear again, this time in a closing teaser.

“Residents of Norgate are at their wits’ end with the antics of boy racers. Burnouts are wrecking their streets and verges, but by the time police arrive—if they arrive at all—the culprits have vanished.
Next week, we plan to have our cameras at the ready to see if we can get something moving about this.”

That made Roy sit up. He had no time for boy racers. He could forgive a bit of youthful energy—he’d seen it in his apprentices often enough. But with guidance, they’d grown up. These clowns were different. They tore up streets, shattered peace, and endangered lives with impunity.

He leaned back, thinking. Slowly, a smile crept across his face.

A few phone calls later confirmed what he hoped: some mates were keen to get involved. Early the next morning, he rang ChTV1 and asked to be put through to Sonia Street.

“You’re lucky, she’s in early,” the receptionist said. “I’ll connect you.”

A moment later, Sonia’s voice came on the line, crisp but warm. “Sonia Street.”

“Miss Street, this is Roy Burke—”

“You don’t have to call me Miss,” she interrupted, with a touch of amusement. “Sonia, please.”

“All right—Sonia. I caught the end of your programme last night, and I agree—something needs to be done about these boy racers. I’ve had an idea I’d like to run past you. Confidentially. If you have time today, I’d appreciate a meeting.”

She hesitated, just long enough to let him know she was intrigued. “You’ve piqued my interest. I can do 12.30, here at my office. I’ll bring in a bite to eat—you can fill me in over lunch.”

“Perfect,” Roy said. “And yes, confidentiality will be important. See you then.”

When the call ended, Sonia stared at the phone a moment, a slow grin spreading. Whatever this was, Roy Burke didn’t strike her as someone who did things by halves.

At 12.30 sharp, Sonia came down to reception to greet Roy in person. “Nice to see you again,” she said, offering a handshake and a visitor ID badge. “Come on up.”

Her office was bright and orderly, with framed photos of newsroom moments and community scenes on the wall. She handed him a plate of savouries as they sat down.

“Hope these work for you. And how do you take your coffee?”

“White, no sugar. Thanks.”

She placed the order via the comms panel and turned to him, one eyebrow raised. “Right, Mr Burke—spill it. What’s cooking in that head of yours?”

Roy chuckled. “I have an idea that I hope might appeal to you. You might call it rough justice. But before I outline anything, I’d appreciate your fuller take on what’s going on.”

She leaned back, folding her arms. “As I mentioned on air, two suburbs in particular have become ground zero for these clowns—20, sometimes 30, souped-up cars roaring in, doing donuts and burnouts, blasting music like it’s a nightclub. Grass verges ruined. Elderly residents frightened out of their wits.”

“So why aren’t the police stepping in?”

“Understaffing, mostly. Post-Covid attrition. Many of our best cops have moved to Australia—better pay, better hours. The ones left are stretched thin. There just aren’t sufficient police to attend to this, plus other urgent calls.”

“Other urgent calls? You hinted there was more to the story.”