Peter Corris - Deep Water

‘That’s a very good idea.’

The Tarelton building was on Elizabeth Street, a few blocks from Prince Alfred Park-named after a royal back in Victorian times. I don’t remember that he ever did anything useful. Not many of them did from that day to this. Tarelton Explorations was housed in a three-storey building painted a becoming shade of grey and renovated to within an inch of its life. It had probably been a red brick factory or warehouse, but now it featured tinted windows, big sliding glass doors and a marble-floored lobby with glass cases displaying models of some of the projects the company claimed to have participated in-a dam, a bridge over a river, a tunnel under a river and a lake that doubled as a decoration for a beach resort and a wetland for wildlife. I couldn’t figure where exploration came into it, but it did occur to me that the lobby would be a good setting for Robert Hawkins’s boats.

Hank and I were a little early and we studied the models with interest.

‘Pretty green oriented, this stuff,’ Hank said. ‘I’m seeing that everywhere these days.’

‘Hadn’t noticed,’ I said. ‘Tell you what though, with these lights and the air conditioning, the building’s laying

down a fair carbon fingerprint.’

‘Footprint, Cliff, footprint. Time to go.’

We checked in at a high-tech reception desk, were given security passes, and took the lift to the second level. A good-looking woman in a suit and blouse that stopped just short of being a uniform met us and we were escorted down a corridor. Discreet lighting through the tinted glass, framed blueprints on the wall, a rock garden with fountain at a bend.

She opened a door with ‘Personnel’ on a nameplate and nodded to the man and the woman working at computer desks. She knocked on a door that carried the name Ashley Guy.

‘Come,’ a voice within said.

I glanced at Hank, who was fighting off a grin.

She opened the door and waved us in.

Ashley Guy was sitting behind a big desk studying a printed sheet. He stood when we came in and held out a hand to shake. We shook. He sat down and gestured towards two chairs. The room was spick and span, as if some brain work might go on there, but nothing as mundane as filing or keyboarding or signing things. Guy wore the unbuttoned waistcoat of a three-piece suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with his fair hair thinning and his waistline thickening.

‘I can’t give you a lot of time, Mr Bachelor and Mr. .?’

‘Clifford,’ I said.

‘. . Mr Clifford, but I’ll do whatever I can to help in the time available. Of course, we’re very concerned about Henry.’

‘Likewise his daughter, likewise the police pretty soon,’ Hank said. ‘Our enquiries have turned up grounds for more than just concern, but I thought to come to you before bringing in the police with. . all guns blazing, as you might say.’

‘These grounds are. .?’

Hank shrugged. ‘Kind of circumstantial, but it’d help a whole lot if you could tell us precisely what Henry McKinley was working on.’

Guy shook his head. ‘That’s precisely what I cannot do. That information falls under the heading of commercial confidentiality. Every research project here involves us in the outlay of a great deal of money, sometimes for no return. Competition in our field is intense. Perhaps you understand, being in the business you’re in.’

‘Maybe I do,’ Hank said, playing him a little.

Guy hesitated, glancing uncertainly left and right, before taking a slim file from a desk drawer. ‘Anything else-his medical record, qualifications, references, salary, in general terms, contractual provisions, in outline-I’ll be happy to give you.’

‘Healthy, was he?’ Hank said.

‘Very.’

‘Solvent?’

‘Yes.’

‘With time to run on his contract?’

Guy wasn’t stupid. ‘You know this already, don’t you?’

‘That’s confidential,’ Hank said. He nodded to me. I took a folded-up high quality photocopy of McKinley’s drawing and put it on the desk.

‘Someone,’ Hank said, ‘don’t know who just at present but we’re working on it, missed this when he bought up a whole set of McKinley’s drawings. This is a copy, naturally. Mean anything to you, Mr Guy?’

Some say watch the eyes, others watch the mouth; some say look for a frown or hand movements. I know you’d be flat out doing all those things at once and a good liar probably didn’t show anything. Guy looked closely at the drawing, moved it a little, and then shook his head.

‘It appears to be well-executed to my inexpert eye, but I’m afraid I have no idea what it means.’

‘We’re in the same boat,’ Hank said, ‘but it certainly means something because someone paid out quite a few hundred dollars to gather up the ones that went with it.’

Guy shrugged. ‘You’ve got me. Was there anything more?’

Hank stood up and I followed suit. ‘Is there anything more, Mr Clifford?’ he said.

I took the drawing and folded it. ‘I’d say there’s a good deal more, but that’ll do for now.’

Hank executed a courtly half-bow, the way Americans do. ‘Thank you for your time, sir.’

We went out quickly. In the corridor we could see our escort hurrying towards us but Hank held up his hand, shook his head and she stopped.

‘We’re fine. Sure you’ve got better things to do.’

The woman looked nonplussed, but we were on the move and to trot after us wouldn’t be her style. We strolled down the corridor, studying the blueprints as if they meant something to us. When we reached the waiting area for the lifts I touched Hank’s shoulder.

‘Got your mobile?’

‘Sure.’

‘Snap a picture of that bloke there waiting for the up.’

Hank did it with the speed and secrecy I’d known he’d be capable of. We rode the lift to the lobby, handed in our passes, and left the building.

‘Thirsty work,’ I said. ‘Must be a pub around here somewhere.’

We found one in Elizabeth Street and settled down over middies of Old.

‘He wasn’t a personnel man,’ Hank said. ‘Someone higher up.’

I nodded. We’d both noticed the same things: the ‘Ashley Guy’ nameplate had been slid in on top of another but not exactly, so that a centimetre of the previous one still showed, and Guy’s uncertainty about which side of the desk the drawers were on when he reached for the file.

‘Means they’re worried,’ I said.

‘Plus, I never trust a man wearing a three-piece suit.’

Hank took out his mobile and studied the photograph. The man was big, florid, overweight, in an expensive suit and with an expensive haircut. ‘Who is he?’

‘I don’t know, but he’s familiar. It’ll come to me.’

Hank took a long drink and sighed. ‘That’s real beer. Are you cool about me and Megan, Cliff?’

‘You’ve both been around long enough and had enough experience to know what you’re doing. I hope you’re good for each other. I’d say the chances are better than even.’

‘I should’ve known not to expect a straight answer.’

‘There aren’t any straight answers to real questions.’

Back in the Newtown office, Hank plugged the phone into one of his computers and printed out the photograph. He laid the print on his desk and the three of us gathered round to look at it.

‘Likes his lunch and dinner,’ Hank said.

Megan looked at us both. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’

I said, ‘I feel I should, but. .’

‘That’s Hugh Richards,’ she said, ‘shadow minister for minerals and energy in the state parliament.’

‘I’m a bit out of touch,’ I said. ‘How solid’s this state government?’