Something Fishy by Shane Maloney Read Free Book Online Page A

kilometres of coastline.’
    â€˜You’ve done a deal with Wilson,’ I said. ‘And I’m the fly in the ointment.’
    Sutherland shrugged. ‘What if that Bunting bloke had drowned?’
    â€˜No chance of that,’ I said. ‘Too buoyant. Completely empty head.’
    â€˜Tell that to the committee of enquiry, just before they transfer me to shore patrol ticketing dog owners for crapping on the beach. Thought you might understand. Being Labor.’
    I heaved a defeated sigh. ‘Yeah, all right,’ I said. ‘None of this happened. And if it did, I didn’t see it. Just get me back on dry land pronto, okay?’
    The light was fading when we cruised into the San Remo boat harbour. Up on the Phillip Island bridge, the coaches were bumper-to-bumper, packed with tourists bound for the twilight parade of penguins waddling ashore at the rookeries.
    I hit the dock as soon as we tied up, glad to have something solid beneath my feet. Next time I got on a boat, I promised myself, it would be nothing smaller than the Queen Mary .
    It was nearly six o’clock. I walked down the jetty, past the fishermen’s co-operative and into the front bar of the Westernport Hotel. Three blokes in working clobber were nursing beers at the bar, swapping monotones. A bunch of bozos were playing pool, their banter lost in the plink-plink of the poker machines from the gaming lounge. ‘Wheel of Fortune’ was showing on the box above the bar. I parked on a stool and ordered a Jameson’s. ‘Straight up,’ I told the barman, a girl in a Jim Beam tee-shirt. ‘Water on the side.’
    I diluted the whiskey and sipped, letting it settle my stomach. When the television news began, I tipped the last of it down my throat and signalled for another.
    The inquest story came after the first ad break. The state coroner, the newsreader reported, had found that Lyndal Luscombe, thirty-five, was murdered by convicted felon Rodney Syce during a break-out from the Melbourne Remand Centre.
    Of course it was fucking murder. It was murder the instant that the motorbike slammed into Lyndal. You kill somebody while you’re escaping from jail, it’s murder. Not manslaughter. Not involuntary homicide. Not reckless driving. Not oops. Murder, plain and simple.
    Lyndal’s picture filled the screen, a full-length shot cropped from a portrait taken at her cousin’s wedding in late ’93. She was laughing, crinkling her nose at the camera like a naughty schoolkid.
    â€˜Despite an extensive search here and interstate, Syce remains at large,’ continued the newsreader’s voice.
    The screen filled with a mug-shot. It showed a thick-lipped, round-faced man with a receding brow and dark, surly eyes. He looked like one of those guys who stand at road works, directing traffic with a lollipop sign. The sort of face you see, but don’t register.
    â€˜Police are hopeful that the coroner’s finding will result in new information that may lead them to Syce.’
    Vision cut to a sleek, fortyish man in a fashionable suit and rimless glasses standing on the steps of the Coroner’s Court. A caption identified him as Detective Sergeant Damian Meakes. ‘This man Syce is dangerous and absolutely desperate,’ he said, leaning forward into the camera, one hand holding down his tie. ‘Anyone who believes they might have seen him on the day of the escape or any time since, or has any other information, should contact the Syce Task Force or Crime Stoppers. Under no circumstances should members of the public approach him directly.’
    And that was it. Sixty seconds, tops. My second whiskey was on the bar. I slammed it down neat and stomped out the door, fire raging in my belly.
    The sea was purple with the last shreds of the day and the air was acrid with rotting seaweed and diesel fumes. I put the key in the ignition of the Magna and drove across the bridge to Phillip