looked up sharply. ‘Better tourist buses than to see the oval unused. Since the Knockers merged with the Mystic Wombats it’s become a wasteland. I played cricket there in my young days. And footy. Only the Seconds, but I did my bit. I bet you didn’t know that Dad won the Best and Fairest award three times? Even the trophy was named in honour of my grandfather, Nugget Sandilands. They reckon he won the 1912 grand final off his own boot.’
Finn tried to concentrate but was becoming annoyed at the incursions this man was making into his life. He shook his head in despair. The wretched plans were more elaborate than ever.
He suddenly tuned in to what Sandy was saying. ‘The shire engineer? You’ve submitted the plans to the shire engineer?’
‘Honestly, Finn. Sometimes I wonder if you listen to a word I say. Tomorrow. I’m meeting with him tomorrow, in Cradle-town. He’s had the plans for weeks.’
Finn felt the weight of responsibility begin to lift. The shire engineer could be the assassin.
‘So you can come, then, Finn? I’ll pick you up at ten thirty.’ And he was gone before Finn could think of an excuse.
The shire engineer was an ambitious young man, totally devoid of imagination. His grave demeanour and careful grooming were evidence that he took both himself and his position very seriously indeed. He shook hands gravely, with just the right amount of pressure to assert his authority.
Pompous git, thought Finn as they were ushered into the office.
Smugly ensconced behind his large desk, the shire engineer sat back and steepled his fingers. ‘So, Mr Sandilands. You want to build a tourist attraction.’ He referred to his notes and frowned. ‘A tourist attraction called, er, the Great Galah. And these,’ he indicated the blueprints, ‘are your plans.’
Sandy started to speak, but was silenced by a gesture. ‘I’m afraid I cannot approve these plans, Mr Sandilands . . .’
Finn felt both pity and relief. Sandy would take it hard, but at least he wouldn’t be humiliated.
The engineer continued: ‘. . . I cannot approve them until certain safety aspects are dealt with.’
Finn stared in disbelief. What did he say?
‘I understand all that. This is just the concept stage,’ Sandy said. ‘Once I know the regulations, I’ll have them drawn up by a proper engineer.’
‘I will give your project every consideration,’ said the smug young man. ‘My job is to ensure all building and safety regulations are in place. Then I pass it on to the town planner and then to the business subcommittee . . .’
‘You mean, Mr Sandilands could invest in fully developed plans and have town planning or the business subcommittee knock it back?’
‘That’s the system, Mr . . .’
Finn just stared at him and the young man was forced to refer again to his notes.
‘That’s the system, Mr Clancy. It has served us well until now.’ He gathered his papers and stood up. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr Sandilands; Mr Clancy. I look forward to the next stage of your project.’
Finn groaned inwardly. Project! Now this crazy scheme was a project!
Sandy babbled excitedly all the way home and Finn was required to say little. ‘Bloody engineer,’ he swore softly to himself more than once. ‘Officious, smart-–arsed engineer.’
Sandy stopped at one of Cradletown’s bakeries and bought a cream sponge and several iced doughnuts.
‘We’ll celebrate with Aunt Lily and Moss,’ he said, climbing back into the car. He grinned broadly. ‘Plenty to celebrate, mate. I think we can safely say that we’ve passed stage one.’
Finn shook his head in disbelief. So now it was not only a project but had a stage one, implying God knows how many other stages. He had to disentangle himself somehow before it became public knowledge.
When Sandy burst in with the news, Moss was privately stunned but his aunt was sanguine.
‘I must admit that I thought it was a silly notion at first, but if the shire engineer thinks it’s a good idea . . .’ The old lady trailed off vaguely. ‘Well, it must be a good idea, mustn’t it?’
Finn bit into his sponge slice and tried another tack. ‘Your Memorial Park project’s coming on nicely, Sandy,’ he said. ‘You need to be sure this other thing doesn’t take your time from that.’
Moss remembered the green oasis and the cenotaph. ‘What project’s that, Sandy?’
‘Well, when the lawns started to die and we weren’t allowed to water, I brought in synthetic turf . . .’
‘Synthetic turf ?’ Nothing was quite what it seemed.
Sandy shrugged.