Peter Corris - Deep Water

‘I still might, the way things are going. Any regrets about. . getting involved?’

Megan washed pills down with a solid slug of her drink. ‘Thinking about it.’

‘Good. Tell me, love, does Hank have anything on his plate that’d bring this on-an attempt to wipe out his whole operation?’

She was fading fast but she made an effort to concentrate. ‘There is another arson matter involved-torching Dr McKinley’s car-but this isn’t the same style. I can’t think of anything else. It looks like the McKinley case.’

‘Hank’s not exactly going to thank me for bringing it to him.’

She smiled. ‘He thanks you for me . That’ll cover it.’

Hank phoned and said he’d be with her in an hour. He was going to lock the office up and pay a couple of local kids he’d used in the past to run messages, to keep an eye

on the building overnight.

‘Reckon we should tell the cops?’ he asked.

‘Let’s not,’ I said. ‘Let’s think about it. See if there’s some way we can make it work for us. I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark on this thing.’

I left Megan lying on her bed with her eyes closed. The G amp; T had been solid and the analgesics had kicked in. Hank wasn’t likely to get any conversation from her until breakfast time.

I was halfway down Australia Street heading back to Glebe, a bit tired but walking briskly, when a car pulled up beside me. Two men got out. I recognised one of them-Detective Senior Sergeant Phil Fitzwilliam of the City Command Unit. An old enemy, Fitz had avoided corruption charges by the skin of his teeth several times. As a young copper he’d been decorated for bravery and in his early years as a detective he’d made some significant arrests and secured some notable convictions. That reputation had sustained him in later years when he sailed close to the wind. We’d run up against each other several times, never pleasantly.

‘Hello, Fitz. How’s tricks?’

Fitzwilliam had been a lean six-footer in his prime, but beer and big dinners had inflated him and he’d lost centimetres as if he’d had to stoop to carry the weight. His pale blue eyes were sunk in creased, sagging fat.

‘You were always a smartarse, Hardy. That’s what they’ll say at your funeral. I heard you nearly booked in for one. Pity it didn’t happen.’

‘From the look of you, I’d bet on me going to yours rather than the other way around. Not that I would.’

Fitz turned to the other man. ‘See what I mean, Detective Constable? Always with a comeback. Never at a loss for words, but an arsehole just the same.’

His colleague nodded sycophantically. At a guess he was thirty, twenty years younger than Fitz, and with a lot to learn.

Fitz turned his bulk slowly and pointed to their car. ‘Come on, Hardy. We’ve got things to talk about.’

I wasn’t really worried. The old days, when cops like the famous ‘Bumper’ Farrell, and imitators like Phil Fitzwilliam, would take you somewhere quiet and beat you so the marks didn’t show, were gone. Physical intimidation was out of fashion, but there were plenty of other methods. Also, Fitzwilliam had a very uncertain temper-provoke him too much and he just might react violently. I felt fit and strong, but a broken sternum is a broken sternum and I didn’t want to be on the end of one of Fitzwilliam’s wild swings.

I sat in the back of the car with Fitzwilliam while the young policeman drove. For some time Fitz said nothing, which was unlike him. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice, boasting, exercising his authority. I tried to look unconcerned and to keep quiet while the driver did a skilful U-turn and headed back towards Newtown.

‘Do you remember being scrubbed as a private detective by the Board? For life?’

‘I do.’

‘It’s come to my attention that you’re making enquiries as if that ruling meant nothing to you.’

‘It’s not quite-’

‘I don’t give a fuck what it’s not quite like. Your mate Bachelor is allowed to employ associates as long as they have the appropriate qualifications. You bloody well don’t and you know it. Bachelor’s licence is hanging by a thread.’

He was right. The PEA’s Act is specific on this matter and rightly so. Can’t have people running around doing the job without the training.

‘Make your point, Fitz.’

We were travelling down King Street and the driver made the turn into Missenden Road, cut across to Bridge Road and headed towards Glebe. Fitzwilliam said nothing until we pulled up in front of my house.

‘There you are, Hardy. Brought you home. Don’t say I never did nothink for you. And I see you’ve spent some money on the joint.’

I had. Front garden cleaned up, guttering replaced, tiles and pavers expertly relaid, fence and gate renewed and painted. All done while I was away.

‘A tidy-up,’ I said, reaching for the door handle.

Fitzwilliam grabbed my arm; pudgy though he was, he still had a strong grip. ‘I haven’t forgotten the couple of times you put me in the shit, Hardy. You and that mate of yours-that fuckin’ Parker. I don’t like you. I don’t like you inheriting money from your dead slut of a girlfriend, and I don’t like you surviving a heart attack and coming up roses.’

I wanted to hit him, but you just can’t do it. ‘I’d feel the same about you if things were reversed.’

‘I can’t do bugger all about all that-nothink, but I can tell you if you go on playing fuckin’ private eye, I’ll get Bachelor’s licence lifted and I’ll find a way to get charges laid on you both. Piss off!’

He released me, opened the door and used his bulk to shove me out. The door slammed and the car drove away.

Interesting development. Would Phil Fitzwilliam have the clout to get Hank’s licence lifted? I doubted it. So far Hank had a pretty clean sheet and it takes more than one infringement to bring about a cancellation. I should know; I had a pile of them before I finally went too far. There was no question that Fitz hated my guts and wanted to get even with me, but it was an odd way of going about it. How had Fitz heard about our investigation of Henry McKinley’s disappearance? There were several ways-a leak from the Missing Persons Division, information from Josephine Dart, or a spin-off from Hank’s enquiries. The last was the most likely and that brought the Tarelton company squarely into the picture.

I didn’t go in for interior renovation of the house. I liked it the way it was, and with some new carpet, fixing of the staircase and some quarry tiles to replace the kitchen lino, I was content. I’d had a bit of rising damp treated, a few walls repainted. On the advice of the people installing wireless broadband and Foxtel I’d spent money on the wiring. The insurance company would be happy about that.

Not wanting to mix my drinks, I sat in the breakfast nook in the kitchen with a gin and tonic on the scarred table and thought about Fitz. Among those in the know, he’d been notorious for taking kickbacks from companies and individuals for information about police interest in their affairs. With ICAC and other watchdogs active, he’d probably gone quiet on that lately. But, since the Tarelton enterprise, with headquarters in Surry Hills, was firmly inside Fitz’s patch, could it be that he was on the payroll?

I missed Lily. In recent years, with cases like these, I’d formed the habit of laying the evidence, or, lacking any, the assumptions and theories, out for her and getting her opinion. More often than not she’d come up with a useful suggestion that would clear the fog and suggest a course of action. But the fog was thick now.

I tried to remember when I’d last eaten and couldn’t. I was losing weight from all the walking and skipping meals. I made myself a sandwich and ate it although I had no appetite. The ache for Lily; the attack on Hank’s office and the damage to Megan; the threat from Fitzwilliam and the nagging feeling of lifelong dependence on medications were nagging at me. I wondered if I was still up for this kind of work, even as a supernumerary. Then the phone rang.