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asked Sutherland.
    â€˜Enough,’ he said. ‘Used to be a cottage industry. Collect the public bag limit, ten a day, sell them to restaurants for cash. Huge demand in Asia these days. Big profits, professional crims.’
    â€˜I’ve never understood the appeal,’ said Wilson. ‘Underwater escargot, they call it. Tastes like shoe-leather to me. Give me a crayfish any day. Or a good feed of oysters.’
    At the mention of food, my prawn salad lunch stood up and saluted. I clamped my jaws shut and breathed through my nose. Alan Bunting went a greener shade of pale.
    â€˜Can’t be farmed,’ said Sutherland. ‘Unlike oysters. When it’s gone, it’s gone. California, Canada, Japan, nix. A high-value fish-stock…’
    Fish-stock. The word conjured bouillabaisse. First the name, then the smell. My stomach lurched. ‘So what’s the drill if this lot are poaching,’ I said quickly, chasing the subject elsewhere. ‘You arrest them, or what?’
    â€˜Try,’ said Sutherland. ‘But if they resist, our options are limited. Like our means of self-defence. The minister’s just taken away our sidearms.’
    â€˜Quite right, too,’ said Wilson. ‘Since when do fishing inspectors need to go armed? Let civil servants carry guns, who knows where it’ll stop? Look at America.’
    â€˜With respect,’ said Sutherland. ‘For forty years officers of this department carried guns. Never once fired a shot.’
    â€˜So you’re not going to miss them,’ said Wilson.
    â€˜Good theory,’ said Sutherland. ‘Try standing on a rock platform, facing off some desperado with several grand of illegal ab in one hand and a diving knife in the other, nobody around for miles. Mere fact he knows you’re armed can be a big help.’
    Bunting took a deep breath and lurched into the conversation, obliged to support the decision of the minister, a fellow Nat. ‘But you can call in the police, right?’
    â€˜True,’ said Sutherland. ‘Subject to operational availability.’
    San Remo was far behind us, long vanished over the horizon. The next settlement on the coast, Inverloch, was fifty kilometres to the east. Five hundred metres away, the southern edge of the Australian continent was a line of abraded bluffs, sandstone cliffs rising to a wind-swept hinterland.
    â€˜And where exactly are the nearest police?’ I asked.
    â€˜Wonthaggi,’ said Sutherland.
    Wonthaggi was somewhere inland. A three-cop town. Definitely no helicopter.
    â€˜Main strategy, deterrence. Patrolling. Maintaining a presence. Surveillance. Avoid confrontation until we’ve got full control of the situation.’
    Sutherland resumed control of the helm and steered the launch closer inshore. The tide washed across a platform of pitted rock that extended outwards from the base of the cliffs, rising and falling like the breathing of some vast living creature.
    We rounded a stubby headland and Sutherland dropped the motor into neutral, letting us drift across the mouth of a sheltered cove with a half-moon beach of crushed shells.
    A boat was moored in the cove, a chunky beige-coloured craft, a box sitting on two fibreglass hulls. A wiry type in shorts, tennis shoes and a woollen sweater was emptying a bucket over the side. Fiftyish, grizzled, a short ponytail sticking out the back of his peaked cap. As soon as he saw us, he grabbed a hose that was running into the water and gave it a solid jerk.
    â€˜Shark-cat, twin 200-horsepower Yamaha outboards.’ Sutherland raised binoculars. ‘Registration number concealed with duct tape.’
    It was about a hundred metres away. Bunting craned for a view. Wilson firmed his jaw, a representative of law and order. I wondered what the hell I was doing there.
    A figure in a hooded wetsuit surfaced beside the shark-cat. He hurried aboard, hauling the hose up behind him. Ponytail was firing