It was just past eleven. I went into the motel lobby and followed the signs to the Cormorant Room. It had salmon-pink acrylic carpet, stackable furniture and wide windows that overlooked the Phillip Island bridge. The five-member panel was presiding from behind a long table on a platform facing a couple of dozen chairs, less than half of which were occupied.
I recognised one of the panel members as Alan Bunting, the National Party member for the Mallee, semi-desert country a long way from the wave-lapped littoral. A genial, slightly tubby thirty-year-old, he owed his seat in parliament to the depth of his father’s pockets. The Nats were the junior partner in the ruling coalition, and Alan was very much a junior Nat.
The other familiar face belonged to the chairman, Dudley Wilson, a big bluff fellow in his sixties with bulldog jowls and tragic blow-dried hair. Wilson was the leading light of GoVic, a cabal of business identities and civic worthies that served as a kind of kitchen cabinet to the Premier. Slash-and-burn free-market ideologues to a man.
I wondered why a high-flyer like Wilson was chairing such a low-key advisory committee. Dudley Wilson didn’t waste his attention on anything that didn’t have a dollar in it.
The only other face I recognised belonged to the civil servant taking minutes. Her name was Gillian Zarek. During Labor’s time in office, I’d worked with her briefly at Planning and Regional Development. Behind her butterball exterior, Gillian was sharp as a tack. She saw me at the door, gave me a wry smile and used her chins to indicate where I should sit.
I nodded hello to Alan Bunting, then sat and thumbed through the agenda papers. A bloke in a bargain-basement suit was making a submission on behalf of the Sporting Anglers Association, directing his words straight at Dudley Wilson.
‘Last time I saw a face like that,’ he was saying, ‘it had a hook in it.’
Wishful thinking, I realised. He was, in fact, affirming the ongoing commitment of the recreational fishing sector to managed bio-diversity. It was already evident that the Coastal Management Advisory Panel was going to be an arid source of diversion.
Over the next ninety minutes, the bio-sustainable line-dangler was succeeded by speakers from the Surf Lifesaving Association, the Shipwreck Heritage Trust, Disability Access and a group opposed to the dumping of raw sewage into the Gippsland lake system. Proceedings drifted like the continents, the room was overheated and my attention soon wandered out the window.
The seagulls had quit the gutting-sink. They were perched on the railing of the bridge, grooming their plumage. An incoming tide inched across the mud-flats. A wet-suited sailboard rider tacked back and forth. A gaff-rigged couta boat sailed out of the marina at the tip of Phillip Island, then sailed back in. The customary Greeks bobbed for squid off the jetty.
At 12:45, Dudley Wilson announced the lunch adjournment.
Alan Bunting immediately pounced. ‘Hello, Murray. You’re doing duty for Moira Henley, so I’ve been given to understand. You’ll be joining us for lunch, of course.’
He led me into a room where the official party was lining up, plates in hand, at a buffet table laid with platters of prawn salad, breadcrumbed calamari rings and a baked schnapper with a slice of pimento-stuffed olive over its oven-roasted eyeball.
‘You know our chairman, of course,’ Bunting said, manoeuvring me towards Dudley Wilson.
Wilson regarded me over his jowls. We’d once exchanged a brief handshake at some public event. Wilson nodded, remembering, and I nodded back. Then, casting a disdainful glance at the buffet, he pulled a mobile phone from his jacket pocket and walked away, dialling as he went.
Bunting introduced me to the other suits, a cross-section of the ruling demographic. An old boy, a wide boy and a bean counter. I made some tiny-talk over a plate of prawn salad, then slipped outside for a breath of air. I found Gillian Zarek sitting at a log picnic table on the foreshore, eating a sandwich from a paper bag. We exchanged hellos and agreed that the weather was indeed splendid for the time of year.
‘So what’s the story with Dudley Wilson?’ I said. ‘This is a bit downmarket for a big wheel like Dud, isn’t it?’
Gillian wiped her fingers on a paper napkin, mock-dainty. ‘Dudley Wilson is a well-known philanthropist, always attentive to the voice of the community.’
A trio of pelicans wheeled overhead, wings spread, then splashed down near the jetty.
‘And that’s a fine flight of pigs,’ I said.
Gillian chortled. ‘I could speculate, I suppose. But strictly in a personal capacity.’
I ran fingertips across my lips, zipping them shut. Gillian dropped her voice, although there was nobody within hearing range.
‘This public input stuff, it’s just window-dressing,’ she said. ‘A couple more meetings like this, then the real agenda will emerge. The privatisation of public assets along the coast. Camping grounds, piers, lighthouses, they’ll all be flogged to commercial operators, turned into theme parks, resort hotels and pay-per-view whale-watching towers. This panel will recommend who gets what and how much they pay. As its chairman, Dudley Wilson will be uniquely situated to identify the easy-money opportunities.’
‘Nice work if you can get it,’ I said. The function of the government, after all, was to transfer wealth from public to private hands.
