Quota (26 page)

And then in the face of the dune, below the line at which the marram grass appeared, a ball of some kind, a grey, rough sphere, protruding from the dry sand. Charlie had marched up the beach to it, found that it was bone, a protruberance of something much larger buried in the sand. He'd walked up the sharp slope of the dune and stood on it. It gave way under his weight and as a line of sand to his left exploded and spilled down the incline, a long rib emerged. It rolled once before coming to rest parallel to the line of the dune. Charlie had studied it for a long time, feeling the weight of time, awed by the notion that the entire dune was an ossuary for forgotten giants.

A huge animal had died forever ago. Had rotted and dried. The architecture of its anatomy had collapsed, leaving the bones in random scatters, the smaller ones moved about by scavengers after the last of the flesh had sustained the darting rats, the crabs, maggots and gulls. The cycle of concealment and exposure over the years, the dune advancing then eroding, had at this moment revealed this bone to him, from an invisible city of long bones and skulls and vertebrae that lay silent and dark under the solemn weight of the sand.

Weir, again with the Remington in his hands.

‘Then there was the evidence of the rifle. Damning evidence, we say. You know that Mr Lanegan was shot with a Remington .308 bolt action rifle. The projectile was recovered from Mr Lanegan's body in the autopsy; the gun, meanwhile, was found on the reef, in a direct line between the waypoint marked on the GPS and the river mouth. The marks on the projectile, caused by the rifling of the gun barrel—remember the officer from the ballistics section explained those characteristics to you, the way they're unique to each gun, like a fingerprint—those marks were a perfect match for the test round which the police fired through that gun when they recovered it. The rifle, registered to Toby Murchison, which can be scientifically confirmed to have fired the bullet that was found in Mr Lanegan's
head
…' He left the word ringing in the air for a moment. ‘That rifle was missing from the Murchison premises at the time that the police searched there the day after the shooting.

‘Missing, ladies and gentlemen. You heard the officer who conducted the search telling you that when he asked Mr Murchison about the weapon, which according to the firearms register should've been in a locked cabinet at that address, Mr Murchison said variously, “I haven't seen it for years”, “I think Dad's got it”, and my personal favourite, “Oh
that
one, I think we sold it.”

‘Lying on the bottom of the sea it was, about a hundred metres from where this man,' he pointed abstractedly towards Murchison in the dock again, ‘
this
man shot Matthew Lanegan. It was suggested in cross-examination, of course, and I don't criticise Mr Ocas for this, he was merely doing his job on his client's instructions; it was suggested that the weapon somehow came into the hands of Patrick Lanegan, and that
he
fired the fatal shot, that
he
then disposed of the weapon on the reef. That theory, I suggest to you, ladies and gentlemen, is in the realm of JFK conspiracies, of moon-landing denialists, September eleven cranks. You won't be fooled by it, members of the jury, because it's patently absurd.'

Weir had done an odd thing that morning. Charlie was sitting with him in the empty courtroom, leaning back in the chairs, discussing the closing address. Charlie had one hand on the dinted oak of the table, running his fingers over the grooves, when Weir broke the silence.

‘So, did you like Les?'

Charlie looked at him blankly.

‘Les. The barman at the Normans Woe.' Weir was grinning broadly, turning his reading glasses over in his hands.

‘How the hell do you know Les? You told me you'd never been to Dauphin.'

‘I haven't. I played one season of country footy with Les Reynolds in Daylesford. During uni, it was. Used to drive up there once a week for training and once a week to play. That all came to an end. We got in the preliminary final and we went out on the beers. I was driving Les home and I fell asleep, rolled the car. I got out with a broken collarbone, but Les nearly lost his leg. He never played another game. Never uttered a word about it, either. He remained a good friend for many years after that, though we don't catch up as much these days as we used to. Good man, Les. Got a fine mind, you know. Just never had the opportunities.'

‘Does he know the connection? I mean, does he know you're doing this trial with me?' Charlie found himself lost between the acceptable position that this was a coincidence and the baffling notion that Weir had engineered all of it.

