Peter Corris - Deep Water

‘A fun interview,’ Hank said.

She relaxed a little-Hank can have that effect. ‘At first, it was like hitting a ball against a brick wall. Then she tried to pump me about what we knew about Dr McKinley’s. .’ she consulted her notes, ‘. . absence, she called it. My turn to play a dead bat.’

Hank said, ‘A dead bat?’

‘Cricket term,’ I said. ‘I’ll explain later.’

‘My report to the inspector suggests that Tarelton Explorations is sensitive and evasive about Henry McKinley. Outwardly cooperative, but actually very obstructionist. I believe they have something to hide and should be regarded as of interest in the investigation of Dr McKinley’s murder.’

Paul Keating said something like, ‘We’ll never get this place set up properly until we find a way to get everything settled with the Aborigines.’ He was right on the grand scale and on the personal level as well. DS Roberts’s statement was a model of clarity and judgement and I wanted to say so and would have normally, but how patronising would that look? We haven’t found that way yet. Everyone around the table nodded.

Gunnarson said, ‘Thank you, Angela. I hope that satisfies you, Hardy.’

‘It does,’ I said. I risked the patronisation trap by adding, ‘And for my money, I hope DS Roberts can stay on the investigation team.’

‘So?’ Dickersen said.

After getting the nod from Hank I told them about Terry Dart’s death and the theft of his briefcase. I had the copy of Henry McKinley’s drawing in my pocket. I unfolded it and filled them in on the attempt to suppress the set.

‘Three thousand dollars isn’t a lot of money,’ I said, ‘but it isn’t chicken feed either. I got the impression from the gallery owner that the buyer would have paid, whatever the asking price.’

‘Find that buyer and you’ve got a fair way into this thing,’ Hank said.

All three had been making notes. Gunnarson looked up. ‘Is there a good description of the buyer?’

I shook my head. ‘Worse than useless.’

‘We’re not in good shape,’ Dickersen said. ‘We can keep the surveillance on the car for a few days but we can’t keep the whole thing under wraps for much longer. McKinley’s daughter has to be told and we’ll have to appeal for witnesses who might have seen activity in the park. The media’ll take a pretty keen interest, at least for a while. As I see it, we don’t have leads, just a suspicion about the Tarelton company. DS Roberts is going to interview the CEO when he gets back and see how he reacts to this news about

one of his employees. Something might come of that.’

‘Like what?’ Hank said.

Dickersen shrugged. ‘Maybe McKinley was caught up in something that went wrong. Who knows? Could be industrial espionage. Maybe Tarelton has a rival, an enemy of some kind. Might give us another line of enquiry. But that’s about it at this stage. Wouldn’t you agree?’

Hank and I exchanged looks and we both nodded.

Dickersen said, ‘I propose that we liaise through DS Roberts. Share whatever information comes our way.’

‘That was weird,’ Hank said on our way back to Newtown. ‘Never said a word about you being on board, unlicensed and all.’

‘It was odd all right,’ I said. ‘They’re playing a very cagey game. I don’t imagine for one minute that they told us everything, do you?’

Hank shook his head.

‘Which was why we didn’t tell them Margaret’s guess about the drawing.’

‘Yeah, but Dickersen’s right-no real leads to follow.’

‘We’ve got the quarries and they’re bound to have something. It’s interesting.’

We were in the train we’d caught at Museum-the best way to get around the city and our part of the inner west. There were only three other people in the compartment, all Asian and, as it turned out, all bound for Central and then Newtown. Two looked like students and the other, middle-aged, groomed, in a thousand-dollar suit, looked as if he might own a sizeable chunk of King Street. He spoke in a low voice on his mobile the whole time, switching easily from an Asian language to English and French.

We were walking south along King Street when my mobile rang. I listened and broke into a run.

‘What?’ Hank said as he loped along beside me.

I stumbled, fought for balance. ‘Megan. She’s been attacked.’

It was the first time I’d broken into a full run since the heart business. Hank, with youth and a longer stride on his side, passed me easily but I more or less kept up with him except on the stairs, which he took three at a time. We found Megan sitting on a chair in her office with her feet on a stool being fussed over by Grant, the gay podiatrist who occupies rooms on the same level. Simultaneously, I saw the blood on the towel she was holding to her head and smelt the powerful fumes of petrol.

Hank rushed up to her, almost pushing Grant aside. She let him take the towel away to reveal a long cut on her forehead that had obviously gushed blood and was now still flowing. Hank put the towel back. Megan’s expression was alert. She showed no signs of shock, plenty of anger. She didn’t exactly shoo Hank away but she clearly didn’t want to be comforted. I stood where I was.

‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Megan. .’ Grant began, but she waved at him to be quiet. ‘I got back from buying coffee to find this fucker backing out of our space, sloshing petrol around. I threw the coffees at him and tried to kick him in the balls. He hit me with the petrol can. I got in one kick before I dropped. He fell down the stairs. I hope he broke his bloody neck.’ ‘He didn’t, love,’ I said, ‘but you did pretty good.’

Grant said, ‘You macho types. Time to call the police.’

Hank had picked up on Megan’s attitude and abandoned the solicitude. He eased Grant towards the passage.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ he said. ‘Might need a statement. Did you see this guy?’

Grant shook his head. ‘What’re you going to do about the petrol?’

‘Be careful with matches,’ Hank said.

‘Petrol and blood,’ Megan said, ‘an exciting combination.’

‘Oh, God,’ Grant said, ‘quotations.’

I took a closer look at Megan’s wound. ‘It needs stitches. Better get you up to RPA. I’ll do it, Hank, and then take her home.’

Hank hesitated, but Megan reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded.

I heard Grant say, ‘Someone has to get on to cleaners, carpet people and the insurance company.’

I helped Megan down the stairs and we got a taxi to the hospital. An open, bleeding wound gets quick treatment and she was cleaned up and stitched and given a tetanus shot and some painkillers all inside an hour. She insisted she could walk back to her flat.

‘You helped me buy it,’ she said. ‘Time you took a look at it.’

The flat was in a narrow street two blocks south and one or two west from King Street, part of an old warehouse that had been gutted and done over. It was on the second level, had two bedrooms and a balcony looking out onto Camperdown Memorial Rest Park. The decor, furniture and everything else displayed Megan’s taste-plain, functional, unfussy.

‘Hank keeps his own flat by mutual agreement,’ Megan said. ‘Bit like you and Lily did. We divide our time between the two places.’

‘It can work. How’re you feeling?’

‘Okay. I’m going to have a drink and take a couple of these pills and then I’ll feel better until I bomb out. What’ll you have?’

‘Same as you.’

We sat on the balcony-minimal traffic, nice breeze over the park, gins and tonic.

Megan touched her forehead. ‘Honourable wound, professional hazard. Bet you took a few.’