Free Prime Cut by Alan Carter

was, they weren’t expecting to share the ramp that day, or didn’t care if they were.
    They heard the outboard before they saw it, a tinny rounding the headland. An old bearded salty-seadog type with a grubby, weathered Eagles cap, long-sleeved faded blue work shirt and khaki shorts waved briefly from the helm. He guided the boat in and Greg helped him get it on the trailer. Up close, Tess adjusted his age estimate downwards, figuring him to be nearer early sixties. He and Greg exchanged minimal greetings, trimmed smiles and guarded looks while they secured the dinghy. The old guy wasn’t particularly inquisitive about his young helper. Greg opened the proceedings.
    ‘Catch anything?’
    ‘Few whiting, herring, skippy. Had better.’
    The accent was Pommie. An Australian twang in there too so he was obviously not fresh off the boat. The seadog squinted out at Greg Fisher from under his cap.
    ‘You a cop then?’
    Greg looked down at his uniform, back at his paddy wagon and over at Tess. Obviously nothing much escaped this guy.
    ‘Yeah that’s right, Greg Fisher. Hopetoun. And this is Sergeant Maguire.’
    They all shook hands. The old man kept his attention focused on Greg Fisher. Shy with women? Tess wondered. Old school? Gay? Well he was a Pom, so anything was possible. Tess was happy to let Greg run with it. Captain Barnacle scratched the back of his neck.
    ‘New are you, son?’
    ‘About three months.’
    ‘Yeah, thought I hadn’t seen you around. Then again I haven’t really been over to Hopey much lately. Better variety in the Ravyshop. Better meat. Better vegies.’
    Tess could see Greg Fisher’s eyes were already glazing over, this was the kind of conversation nannas had.
    ‘Anyway, er, sorry I didn’t catch your name.’
    ‘That’s because I didn’t give it to you son. It’s Billy Mather.’
    ‘Right, Bill, look we’ve had a body washed up at Hopey and we’re trying to identify who it is and how it got there.’
    Mather’s eyes narrowed. ‘Body?’
    Tess restrained herself from stepping in again. Greg was in danger of crossing a fine line about how much information to provide to the punters while you’re actually trying to get information out of them. What were they teaching at cop school these days? She’d have a word with him later.
    ‘Have you noticed anything unusual around here the last few days, Mr Mather? Strangers, people coming and going at odd times?’
    Mather rested one arm casually on the boat trailer and flicked his spare hand in the direction of the campsite.
    ‘Couple of campervans been through last week, old farts blowing their super before they die.’
    Greg had his notebook out. ‘You didn’t notice the kind of vans they were?’
    Mather nodded. ‘Aye, both Britz, I always remember them, being one meself,’ he chuckled, inviting them to join him in the joke. Greg obliged with a brief and encouraging smile. Tess didn’t.
    ‘How many people in the Britz?’
    ‘Two each, couples. Old. Couldn’t describe them. All oldies look the same to us young’uns eh, son?’
    Greg smiled again, patiently. ‘When did they move on? Did you talk to them?’
    ‘Nah, stuck up middle-class twats. Give you those waves that say hello but don’t come any closer, smiles to match. They all left at the weekend. Been there two nights. Got through five bottles of Chardonnay between them. Check the bin,’ he thumbed over his shoulder.
    Tess reappraised the old bugger: not quite as laid back andsimple-minded as he’d first seemed. Not averse to the old Pommie class warfare either.
    ‘Anything else?’ said Greg.
    ‘Can’t think of anything son.’
    Greg looked annoyed at being called ‘son’. He’d joined the force to get away from being treated like a kid. It wasn’t working too well today.
    ‘Well thanks Mr Mather...’
    ‘Billy.’
    ‘Billy. And if we need to contact you where can we find you?’
    Mather pointed to a caravan about a hundred metres back in the camping