Sucked In by Shane Maloney

foamy head as close as he was prepared to come to a glass of milk. ‘ Sláinte ,’ he said.
    We all took a convivial sip. Then Inky put his glass down, wiped the foam from his lip and leaned across the table towards Valentine. ‘Ground rules,’ he rasped. ‘This conversation is strictly off the record. Background only.’
    Valentine stared around, innocence itself. ‘Noisy, isn’t it? Can hardly hear myself think.’
    That settled, we got down to it.
    â€˜What do you want to know?’ I said. ‘There’s slim pickings in the Municipals for a crime reporter.’
    â€˜Maybe,’ said Valentine. ‘But if those bones turn out to be Mervyn Cutlett’s, there might be a three-course banquet.’
    He paused while Inky and I exchanged wary glances.
    â€˜Go on,’ said the Ink.
    Valentine took a sip. ‘Two-way street,’ he said. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’
    â€˜Okay,’ said Inky. ‘Show.’
    â€˜You first,’ said the journalist. ‘What can you tell me about a bloke named Sid Gilpin?’
    â€˜He was one of the union’s organisers,’ I said.
    â€˜And what exactly did he organise?’
    I shrugged. ‘The usual stuff, I assume. Resolved minor workplace disputes. Liaised with the shop stewards. Kept an eye on membership subscriptions. Out and about, on the road, maintaining a presence.’
    As I said it, I realised something that didn’t quite gel. All the other organisers worked out of their respective state offices. Gilpin reported directly to Merv Cutlett. Whatever his job description, it wasn’t on the organisational chart.
    â€˜Mate of yours?’
    I made a noise like I’d swallowed a fly. ‘Not my speed. I was mid-twenties. He was a fair bit older. One of the safarisuit squad. University of Life and don’t you forget it, pal. He thought I was an over-educated, up-myself nancy boy.’
    â€˜How about him and Cutlett?’
    â€˜Thick as thieves, so to speak,’ I said. ‘Matter of fact, he was on the scene the day Merv drowned. The first to go out looking for him.’
    Inky shot me a warning glance, reminding me not to get ahead of the game. ‘What’s your interest in this Gilpin, Vic?’ he said.
    â€˜He rang me. Unsolicited. He said he’d heard of me, asked if I was aware of the recent discovery at Lake Nillahcootie. Flagged the name Cutlett. When I expressed interest, he claimed he had evidence that Cutlett was the victim of foul play.’
    He took a long, slow sip, studying our reaction over the rim of his glass.
    Inky snorted dismissively. ‘What evidence?’
    â€˜Proof of corruption, he said. But he wouldn’t go into specifics, not without being paid. Started talking telephone numbers. I told him it didn’t work that way. If he had reason to believe a crime had been committed, he should go to the cops.’
    I glanced at Inky. Could this explain the police visit to the Peaheads?
    â€˜And did he?’ Inky pondered his Guinness. ‘Go to the cops?’
    â€˜You’d have to ask them,’ Valentine shrugged. ‘I was hoping you might be able to shed some light on the subject.’ He meant me. ‘Any intimations at the time?’
    The bar was getting noisier and more crowded by the minute, all elbows and belt buckles and tribal tattoos. I wondered why Valentine had chosen it.
    â€˜If there were, I never heard them,’ I said. ‘Which isn’t to say there might not have been some pub talk. It was the seventies. Conspiracy theories were thick on the ground.’
    Valentine took a tin of baby cigars out of his motorbike jacket, unwrapped one and tapped the end idly on the lid. ‘And the Municipals were clean, you reckon?’
    â€˜As the driven?’ I said. ‘Maybe not, but the opportunities for graft were minor league. As for foul play, the idea’s got whiskers