Gone Fishing Read Online Free PDF Page B

‘. . . shinola emanates from. You got any ideas?’
    â€˜For god’s sake, Sam. Keep up,’ she replies impatiently. ‘Why do you think everyone’s here? The developers stuck up a sign at lunchtime to say they’ll answer any questions at six o’clock. Or, in their words, bring the community up-to-date and on board. They’re distributing plans and prospectuses so we’ll all be absolutely clear about what’s happening. Considerate, eh?’
    Sam fights down the queasy sensation of being caught wrong-footed. He looks around at the crowd. To an outsider, it might appear to consist of aging hippies, yobbos and beach bums, but they’re people he’s laughed with, drunk with, eaten with, grieved with, worked alongside and even battled. They’d never let you down. You could get arrested for knocking off your mother-in-law and they’d risk smuggling a frigidly cold beer behind bars before giving you a quiet nod of understanding: Must’ve been having a crap day, eh? Right now, they’ve gathered to protect everything they passionately believe in and damn the consequences. ‘The law on our side or theirs, Lindy?’ he asks.
    â€˜Too early to say but it’s not looking good. Just so you know, that shiny-headed stirrer with the filthy temper who lives on the eastern side of Garrawi has bought all the bordering properties over the last couple of years. My guess? He’s in this up to his eyeballs and not the temporary blow-in we thought he was.’
    Sam scans the crowd, searching for light bouncing off a baby-pink skull. ‘How’d he manage to get under your radar?’ he asks.
    â€˜Company names. If there was a connection I failed to see it and I look hard when people buy stuff over the internet because there’s no knowing who might pitch up as your next-door neighbour. There were eleven separate organisations. I thought they were one-offs triggered by the current volatility of the stock market. The grey brigade funnelling retirement funds into property. Big mistake.’
    Sam thinks back. ‘Nah. Don’t blame yourself. The signs were there for all of us to see. We just didn’t take them seriously.’
    Two years ago, Eric Lowdon had turned up in his deeply eccentric golf-course clothes to take up residence in the waterfront house left vacant when Joycie Bancroft broke her ankle rushing for the ferry and decided that at the relatively young age of ninety-three, it was probably time to give up offshore living. Eric descended on Cutter Island like a puffed-up parrot, accompanied by six flashy barge loads of glass-and-chrome furniture that outshone the bay on a blaster of a day. Making enemies from the start. ‘One chip in my glass table top,’ he told Glenn the removalist, ‘and I’ll personally hold you responsible for a replacement. Seats thirty. Twenty grands’ worth.’ The thick plate glass, beaded with coloured sparkles that skewered the eyeballs of anyone brave enough to look at the thing, hung over the front and back of the barge by two metres. Eight men moved it into the house. Sam included. All of them tempted to chuck the glittering monstrosity overboard and let the bastard sue. Glenn didn’t have a cracker anyway. But a bloke had his pride. Glenn couldn’t let a runty little arsehole with no taste win a single round.
    Not long afterwards, Eric Lowdon began appearing at the fireshed fundraiser dinners. Scraped his plate clean of top nosh cooked by noble, sweaty volunteers before he whinged about the lack of value for money. ‘It’s a fundraiser, mate, not a loss leader,’ Sam told him. ‘And tell me where else would you get a three-course dinner for fifteen bucks?’ Lowdon ignored him and banged on about how it was time to bring Cutter Island into the twenty-first century. A bridge, he preached, cafés, restaurants, sparkling new marinas, a helipad. Glamour : the