‘What do you think?'

Before Charlie could answer, the tipstaff came in and began busying himself with the microphones, looking severely at Weir, who had his shiny oxford brogues resting on the bar table.

‘Neither accused has given evidence, which of course is their right. They have a right to silence, and they have elected to use it—both by declining to give evidence before you in this court and by declining to answer questions in police interviews. This means that you are left to elicit what they say in their defence from the questions their counsel, Mr Ocas, has asked of prosecution witnesses. And what you know from that, ladies and gentlemen, is that they blame the deceased's brother, Patrick Lanegan, for his death.

‘Now it's a little-known fact about the criminal process, a truth which is warped by American television, that prosecutors don't just present witnesses who damn the accused. We carry a responsibility also to present evidence from people whose stories don't neatly fit within the picture, stories that don't add up to guilt and may in fact serve to
ex
culpate the accused. The task for you people is to determine which of those categories best describes Patrick Lanegan. Does he simply muddy the waters with his two versions of what happened? Does he exculpate the accused, absolve them of criminal liability for this death by introducing an element of reasonable doubt? Does he inculpate himself? Mr Ocas will no doubt ask you to draw that conclusion when he speaks to you shortly.

‘I'll venture to offer you an alternative view of his evidence. Patrick Lanegan came here and told you the truth—albeit, late. But criminal trials are not scientific things; they ebb and flow under the influence of all sorts of human frailties. People are strange beasts when under pressure and Mr Lanegan, on any analysis, was under pressure. His first story—you've heard this recited from his police statement—was that he went home after the trip to Melbourne and watched a movie while his brother went to meet Murchison and McVean. Well, a reasonable person would say: why? Why leave him to these people when you know there's trouble brewing? From what we know of the Lanegan family, of their difficult history with both parents dead, the fishing operation in trouble and their desperate need for money to run the family, from all of those factors, would it have seemed reasonable to you that Patrick would leave his brother to sort it out, as his police statement says he did? I doubt it. The preponderance of the other evidence indicates that there were two men on board the
Open Quest
, McVean and Murchison. And Patrick Lanegan, I suggest to you, was alive to that possibility and wanted to support his brother in the event of any trouble.

‘So why the about-face? Was it, as Mr Ocas will have you believe, because he was himself guilty of the crime? There's no motive. There's a long history of loyalty between the brothers, despite there having been some suggestion in this trial that they came to blows on occasions. Ladies and gentlemen, you might think it's snobbish to suggest this, but things are done differently in a town like this one. You've seen many examples of it during this trial. People like the Lanegans do not sort out their differences over an osso bucco at the Positano…'

Weir allowed a ripple of laughter to subside before continuing.

‘Garden variety fisticuffs between two brothers in a country town do not a murderer make. Disputes over drugs and illegal seafood transactions, amounting to tens of thousands of dollars, most certainly do. What other motive could there be for Mr Lanegan to be the perpetrator of this crime? Jealousy? Of what? A struggle for control of the family's assets? Spare me! Their business interests are a train wreck!

‘There's also the small matter of how he would have come into possession of the Murchisons' rifle. There's not a shred of evidence about this, but never mind, let's not wreck all the conspiracy fun with hard evidence. Even assuming a motive, assuming access to the weapon, ask yourself this, employing your ordinary common sense: if Patrick Lanegan had wanted to kill his brother, for whatever reason, would he take him out on their boat, lure him out there somehow, shoot him, set fire to his body and the valuable family boat with all its equipment, and then risk the swim through open ocean back to shore in the knowledge that the evidence is just bobbing around out there? It's impossibly clumsy, ladies and gentlemen.

