Something Fishy Read Online Free PDF

cost-effective to use contract labour.’
    â€˜Flexible types who can be persuaded that jet-skis and dolphins are a natural mix.’
    Gillian balled her empty sandwich bag and flicked it into a nearby litter bin. ‘Exactly.’
    We contemplated the prospect in morose silence. For the moment, it was just speculation. In time, it would be a fait accompli . Either way, there was nothing we could do about it.
    I left Gillian with the pelicans, took a turn down the jetty, then returned for the afternoon session. The panel was settling back into place, preparing to hear from the Friends of the Ninety Mile Beach. Alan Bunting beckoned me over. ‘Forgot to mention,’ he said. ‘There’s a bit of a boat trip afterwards. A tour of Seal Rocks in the Natural Resources launch. You’re invited, of course. Privilege of rank and all that. Three-fifteen at the jetty, unless you have to hurry back for some union conclave at the Trades Hall.’
    I indulged his little joke with a self-deprecating shrug. ‘I’ll check,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the invite.’
    Frankly there was scant appeal in the prospect of being stuck on a boat with a bunch of government placemen, a young fogey and a corrupt henchman of the Premier. Seals, I thought as I took my seat, waving their flippers and bellowing. It’ll be just like parliament.
    Proceedings resumed, first with the beach lovers then the Charter Boat Operators Association. As the voices droned, my thoughts returned to the coroner’s report. Not that I had any doubt about the verdict.
    The facts of the case were simple. Two career criminals, Adrian Parish and Rodney Syce, used smuggled explosives to blast their way out of the Remand Centre, where they were being held for sentencing. Both were looking at major time— Parish for robbing a bank, Syce for an aggravated burglary in which he bashed an elderly man.
    Their escape was well planned and aided from the outside. The bike was waiting nearby, a stolen Kawasaki racer, key in the ignition. Syce was the rider. Taking advantage of the rush-hour traffic, the pair made a daring and dangerous dash through the congested streets of the central city and under the tree canopy of the Fitzroy Gardens.
    They might well have got away if not for a couple of rookie cops en route to the bingle outside the Hilton. Responding to the radio alert, the young cops intercepted the escapees as they emerged from the gardens. Parish died in hospital that evening, a police bullet in his lung.
    The Kawasaki was found in a laneway in nearby Richmond. But the police dragnet closed on empty air. Syce had evaporated.
    Lines of enquiry were pursued, screws applied, trees shaken. The bike was supplied by one of Parish’s crim associates, a small-timer. On Parish’s instructions, he put two pistols in the pannier. Only one gun was recovered, so the other was presumably taken by Syce. But as to Syce himself, Parish’s mate didn’t know him, had no idea where he’d gone or might be.
    Initially, the police were confident. Syce wouldn’t get far, they swore. He was no mastermind. He would leave a trail. It was just a matter of time before he was back in custody, facing the consequences. Cold comfort, they admitted, but the only kind they could promise.
    But that wasn’t what happened. Fuck all was what happened. Weeks, months, a year passed. Old leads petered out. New leads failed to emerge. Finally, someone senior decided to bring on the coronial hearing into Lyndal’s death. The attendant publicity might refresh the memory of the public. Or prick a guilty conscience.
    So Lyndal’s inquest, which should have been the formal administrative response to a death in a public place, became a desperate media stunt.
    I played my part. I stood in the box and gave my eyewitness account. I was the grieving widower at press conferences and Coroner’s Court door-stops, appealing for anybody with