Soon everyone will be happy .. right?

Once Forensic SA confirms Webb was the Somerton Man we should then be in a position to clear up the few outstanding items remaining about the case, the minor details, how hard could it be, after all he was a just a middle-aged tradesman who was a little suspect in the marriage stakes, somewhat moody at the dinner table, prone to indulging in mind-altering substances, occasionally suicidal and fond of a punt. What’s not to like about the bloke? Walk into the public bar of any pub in the country and you’ll find plenty just like him.

No wonder the suits weren’t too bothered to check if his fingerprints were on anything in the suitcase, cared little that the tickets found in his pocket led directly back to the train station, thought it unnecessary to photograph the ROK, said they lost it in fact but hey, do we care? They didn’t.
And good old Coroner Cleland, no he didn’t die on the beach said he in 1949 flipped ten years later to yes he did die on the beach. Anyone have a problem with that? Coroners are infallible, right?

Then there’s the code.

Here we have a cop shop and Coroner’s Court manned by a motley crew of individuals who like many of us don’t want their working days complicated by long-standing matters requiring intense personal attention. Overtime after all is the enemy of the man who likes a few drinks after work, a wager with the local bookie and a hot dinner at a reasonable time.
So what to do with this particular dead man?
You  punt the job onto someone else, like that new National Security mob the toffs are putting together in Canberra, let them deal with it, but to do that you have to give them something attractive, something enticing, irresistible.

Like a mysterious code.

That should do it, you reckon? Just use a little imagination and Bob’s your uncle.

Anyone got a pencil?