Peter Corris - Deep Water

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.’

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It all came out in a rush. The Darts and McKinley had been involved in a menage a 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.’

‘Of who?’

‘Of me. Terry and Henry persuaded him that his behaviour was unacceptable. I believe he protested but he didn’t persist.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘Oh, no. No names. No real names.’

I looked around the flat. ‘Easy enough to find out who you were.’

‘You don’t imagine we had. . meetings here or at Henry’s place when there were others involved?’

‘Where then?’

‘Why?’

‘I need to know everything I can about Dr McKinley’s movements.’

‘Yes, I see. Well, at Myall on the lower north coast. A house there-leased in a false name. We were careful. What do you have in mind?’

‘I have to take a look at any place McKinley spent time at. He might have left things. .’

‘I suppose it’s possible. He went up there on his own from time to time. I’ll give you the address. You already have the key.’

I’d wondered about that extra key. ‘How long has the lease got to run?’

She shrugged. ‘About a year. We. . it was renewed recently. We never thought. .’

‘Are you planning to go there?’

She looked at me as if I’d uttered an obscenity. ‘No, never again!’

She gave me the address and saw me to the door.

‘So you’re going to keep working. Do you need money?’

I told her that Margaret McKinley was in Sydney and would finance the investigation. Her tiny hand flew to her

mouth.

‘You’ll tell her about. . us?’

‘I’m not sure. If I have to.’

‘We did nothing wrong,’ she said defiantly. ‘We hurt no one.’

‘I hope that’s true,’ I said.

I sat in the car and thought about it. Wife-swapping seemed like an eighties thing, but this wasn’t exactly that. More bizarre, or more under control? It was difficult to say. But the information opened up new lines of enquiry. What if Henry McKinley’s extracurricular activities had opened him up to blackmail from some quarter-a colleague, a rival? What if Terry Dart had nursed a grudge, a jealousy, unknown to his wife-wanting exclusive possession of her or McKinley- and had eliminated his lover by accident or design?

And what of the man who hadn’t played the game, whoever he was? Josephine Dart had a special, fragile allure. It was easy to imagine someone becoming obsessed with her, particularly in the context of a sexual free-for-all. Could he have killed McKinley and Dart and be biding his time?

I had the problem of whether or how to tell Margaret. There was a chance she wouldn’t believe it-see it as a fantasy dreamed up by a grieving woman. I didn’t think it was that. The Myall address gave the story solidity and had to be checked out. I had a memory flash of Lily sitting at her computer, working on a story and looking up at me as I brought her a drink.

‘This thing opens up like a fucking fan,’ she’d said one time.

I knew what she meant. I decided to wait until I knew what Margaret’s moves were. She had to consult the lawyer; there was the release of her father’s body to be negotiated and a funeral to arrange. She had enough on her plate. The Myall expedition could wait.

Margaret sailed into the arrangements with tremendous efficiency. Horace Greenacre had shown her the will naming him and Margaret as executors. McKinley, a firm atheist, had insisted on a secular send-off with a minimum of fuss and cremation. Margaret put one of those no flowers/ donations to the Fred Hollows Foundation notices in the paper.

Greenacre, several members of the cycling club and Ashley Guy from Tarelton attended the Rookwood chapel. A couple of suits I didn’t know were there. Cops? Josephine Dart didn’t show. A tallish, thin woman in a dark dress and jacket arrived late and didn’t stay long. Margaret and the leader of the club spoke briefly and some of Henry’s favourite music was played-Mozart, Vivaldi, Bach.

Not enough bodies for a wake or a proper party. Margaret thanked each person individually. They took off, leaving just Margaret and me.

‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was a fizzer. I couldn’t even cry.’

‘Pretty cold,’ I agreed, ‘but it doesn’t really matter. You’ve got strong memories, haven’t you?’

We crunched across the gravel to my car. I was too hot in my suit, the only dark one I have. I peeled off the jacket; my shirt was sticking to my back. Margaret was cool in a blue dress. The only black thing about her was her handbag.

‘Memories, yes,’ she said, ‘good ones but not that strong. He was away so much, always working. I’m not sure that I really knew him.’

We got into the car and she leaned across and gave me another of her low-octane kisses.

‘Tell you what, Cliff, Dad’s favourite tipple was single malt scotch on one block of ice. I vote we buy a bottle and have a few. I feel like getting pissed.’

I overruled that. We went back to Glebe and I shed the suit. We got a taxi to the Rocks and had the scotches in one of the new, trendy licensed cafes. We walked around for a while and then had a seafood meal with a lot of wine. Then Irish coffee. She insisted on paying.

‘I’m coming into quite a lot of money,’ she said, spearing a chunk of swordfish.

‘Good.’

‘Puts college for Lucinda beyond doubt.’

We discussed Lucinda; we discussed Megan; we discussed Lily and Margaret’s ex-husband. We talked politics and books until it got quite late and the emotion, such as it was, of the day and the alcohol got to her and we caught a taxi to Glebe. She leaned against me and I put my arm around her on the way.