Sucked In by Shane Maloney Page A

all over it. The cops were there within minutes. There was a full-on search of the scene. Anything suss went down, somebody would’ve noticed something. And Gilpin testified at the inquest. He uttered not a peep about anything untoward.’
    â€˜Perhaps he found out later.’
    â€˜Perhaps he’s pulling your chain.’
    â€˜Why would he bother?’
    â€˜Buggered if I know. He got the bum’s rush from the union soon after Cutlett’s demise. Maybe he’s been pining for revenge. Maybe he’s just trying to hustle up a dollar.’
    â€˜Fishing in troubled waters?’ said Valentine. ‘Stirring up the mud?’
    Inky grunted. ‘Mud’s got a tendency to stick. What’s this Gilpin do now? Who does he work for?’
    â€˜He’s a dealer.’
    â€˜Drugs?’ I was genuinely surprised. Sid had chancer written all over him, but drugs were something else entirely. ‘Junk.’ Valentine smirked. ‘Rubbish.’
    He waved a demonstrative cigarillo at the Toilers Retreat’s tone-setting collection of blue-collar nostalgia. Bushells Tea and Castrol Oil signs adorned the walls. An old Bundy clock stood on the bar. Toolbox assortments embellished the bottle shelves.
    â€˜He did quite well for himself in the eighties, I hear. He had a big old barn of a place up Upwey way. A former foundry or superseded smithy or some such. Stuffed it full of brass doorknobs, cast-iron lacework, Golden Fleece petrol bowser lights, all the usual crap. Called it a flea market and made a killing in Australiana.’
    Sid would’ve been ideally placed to go into the junk business, I thought. The Municipals’ members included garbage collectors and rubbish tip attendants. The Outcasts of Foolgarah. Gleaners and fossickers with their treasure troves of the cast-off and chucked-away. A man with Sid’s connections could really clean up. Buying the stuff at fifty dollars a trailer-load, recycling it into instant authenticity and selling it for whatever the market would bear. Turning old tin into pure gold.
    â€˜About ten years ago, the joint burnt down,’ Valentine continued. ‘Suspected arson. Nothing proved but the insurance company wriggled out. Gilpin lost the lot. Lock, stock and Early Kooka. After that, everything turned to shit. Wife left him, children turned their backs, dog died. He hit the skids and hit the bottle. The whole country music ball of twine. These days, he’s down to his uppers, flogging dross out of an old nissen hut across from the cargo sheds at Victoria Dock.’
    I vaguely remembered a rusting wartime relic half lost in the eyesore industrial jungle between the wharves and the railyard.
    â€˜Has he tried to sell this so-called story to anyone else?’ said Inky, back to the point.
    â€˜He spoke to some of my esteemed colleagues. We all told him the same thing. If you’ve got evidence, take it to the police.’ Valentine shook his head, benignly amused at the human capacity for self-delusion. ‘People read something in the paper, they start seeing dollar signs.’
    â€˜But you’re not dismissing him out of hand,’ said Inky. ‘So either you’ve got a lot of free time or there’s something you haven’t got around to sharing with us.’
    Valentine eyed me sideways. ‘Is he always like this?’
    â€˜Dyspepsia,’ I said. ‘It makes him crabby as all hell.’
    Valentine twiddled his Wee Willem. ‘What happened to our quid pro quo?’
    Inky picked up his stout, poured a long draught down his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.
    â€˜I’ve been given to understand the rozzers are making enquiries about the Municipals’ old membership accounts,’ he said.
    Valentine was nonchalant, wheels turning in his hairless head. ‘Interesting.’
    â€˜Is it?’ said Inky. ‘Why?’
    The journalist made a show of