Quota (5 page)

‘Why? Why not weigh the body down and dump it at sea? Why not sink the boat with the body in it?'

‘I guess because that area's not very deep, according to the local coppers, and someone would eventually come across the boat. You know, snag it on a net or a craypot or something.'

‘All right. Why not tow it out to sea and then do it?'

‘Yeah, why not? That's the best of all worlds. Take it ten miles out and do it…you've got sonar so you can make sure it's deep. Maybe they just panicked, but if they set the killing up from the very start, why would they fall at the last hurdle like that?'

‘What do the cops say about that?' Charlie could see Weir laying out a matrix of thought that stretched well ahead of the question.

‘They've got no problem with calling it panic—they reckon these boys are both a bit thick. They're also pretty fond of the idea that the gun only came along for intimidation. Whichever of these two was holding it, he's just lost his composure momentarily and bang. Course, that makes it a felony murder for the other, so it doesn't much matter who was who at the time. Everything just unravels for them after that and they decide to torch the boat without thinking. Too late once it's alight.' Charlie slapped his hands onto his knees and exhaled.

‘What about the weapon?'

‘Search and rescue picked it up easily enough. They drew a straight line between the area where the witnesses place the boat on fire and the harbour mouth, then they just dived a grid both sides of that line, and there it is in about ten feet of water. Bolt-action twenty-two. Ballistics are a match. Silly bastards didn't even think to go and dump it somewhere else.'

Weir had the glass paperweight under the end of one finger and was rolling it on his desk blotter, firing sparks of refraction at the walls. ‘So what's the problem?'

‘The brother.'

‘What, the, er…' Weir lifted a volume from the shelf behind him and leafed through it. ‘…Patrick?'

‘Yeah. Firstly it doesn't make sense that he'd spend the day with his brother doing business with Murchison and McVean, they get into a dispute with them, and Patrick lets his brother head off knowingly into a dangerous situation while he stays at home to watch a movie. Why didn't he try and talk the victim out of it? He says it himself—it could've waited till morning.'

Weir watched him, fists bunched under his nose, elbows on the desk. Heavy enamelled cufflinks protruded from his coat sleeves.

‘Second thing is, it's the better explanation for the failure to dispose properly of the body. Whether they intended to shoot Matthew Lanegan or not, Patrick's got away from them, meaning that they had to deal with him rather than deal with the body.'

‘So what about the fire?'

‘They reckon there was an accelerant. Deliberate arson. So you say to the jury, they shot Matthew, Patrick was there but he got away from them, they're in a complete flap and they can't afford to risk Patrick making his way back to shore while they're towing the evidence out to sea. They need to be safely back in harbour and off their boat by the time the brother makes it home and raises the alarm. Quickest thing is to slosh the Lanegans' boat with fuel and light it up.'

‘Why not shoot holes in the thing?'

‘Because you're back where you started—the boat's on the bottom in shallow water and easily recovered. Fishing boats don't just sink on a calm night. Mind you, I think that's assuming too much insight where these fellers are concerned. I'm all for the panic theory.'

‘And there's no panic without Patrick out there,' said Weir. ‘Otherwise they've got all the time in the world.'

‘Patrick's got his own reasons for wanting to say he wasn't there, presumably.'

‘Presumably he has. But he's going to have to do better isn't he?'

‘He's given his version.' Charlie shrugged. ‘We can't influence him to change it.'

‘I'm not suggesting we influence him. He may have made his statement under some kind of pressure, maybe still grieving. There might've been threats—god, we don't know what goes on in these places. The first part of his statement rings true, so he's half-implicated the accused. He just didn't go all the way. We need to work out why he said this stuff when logic would suggest it isn't true. He doesn't have a clear motive for lying, this kid.'

‘So we send the local copper around with instructions to get a second statement?'

‘The local copper might be part of the problem.'

Weir lit up his most beguiling smile. The glasses rode up on the wave of creases across his nose. ‘I was thinking we might send you.'

Charlie knew he'd been had—Weir had been circling him invisibly for the last ten minutes with his feigned bafflement, closing the gates around him until he was trapped, a victim of his own analysis. He owed the man his professional survival, and Weir, for reasons only he knew, was going to exact a price. The old swindler was gazing, affably enough, straight into Charlie's eyes. The smile faded slowly, leaving the faintest line of amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.

THIS IS A TAPE RECORDED CONVERSATION BETWEEN DETECTIVE SERGEANT NEIL ROBERTSON AND TOBY JAMES MURCHISON OF 22 CASPIAN STREET, DAUPHIN IN THE STATE OF VICTORIA, CONDUCTED AT ST KILDA ROAD POLICE COMPLEX ON MONDAY 24 AUGUST. ALSO PRESENT IS MY CORROBORATOR, DETECTIVE SENIOR CONSTABLE BRYAN GOODALL.