Peter Corris - Deep Water

Being thorough, Megan had ranged far and wide in her researches. Larson’s quarry was about sixty kilometres south-west of Myall and the drive took us along the river for a stretch, crossing it and heading into the drier country away from the coast. The road got rougher as we entered the stony uplands around Barkley’s Ridge. The air got cooler and the Falcon coughed a bit on the climb. We passed through the town of Barkley that had once had a rail link to the coast, long since closed. We threaded through some hills on a road that had in the past been wide and well maintained but had degenerated to little more than a track.

‘I hope your tyres are good,’ Margaret said. It was almost the first time she’d spoken since leaving Myall.

‘Brand new,’ I said.

The land flattened out into sparse grazing country and we crossed a couple of streams on bridges originally built to handle much greater water volumes and now looking too large for the sluggish, weed-choked creeks. We passed through a township only a little bigger than Myall named Howard’s Bend. Further on the road sloped down suddenly and stopped beside a body of water about the size of ten Olympic swimming pools. The water shimmered a deep cobalt blue under the clear sky.

‘Larson’s quarry,’ I said.

‘It’s nothing like Dad’s drawing,’ she said, ‘but it’s pretty, isn’t it?’

She was right-the rectangular, water-filled hole, with trees growing high around three of its sides, didn’t resemble Henry McKinley’s drawing in the least. Although his creation was more or less an abstract, surely he would’ve suggested the trees and the water. But it was pretty. Megan’s notes said that the quarry had provided ‘building material’ for inland and coastal towns. Now it provided welcome visual relief from a basically sterile landscape.

We got out of the car and walked down to the edge. The quarry had steep slopes on three sides, but here the gravel slope was gradual to water that looked no more than waist-deep. There were reeds sprouting at the edge and pelicans and ducks moved sedately on the surface. Looking at the quarry, I was suddenly aware of how rare it is these days to see a body of water unfenced, apart from the ocean and the rivers. Margaret must have had a parallel thought.

‘I wonder if it’d be OK to swim?’

‘Can’t see why not. If it’s on private property there’s no sign against trespassing and the water’s clean. Looks to have a firm bottom.’

Margaret took her clothes off, folded them neatly, and waded out into the water. She dived, surfaced and struck out in a strong, practised crawl for the deeper water. I did the same and joined her, treading water while the birds moved cautiously away.

‘Bloody freezing,’ I said.

‘But beautifully clean, just what I needed. Let’s have a look at your scar. Didn’t get a chance the other night.’

She examined the line running down the centre of my chest, kissed it and then put her hands on my shoulders and ducked me. When I surfaced she was halfway back to the edge. We left the water, both shivering, and I scooted to the car to get my gym towel. We shared it, sweat-smell and all.

She pointed to the scar as I pulled on my shirt.

‘Dr Pierce did a great job. Pity he’s so pompous.’

‘Pompous is OK with me in his case.’

‘Let’s find a motel,’ Margaret said. ‘I want to fuck you.’

We booked into a motel in Barkley and began making love as soon as the door closed behind us. We didn’t pretend not to be stimulated by the erotica in the Myall cottage. The refreshing swim gave us energy to go with heightened feelings. We tried different positions and prolonged the pleasure.

‘I hope you do visit,’ Margaret said when we finished for the first time.

‘I will,’ I said.

I hadn’t told her about finding the glasses. Henry McKinley had been taken from the Myall cottage. It made sense. He couldn’t risk leaving the DVD at his house where either Tarelton or its competitors would surely search, and he’d been right about that. He’d assumed that no one but his lovers knew about the Myall cottage and that if they found the disc they’d do the right thing with it. He’d been mistaken. His predators knew about the Myall retreat. These days, big money employers know everything.

After we’d made love again, Margaret fell asleep and I lay thinking. McKinley had been taken and killed but he’d left a crucial piece of evidence behind. In a way, he’d had the last laugh. I’d try to put it that way to Margaret.

Next day, in Sydney, Margaret went shopping for a gift for her daughter and I reported on our progress to Hank and Megan. I didn’t go into details about the set-up in the cottage, but I told them about the ashes, the glasses and that I thought Myall was where McKinley had been abducted. Then I played the DVD for them. ‘This is big,’ Hank said. ‘Too big.’ Megan had been scribbling notes. ‘This has to be handled by the police or ICAC or someone.’

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘If it becomes known what McKinley was doing and the suspicions he had, the three players will shut up shop, run the shredders, call off the dogs. The only way to find out which of them was responsible for McKinley’s death is to keep alive their hopes of getting their hands on his research.’

‘That’s assuming he didn’t tell them when they had him,’ Megan said.

‘Right. But we may have an insider in this Dr O’Neil. If she’s still working for Tarelton, she’ll know whether they’ve hit pay-dirt or not.’

‘Have to find a way to talk to her privately,’ Hank said.

‘Maybe not.’

Megan looked at me. ‘You’d set her up?’

‘It’s worth thinking about, but probably not. At least not straight off.’

Megan closed her notebook. ‘I see now why some people call you a bit of a bastard.’

‘Only some people; only a bit of one.’

When I got to the house I found Margaret agitated and packing.

‘I have to go, Cliff,’ she said. ‘It’s not working out with Lucinda and her dad. They’ve had a row and she’s very upset. I’m on a flight in a couple of hours.’

‘I’m sorry. I’ll drive you. Is she with someone?’

‘Yes, yes, she’s OK. Thanks, Cliff. You’re right, that’s the important thing, she’s OK.’

I drove her to the airport and we had time for a quick drink before her flight, inevitably delayed, was called. She’d calmed down by this time and was able to think of other things beside her kid.

‘I want you and Hank and Megan to keep on with this until you find out what happened.’ She reached for my hand. ‘But don’t do anything dangerous. I want to see you again, Cliff.’

The flight was called. I walked her to the gate and we kissed and hugged hard and seriously. Then she disappeared into Customs. I didn’t try to watch the take-off. With planes coming in and going out at the rate they do it’s impossible to tell one from another. And what’s the point? Gone is gone. I went back to the bar for another overpriced whisky and as I drank it I could smell a faint trace of her perfume on my jacket. It made me feel lonely, but it made me feel determined to find out who’d beaten or frightened Dr Henry McKinley to death.

After the drink I walked around the airport for half an hour for the exercise and to metabolise the alcohol. It didn’t help the loneliness, but it didn’t hurt the determination.

‘How do you feel about cycling, Cliff?’ Megan asked when I turned up at the office the next day. I’d told her about Margaret. I’d been to the gym and felt fine, but not that fine.

‘Here and now? In Sydney? Roughly how I feel about skydiving. Why?’

Hank and Megan had done their thing on the internet. No one’s safe. They’d tracked Susan Talbot O’Neil from her stellar HSC result, when she was one of three who’d got the highest score in the state, through to her University Medal for Science at Sydney to her Cambridge PhD in geology.