Sucked In by Shane Maloney Page B

mulling his response. Then he leaned forward and dropped his voice, drawing us into his huddle.
    â€˜Because it might tie into something else the boys in blue are keeping very close to their silver-buttoned chests. Something a little birdie told me about those remains.’
    Inky and I leaned closer, elbows on the table, all ears.
    â€˜It’s a dry argument.’ Valentine sat back and surveyed the bottom of his glass. ‘A man could perish.’

As I fought my way back through the press of bodies, crab-gripping three glasses, the corner of a bag of peanuts clenched between my teeth, my phone began to ring.
    I let it ring off to voicemail and deposited my load.
    Inky had gone for a slash, leaving Vic to hold the table. The journalist picked up his beer and nodded towards a guy coming through the door, a beefy young lump in a buzz cut and Cockney-crim pinstripe suit, tie loosened, eyes darting around the room like startled goldfish.
    â€˜My next appointment,’ he said. ‘Jason’s in the wholesale pseudoephedrine business, or so it’s been alleged in a slate of charges currently before the County Court. He’s taking me to see a man about a dog. Or maybe it’s vice versa.’
    Jason spotted the journalist’s chrome dome and began homing in. Vic flashed him ten fingers, buying us some time, and the speed-vending slugger veered off to join a group of hyperactive boyos who were hogging the pool table.
    Inky returned, drying his hands on a handkerchief. ‘So, Vic,’ he said sceptically. ‘You were saying?’
    Valentine tore open the bag of Nobby’s finest, laid them out on the table. ‘You know the Institute of Forensic Medicine? AKA the morgue?’
    I’d done the tour, part of some committee or other. The place was new, state-of-the-art, disaster-ready. It was housed in the same complex as the Melbourne Coroner’s Court.
    â€˜Did they tell you about their in-house wireless communications network?’
    I nodded, then explained to Inky. ‘There’s an internal radio link between the autopsy suites and the typing pool. By the time the pathologist has rinsed his scalpel and binned his gloves, a print-out of his notes is ready for checking and signature.’
    Valentine moved his head forward, again drawing us into a conspiratorial hunch. ‘That little birdie I mentioned, he’s a technology buff. He’s also a forensics fan. He likes to combine his two hobbies. He sits outside the Institute with a scanner and a set of earphones.’
    He paused while we conjured the image.
    â€˜Sick, isn’t it? I really should report him to somebody. But he’s harmless enough and whenever he picks up a transmission he thinks might interest me, he gets straight on the blower. Which is what happened last week after they brought in the hessian sack from Lake Nillahcootie.’
    Inky’s eyes were growing less twinkly by the second.
    â€˜For what it’s worth, I’ve got the tape,’ continued Valentine. ‘The examination is categorised as preliminary but what it boils down to is this. Only the larger bones remain—pelvis, thighs, upper arms, cranium. Reasonably well preserved considering the passage of time and the ravages of the creepy-crawlies. The owner was a mature male aged somewhere over fifty, approximately 170 centimetres tall with mild osteoporosis. Teeth in the upper jaw were long gone, indicating the corpse wore dentures.’ He paused and flicked a peanut into his mouth. ‘How are we doing so far?’
    â€˜Fits Mervyn Cutlett’s general description,’ I said. ‘Shortish, right age group, probable chopper wearer.’ Dentures were virtually standard issue for members of Merv’s class and generation. You got a full extraction and a pair of clackers on your twenty-first birthday, save yourself further trouble and expense.
    â€˜Now here’s the interesting bit,’ said Valentine.