Peter Corris - Deep Water

‘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?