‘Compare that to the idea that it was the two accused who did it, and that Patrick Lanegan told you the truth when he was in the witness box. That is, that he was out there, and that he barely escaped becoming the second victim of these two. Now we have a perfectly good reason to set the boat alight: there's no time to take Matthew Lanegan's body out to sea and dispose of it properly because
Patrick
Lanegan is swimming around out there, having seen everything. Priority number one, if you place yourself in the accuseds' fishing boots, is to deal with the witness. So you light up the
Caravel
, with the unfortunate Matthew Lanegan on board, and hope for the best while you go and try to find Patrick Lanegan.'

Charlie could tell from Weir's voice that he was winding up. He had turned over the pile of notes in front of him, page by page, onto a new pile to the left. There were now only a handful of pages in the original pile.

‘The thing to remember about Patrick Lanegan's evidence,' Weir continued, ‘is that it has the ring of plausibility about it. I defy anyone to make up a story as distressing, as detailed, as the one he told you under questioning by Mr Jardim. Could you describe the experience of being shot at underwater without actually experiencing that? Could you describe the dumping of your brother's body overboard onto the
Caravel
, the fire, unless you had seen those things?

‘I make no bones about it; under cross-examination, this witness did not perform well. But ladies and gentlemen, performance is one thing. The truth is quite another. Remember that Mr Lanegan has never met the pathologist, has never read the autopsy report, yet the description he gave you, under oath, of the way in which his brother died, I suggest that you will find when you retire to consider this matter, that the physical evidence matches perfectly with Mr Lanegan's account. That should count for an awful lot when you assess his credibility.'

Weir paused, placed a hand on his chest and swallowed hard. He seemed discomfited for just a moment. But the moment passed swiftly.

‘That is all I wish to say about Patrick Lanegan's evidence. As to the remainder of your task, you will no doubt discharge it with the gravity it requires. Each of these two accused has committed a heinous crime, the most heinous crime our system of criminal law recognises. They each took part in a common enterprise that entailed them taking that Remington .308 and getting on board the
Open Quest
on that calm, cold night last August. Whichever of them had their hands on that weapon, they both intended the same result: that they would conceal themselves on board, lure Matthew Lanegan to the vessel, moored offshore near the township of Dauphin, and there they would murder him in order to avoid paying him for transactions that had taken place, as you have heard, involving over-quota abalone and cannabis. They planned, I suggest to you, that they would dispose of the victim's body at sea. As events transpired, the victim's younger brother was aboard the vessel that came out to meet the
Open Quest
, that vessel of course being the
Caravel
. In part, it is because of Patrick Lanegan's escape, and his courageous decision to give evidence against the two accused, that we say you are in a position to be satisfied, beyond reasonable doubt, that these men are guilty of murder. Each of them is responsible for what happened that night. Each of them should now face your sternest judgment.'

With those words, Weir swept his robes behind him and sat down.

‘YOU GOT A licence there sir?'

‘Think so.'

He fumbled around in the console and located his wallet, fingers jumping uncontrollably over the cards until he found the licence.

‘Just a random breath check today Mr—Mr Egan. Any alcoholic drinks today sir?' The cold August wind swirled around the cop in his reflective jacket. He had his arms crossed over his chest for warmth, one hand clutching a breathalyser.

His old nemesis, one continuous breath.

‘Nope.' He laughed, just a little too hard. ‘You off– offering?'

‘Just one long continuous breath please sir, till I tell you to stop.' The cop was reading the change of address sticker on the back of the card. ‘That'll do you Mr Egan. Dauphin, eh? Beautiful part of the world. You do any fishing?'

‘No, I, er, you know. Used to, got a bi– a bit too busy with things. S'pose I should ta– take it up again. Since the missus passed away.'

‘Mm. Sorry to hear that. What brings you up to town?'

‘Come up to catch the footy tomorrow night.' He racked his brains. Saints, Swans.

The cop's face brightened. ‘You a Sainters fan?'

‘Ah, Swans actually. Dad grew up on Dorcas Street.'

Cars were banking up behind Barry's ute, and the cop glanced down the line briefly.

‘What's in the back?'

He was looking directly at the barrel. Of course he was. There was nothing else back there.