Deep Water (10 page)

‘A couple of days and you won't be able to tell the difference. It's great to see you, Margaret. I'm just sorry it's not under better circumstances.'

‘I've known in my heart of hearts for a while that he was gone. That he didn't embezzle a million dollars and take off
to South America, or have a fall and be in an amnesiac fog somewhere.'

No remote. I opened the passenger door with the key. She smiled at the old-fashioned operation but didn't say anything. I got in and started the engine.

‘I had to tell Lucinda her grandfather had died. I didn't give her any details.'

‘Sure. The media have the facts now and they're covering it. Some of the facts, that is. I've got the papers at home and a record of one of the TV reports.'

‘Some of the facts?'

I was out in the traffic, coping with the aggression of the cabbies and the competitiveness of some of the other drivers. I swore as one cut in front of me. I felt her touch my arm.

‘Sorry,' she said. ‘Just drive. Plenty of time to talk.'

She was wearing shoes with a small heel. She eased them off and leaned back in her seat. She'd obviously freshened up before landing. I could smell some kind of perfume, very faintly. She ran her fingers through her hair, shook it out, and the action had an immediately erotic effect on me so that I had to grip the wheel and concentrate on my driving more than was needed.

‘I guess this isn't the scenic route,' she said as we travelled through streets crammed with transport warehouses.

‘There isn't one. They made some improvements for the Olympics. But you've been back since then, you said.'

‘Once only. Dad collected us and took us straight up to a resort on the central coast. Bliss. And straight back. I scarcely saw Sydney.'

‘Lots of changes,' I said. ‘Bridges, tunnels, toll roads, e-tags, half a million plus for a single-storey terrace in Newtown.'

‘Jesus. As students we rented them for next to nothing. What else?'

‘Starbucks, Gloria Jean's, more Maccas.'

‘Tell me something good.'

‘Lots of Asians, Africans, Middle Easterners, mostly getting along, and a bad government looking as if it's on the way out.'

‘Fingers crossed,' she said. ‘There was a piece on that in the
New York Times
. I've been trying to catch up.'

It was dark when we got to Glebe and my house always looks a bit better in the dark—more gracious and imposing than it really is. We went in and I showed her the upstairs spare room with its three-quarter bed, wardrobe and table with the new computer and accessories.

‘Bathroom's next door, and there's one downstairs.'

‘Thanks. Nice room, nice house. Very you, Cliff.'

‘Meaning?'

She laughed. ‘Haven't seen a three-quarter bed in a while.'

‘It's to deter couples from staying too long. Get yourself set and we'll have a drink. Gin? Scotch?'

‘Gin with plenty of tonic, or I'll be on my ear.'

‘Something to eat?'

‘I ate on the plane. It reminded me of that joke about the plane crash, where the survivors ate the bodies of the dead and then the on-board meals.'

She was holding up very well, but I had to wonder how she'd feel when she saw the familiar sights in daylight, and went to her father's place, saw his bike, the original of the drawing. I had the drinks ready when she came down. She still looked tired but less tense. I settled her into a chair and we touched glasses.

‘To Henry McKinley,' she said. ‘And screw the bastards who killed him.'

We drank the toast.

‘I'm buggered,' she said. ‘That's a bloody long flight in economy. In the morning you can tell me more of those facts you've held back.'

I nodded. She finished the drink and then did what I do—ate the lemon slice. She got up and kissed me, not on the mouth but close.

‘Don't be alarmed if I'm up at three am with advanced jet lag.'

‘There's a radio in the room and the TV and CD player down here. Tea and coffee making in the kitchen. I'll set them up for you. Just pretend you're in the Hilton.'

‘I'd rather be here.'

She went up the stairs. A floorboard creaked on the landing. I remembered how it always creaked in just that way when Lily trod on it. There was a photo of Lily on a shelf not far from where we'd been sitting. If Margaret had seen it she hadn't reacted. I looked at it now and felt the ache.

