Something Fishy Read Online Free PDF Page B

pertinent information to come forward.
    The net outcome was a fat zero.
    And now, months later, the slow-turning wheels of justice were grinding out the formal verdict. Again the media would turn its fleeting attention to Lyndal. Again the coals of memory would be fanned. Again the police would call for anyone with information to ring the Crime Stoppers hotline. Again they would present themselves as resolute and tireless. In fact, they were clueless, incapable even of tracking down a petty crim with no known associates in the state.
    Useless bastards.
    The last speaker of the day, a representative of the Abalone Industry Association, was finishing his presentation. Sober of suit and careful with his words, he came across more like a lawyer than a man who made his living by scraping marine snails off submerged rocks, ‘reminding the panel that the legal abalone catch is worth $50 million a year to this state. The ongoing sustainability of the industry depends on government willingness to tackle the issues confronting it.’
    Dudley Wilson cleared his throat and peered down from the table. ‘On behalf of the panel, I thank you for your input. Your views will be given every consideration when we are framing our recommendations.’ He then declared the meeting adjourned until a date to be advised.
    It was just on the dot of three o’clock. Unable to contain the urge, I scurried out to the Magna and twiddled the radio dial across the hourly bulletins. French nuke Pacific atoll. Again. Princess Diana denies bonking rugger bugger. Government approves further casino expansion. No mention of the inquest.
    I decided to take the boat ride after all. The temperature was holding nicely, the sky appeared benign and almost four hours of daylight remained. I shed my tie, traded my suit jacket for the sweatshirt in my gym bag, and headed for the jetty.
    The Department of Natural Resources launch was moored at a landing near the berths of the commercial fishing fleet, motor idling, exhausts burbling at the waterline. It was a seven-metre fibreglass-hulled cabin cruiser with a covered cockpit and a small rear deck. A youngish bloke in a khaki windbreaker with DNR shoulder flashes was standing on the jetty, issuing life-jackets to Dudley Wilson and Alan Bunting.
    Wilson had changed into boat shoes and a thigh-length navy-blue waterproof jacket with big flap pockets and cord piping. A regular outdoorsman, Dud. Must have cut quite a swell at the yacht club regatta. Bunting, still in his suit and tie, bulged from his bright yellow buoyancy vest like an animated grapefruit. I took a jacket and fastened it over my windcheater.
    The three other panellists were coming along the jetty. Before they reached us, they were overtaken by a solidly built bloke of middle years in a DNR windbreaker. He spoke to them briefly, erasing the air with his hands and shrugging his shoulders. Then, leaving them milling uncertainly, he continued to where we stood beside the launch. He had Popeye forearms, a pepper-and-salt buzz-cut and a face like a pontiac potato.
    â€˜Bill Sutherland,’ he announced. ‘DNR fisheries compliance. Sorry, gents. Trip’s off.’
    Wilson scowled. This smacked of disrespect, poor organisation. ‘I’m Dudley Wilson,’ he said. ‘Chairman of the Coastal Management Advisory Panel. What’s the problem?’
    â€˜Bottom line, Mr Wilson, operational priorities. Follow-up on tip-off re possible illegal activity.’
    Commodore Wilson was dressed for seafaring and he wasn’t about to be brushed off. ‘What do you mean, illegal activity?’
    â€˜ Possible illegal activity,’ Sutherland repeated. ‘Half an hour away. Suspected unlawful taking of abalone. Boat access only. And this is the only boat we’ve got in this part of the state. Long story short, got to gazump your sight-seeing trip. No choice. Sorry.’
    He didn’t look sorry at all. He looked like he