Something Fishy Read Online Free Page B

might help,’ she said.
    â€˜Do you really think I should allow myself to be made an object of pity because the cops can’t do their job? Act like a politician who can’t resist the chance to get his face on the news?’
    â€˜Maybe there’s a chance it’ll help, that’s all I’m saying.’
    â€˜If only that was true, mate. But it’s all bullshit. Call them back and tell them I’m not available.’
    â€˜That won’t stop them looking for you.’
    â€˜They’ll search in vain,’ I said. ‘I’ll be in San Remo for the rest of the day.’
    â€˜San Remo? What’s happening in San Remo?’
    â€˜Very little,’ I said. ‘I hope.’

An hour down the South-Eastern got me to the Bass Highway turn-off at Lang Lang, where the suburban sprawl finally gives way to the lush green of dairy farms, market gardens and wetlands. The forecast was holding and the only clouds in the powder-blue sky were thin shreds on the southern horizon. The highway forked again and Westernport Bay came into view, a verdigris slab fringed with mud-flats and tidal shoals.
    Just before the bridge across the narrows to Phillip Island, I took the turn into San Remo. The venue for the day’s meeting was a function room in a motel at the jetty end of Marine Parade. I found the place, parked out front and stood for a few minutes, breathing the ozone and contemplating the view.
    At the public fish-cleaning benches on the foreshore reserve, a flock of seagulls squabbled over the innards of somebody’s catch. Down at the jetty, commercial fishing boats were unloading tubs of whiting and school shark, fodder for the fish’n’chip shops of Melbourne. Near the war memorial, an elderly couple was sharing a thermos at a picnic table, squinting out at the water.
    According to the paperwork from Della, the Coastal Management Advisory Panel had been established to provide input into government management of the state’s coastline. A seaside location was chosen for its inaugural public meeting to facilitate the participation of what were called ‘coastal resource user groups’.
    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