I hadn't eaten since the morning and I suddenly felt the need for fuel. I microwaved some leftover curry and freshened my drink. I ate and then set out the tea and coffee for Margaret and made sure the mugs in the drying tray were clean and that the milk in the fridge hadn't gone off. Sugar on the bench, bread in the basket near the toaster.

I sat in the living room that still carried a trace of Margaret's presence in the air and tried to free-associate about the McKinley case. After a while I decided that I didn't know enough about Henry McKinley. Was anyone that pure? That dedicated? That uncomplicated? Not in
my experience. From what I knew so far, it sounded as if he had no life apart from work, cycling and a long-distance relationship with his daughter and grandchild. I didn't believe it.

I needed to know more about the texture of his life in Sydney. Does a fit, healthy, well-heeled widower lead a celibate life? I didn't think so. Someone must know something closer to the bone. Josephine Dart? Moving on from that, I needed to know more, a lot more, about what kind of work he was doing for the Tarelton mob. They'd closed the doors pretty tight, but there's always an opening somewhere. A weak link. Ashley Guy?

I fished out my notebook and scribbled these things down. Sometimes this stuff, done late at night with drink on board, turns out to be froth and bubble in the morning. Sometimes not.

I took my late-night meds and went up to bed. No light showed under the spare room door. I'd finished the Barnes novel, tried another of his books without success, and started on
Port Mungo
by Patrick McGrath—about an artist who was a bit of an arsehole, like some I've known. I read about half before quitting and turning off the light.

Lines from Adam Lindsay Gordon buzzed in my head as I drifted off:

Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone.
Kindness in another's trouble,
Courage in your own.

Bit banal maybe, but his bust is in Westminster Abbey. Les Murray'd never make that.

If Margaret had a disturbed night I didn't know about it. I woke up from a sound sleep to the smell of coffee. I found her in the kitchen in white silk pyjamas and a kimono-style dressing gown, pressing the plunger.

‘Morning, Cliff. That bed's okay. I slept just fine. Coffee?'

‘You bet.'

‘Toast?'

‘No, thanks. Orange juice with my bloody pills and coffee and that's it.'

‘I'm ravenous.'

She put two slices of bread into the toaster and poured the coffee.

‘I could do you scrambled eggs,' I said. ‘I remember how from my cholesterol days.'

She laughed. ‘Maybe another time. Who's the woman in the photo, if you don't mind me asking?'

I didn't. ‘Lily Truscott. We were together for nearly five years. She was murdered. That's one of the reasons I took off for the US.'

She studied me for a moment, then nodded and dealt
with her toast. We were sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook.

‘You wear a preoccupied look now and then. Would that be about her?'

‘Sometimes it would. Sometimes about Megan; sometimes, quite often, about myself. And about your father … and you.'

‘Tell me now what you haven't told me.'

I gave it to her straight—the dumped and burnt car, the signs of her father having been held over time, the possibility of torture of some kind, maybe triggering the fatal heart attack. She took it well. Probably the nurse training helped, but there was something else working in her, holding her together. When I finished she reached across the table and touched my hand.

‘Thanks for telling it like it is, Cliff. I hate being patronised … protected. I'll see Dad's lawyer and find out exactly what's coming my way. Probably a lot, and you know what? My first priority is to find out who killed him. Mr Bachelor and you … you'll stay on it, won't you?'

‘We will, but …'

‘I know, no guarantees.'

I told her about the attack on Hank's office and how, thematically, that tied in with the burning of her father's car but otherwise didn't point solidly in any direction. Likewise, the securing of the drawings. I didn't mention the approach from Phil Fitzwilliam—given Fitz's corrupt history that could tie in almost anywhere.

‘Is Megan okay?' she said.

‘Swimming laps the very next day.'

‘I'm looking forward to meeting her again.'

* * *

Margaret showered, dressed pretty much as she had the day before with a fresh blouse, and I drove her to Newtown. She sent her daughter another text message on the way. She'd seen the house, now she saw the office in all its austerity. She could have no illusions about the size of the operation. Didn't faze her. The carpet had been replaced and the petrol smell was faint. The door to the office, previously always kept open, was closed and a peephole had been installed.