‘Big cuts in the department’s field staff are also on the cards,’ Gillian continued. ‘Park rangers, fisheries officers and so forth. They’ll say it’s more cost-effective to use contract labour.’
‘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 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.
‘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?’
‘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?’
‘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 could think of a hundred better uses for the departmental launch than ferrying freeloading pollies around Seal Rocks.
‘Listen here,’ said Wilson. ‘This could be a very good opportunity to get a first-hand perspective on some of the issues being examined by our panel. What say we come along?’
Sutherland shook his head. ‘No can do. Due respect, Mr Wilson, fisheries enforcement isn’t a spectator sport.’
‘Not spectators,’ insisted Wilson. ‘Official observers.’
Sutherland rubbed the back of his neck, not quite sure how to deal with Wilson’s persistence.
‘I’ll make sure your superiors are made aware of your cooperation,’ Wilson continued. Or the opposite, the implication was clear. ‘We won’t get in your way, I assure you.’ He looked to Bunting and me to back him up. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Alan Bunting started to unfasten his life-jacket. ‘I’m not sure about this, Dudley. There’s probably regulations or something.’
‘Suit yourself,’ said Wilson. ‘What about you, Whelan?’
As much as I disliked being co-opted by Wilson, I had to agree that reconnoitring abalone poachers sounded a lot more interesting than gawking at seals.
‘Your decision,’ Sutherland jumped aboard. ‘But we haven’t got all day.’
Wilson boarded. Bunting hesitated, then joined him. Me too. Sutherland took the console while the deck hand cast off the lines. Three minutes later, we were motoring down the main channel. When we cleared the sandbanks, Sutherland opened the throttle, veered east and let rip. The bow slapped the waves, raising plumes of spray.
We ran parallel to the shore, a kilometre or so out from a line of ragged cliffs and blunt headlands. The shelter of Westernport Bay lay behind us now. This was Bass Strait, a notorious stretch of water. Come a change of weather, it would rear up and throw huge waves against the coast, smashing a craft like ours to matchwood.
My innards were churning, rising and falling with the motion of the boat. Bunting, too, had gone a little green around the gills. Wilson was loving it. He stood at the stern, eyes narrowed, scanning the horizon. Captain Pugwash rides again. When spray swept his face, he wore it like a complimentary spritz of Old Spice.
Once we were well under way, the deckie took the helm and Sutherland joined us for a proper round of introductions. He might not have been happy about running a passenger service, but he had enough professional sense not to waste an opportunity.
‘One of the last viable abalone habitats in the world,’ he declared, sweeping his arm along the line of coves and cliffs, his voice raised above the thrum of the engine. ‘Shallow-water reefs, plenty of wave action. The abalone feed on specks of pulverised kelp.’
Wilson didn’t want a natural history lesson. ‘Tell us about these poachers,’ he said.
‘If that’s what they are,’ said Sutherland. ‘Shore-based, most poaching. Less conspicuous that way. All you need’s a snorkel and a lever to prise the buggers off the rocks. But our tip-off says these guys are diving off a boat, using breathing apparatus. Could be recreational, looking for an old wreck or something
, forgot to hoist their blue-and-white. Could be not so innocent. Weather like this, chance to work a reef you can’t get to from the land. Harvest as many abs as possible, take off before they’re noticed.’
The wind bit through my pants and the sleeves of my sweatshirt. My stomach churned. An endless swell rippled towards us from the horizon and sludgy clouds were advancing from the west. The sky was the colour of a dirty sheep. I took deep, regular breaths and considered moving down into the cabin. Pride got the better of me. I didn’t want to look like a wimp in front of Dudley Wilson.
‘Lot of abalone poaching, is there?’ I asked Sutherland.
‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Used to be a cottage industry. Collect the public bag limit, ten a day, sell them to restaurants for cash. Huge demand in Asia these days. Big profits, professional crims.’
‘I’ve never understood the appeal,’ said Wilson. ‘Underwater escargot, they call it. Tastes like shoe-leather to me. Give me a crayfish any day. Or a good feed of oysters.’
At the mention of food, my prawn salad lunch stood up and saluted. I clamped my jaws shut and breathed through my nose. Alan Bunting went a greener shade of pale.
‘Can’t be farmed,’ said Sutherland. ‘Unlike oysters. When it’s gone, it’s gone. California, Canada, Japan, nix. A high-value fish-stock…’
Fish-stock. The word conjured bouillabaisse. First the name, then the smell. My stomach lurched. ‘So what’s the drill if this lot are poaching,’ I said quickly, chasing the subject elsewhere. ‘You arrest them, or what?’
‘Try,’ said Sutherland. ‘But if they resist, our options are limited. Like our means of self-defence. The minister’s just taken away our sidearms.’
‘Quite right, too,’ said Wilson. ‘Since when do fishing inspectors need to go armed? Let civil servants carry guns, who knows where it’ll stop? Look at America.’
Something Fishy Page 3