‘How do the others feel about what happened?' I asked.

Megan smiled. ‘I'm the heroine of the hour. They're just glad the whole joint didn't go up in flames.'

Margaret was businesslike with Hank, friendly with Megan. She used the phone to arrange a hire car and called for a taxi to take her to the depot. I'd given her a key to the house.

‘See you back there,' she said, and was off.

‘Staying with you, is she?' Megan asked.

‘For now. I don't know what her plans are. She makes her own moves as you see. How're you going with the quarries?'

‘Okay. I think I've got them all and I'm plotting them on a map. I'm most of the way to tracking down who actually owns them.'

‘And?'

‘Tell you when I finish.'

She was wearing a bandanna around her head. I pointed to it.

‘How's the wound?'

‘Healing. My swim cap covers it and protects it neatly. Faint scar maybe. Doesn't worry me. Could be sexy.'

‘Funny,' I said, ‘I've never found that to be true.'

‘You've probably got too many.'

I went into Hank's office and asked him what he was doing.

‘Cleaning up a few things and working on getting some inside dope on Tarelton.'

‘How?'

‘I've located the guy who installed their computer network.'

‘That'd be a shocking breach of confidentiality.'

‘Wouldn't it? I like our client. She says she'll back us all the way.'

I nodded. ‘Question is, how far will we get?'

‘Think positive. What're you doing?'

‘Working on a hunch.'

‘Oh, yeah? Be secretive. Secretive is good.'

My notes had not looked wrong-headed in the morning. Rather the reverse. I phoned Josephine Dart.

‘Mr Hardy. I've seen the reports about Henry. Do you have any other news?'

‘I'm afraid not, but I'd like to see you. Today, if possible.'

She sighed. ‘I anticipated that. Yes, you can come here, now if you wish.'

I thought I might've been met with reluctance, but not so. She sounded almost relieved, and I had a feeling that perhaps I was making some progress as I drove to Dover Heights again. She met me at the door as before but her manner was very different. Defensive? Apprehensive?

The flat had the same appealing lived-in look with a touch of neglect at the edges. Josephine Dart was dressed as before, simply and elegantly, but with strain showing in her
face. I wasn't offered coffee. We stood in front of those windows full of blue sky and grey-green sea.

‘You know, don't you?'

‘I'm only guessing.'

‘I gave you something to guess with, didn't I?'

‘Secrets are hard to keep and they don't always do you any good. Just a few things you said had me wondering.'

‘It's a relief, actually. So just a few words steered you in the right direction?'

‘Not really,' I said. ‘When I sat down to think about it, Henry McKinley came across as just too good to be true.'

‘He was my lover.'

I nodded. ‘Did your husband know?'

She smiled. ‘Oh, so you're only halfway there.'

She turned away from the window and walked across to a drinks tray I hadn't seen on my last visit. She dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured solid slugs of scotch. She held the drink out towards me in a hand that barely shook.

‘Have a drink,' she said. ‘Yes, Henry was my lover and Terry knew because they were lovers, too. And there were others.'

It all came out in a rush. The Darts and McKinley had been involved in a ménage à trois with a difference, in that McKinley was the lover of both partners in the marriage. The arrangement had started almost ten years before, she said, and had continued happily right up until McKinley's disappearance.

‘Are you shocked, Mr Hardy?'

‘Nothing shocks me except reality television and house prices.'

She smiled. ‘A man of the world.'

‘You said there were others.'

‘Yes, occasionally. Another man, or another woman. I wasn't going to have both hands tied behind
my
back, if you follow me.'

‘And no friction, ever?'

‘Scarcely ever, and then it was quickly overcome.'

‘I don't mean between you three. I meant from the others.'

‘Only once. A few years back. A man Henry met somewhere. He joined us a few times but he became … possessive.'