Peter Corris - Deep Water

‘Politicians on which side?’

‘Hey, I’m a resident alien. I’m neutral. Both sides.’

‘And you’re finding what?’

‘Paranoia and zilch, but who’s complaining?’

‘Any serious work?’

‘Some insurance fraud-autos, personal accident. I cleaned up a couple of those cases you left me. Gave me a kick start.’

I’d seen another desk in one of the other rooms and one in a cubicle. ‘You’ve got some help?’

He nodded. ‘A casual. He just left. Must’ve passed you on the stairs. And. . Megan.’

‘How’s that?’

‘Cliff, she was keen. She’s enrolled in the TAFE course. I got her associate status-provisionally.’

‘What happened to acting?’

‘She got tired of it, and it was going no place.’

My relationship with Megan was complex. Because I hadn’t known her as a child, I didn’t feel the full weight of a father’s responsibility and attachment. I felt a lot of those emotions but not the full serve and, of course, I felt guilty about that. Complex. My warring feelings must have shown in my face and body language.

‘She’s basically a clerk,’ Hank said.

‘Stick around. She won’t be for long. OK, we’re all adults here. I’m not laying down any laws. How’s the McKinley thing looking?’

Hank eased himself out of his chair the way a fit thirty year old can, took two steps and opened a filing cabinet. Forget the paperless office. Never happened. You can have anything you like on hard disk and flash drive but nothing beats a printed sheet when you want a quick grasp. Hank had several sheets in the standard manila folder and he spread them on the desk.

‘Waiting for your input,’ he said, shuffling the pages. ‘I can tell you that there’s something funny about this Tarelton company. Their website says they’re a minerals and natural resources exploration company. You know that. But just where and what they’re exploring and developing is kind of hard to pin down. It’s a private company, so there’s only so much it has to reveal about its personnel and operations and, in its case, that’s virtually zero.’

‘Margaret McKinley had the idea that it was paying her father well.’

‘Oh, it’s got assets-an impressive building in Surry Hills, staff, a fleet of cars. But what the hell does it do ?’

‘Who or what is Tarelton?’

Hank tapped one of the sheets. ‘Edward Tarelton- South African or maybe Canadian. Fifty-one or forty-nine. Mystery man.’

‘What happens when you make enquiries?’

‘What the client said-the run-around. When I made a big enough asshole of myself that someone actually talked to me I asked about McKinley. Here’s what I got.’

Hank flipped a switch on a console on his desk.

‘We have personnel all over the world and do not discuss their whereabouts or assignments.’

‘That’s an illegal recording,’ I said. Hank shrugged. ‘The machine was on, like, accidentally.’

‘Who was that?’

‘What’s that expression you have? No names, no pack drill. What’s that mean, anyway?’

‘Take too long to explain. Well, we need to get busy- file a missing persons report with the police-’

‘Did that.’ Hank held up a card. ‘Got a file reference.’

‘-and a letter of authorisation from Margaret. I’ll see to that.’

‘Cliff, you’re not a private eye any longer.’

‘No, I’m a concerned friend, and I know a couple of cops who’ll vouch for me.’

‘And a couple of dozen who won’t.’

‘It’s who you know, mate. It always has been.’

There’s no law against talking to people or accessing public records. There were people who’d do me favours in return for things I’d done for them in the past, and others who’d have been pleased to hear that I’d dropped dead on Ocean Beach pier. The thing to do was make use of the former and avoid the latter. It’s not even against the law to use a false name and claim to be something you’re not, unless your intention is to defraud.

Margaret had given me a list of McKinley’s friends with home and business telephone numbers-the secretary of the cycling club, Terry Dart, and the owner of a gallery where McKinley had exhibited some drawings, Marion Montifiore.

I had the names on a slip from the notepad that had come with the San Diego apartment. I got it out and was about to reach for the phone on Hank’s desk when I remembered who and what I was. I covered the action by scribbling a meaningless note on the slip of paper before standing up.

‘I’m going to follow a few things up, Hank,’ I said. ‘Thanks for what you’ve done. I’ll make some copies of what you have in the file if that’s okay, but I probably won’t be bothering you with this.’

‘I’m bothered already.’

‘Come on-a geologist, cyclist, pen and ink man. .’

‘Working for a dodgy company.’

‘Anything dodgy, you’ll hear from me.’

I went home and phoned a supplier to get a new up-tothe-minute Mac computer with all the trimmings delivered by someone who could install it and teach me to fly it. That done, I had a light lunch, a rest as prescribed by the doctors, and then took a long walk around Glebe. My wind was good and I picked up the pace until I sweated.

I phoned the Montifiore Gallery, got the proprietor, and made an appointment to see her early in the evening. I drew a blank at both the home and business numbers for Terry Dart. I left voicemail messages at both numbers.

The gallery was in Harris Street, Ultimo, a walk away. I arrived at six pm as people were turning up for the opening of a new exhibition. The artists were a sculptor and painter whose names were unknown to me, which didn’t mean anything-I couldn’t name a single Australian sculptor alive or dead and very few live painters. The first challenge was the stairs-steep, concrete, two long flights. The other first-nighters were mostly young and handling the stairs easily. Come on, Hardy , I thought, you can do it .

I did, at a respectable pace, with only a little help from the rail on the last few steps.

The gallery was a large expanse, painted white with big windows letting in the last of the daylight and lights strategically placed to take over and flatter the exhibits. The crowd was a mixture of the affluent and the scruffy, possibly the scruffy trying to look affluent and the affluent trying to look scruffy. The paintings were abstracts that my eye skated over as though they weren’t there; the sculptures were well-wrought wooden pieces-skeletons of boats, boldly carved figurines reminiscent of Nolan’s Ned Kelly work and others difficult to interpret but interesting to look at. As the room filled, most attention focused on the sculptures and gave me the feeling that the red stickers would be coming out soon.

I made my way to the bar where a couple of kids barely old enough to drink were serving red and white wine. I accepted a glass of red for my heart’s sake and asked if Marion Montifiore was present. One of the youngsters pointed to a fortyish woman with silver hair and dressed stylishly in black. She was talking animatedly about one of the paintings to a fat man in a suit who seemed more interested in her than the art work. That wasn’t surprising. She was strikingly good looking with olive skin, dark eyes and features bordering on perfection. A matronly, overdressed woman led the fatty away and I approached before anyone else could nab her.

‘Ms Montifiore? Cliff Hardy. We spoke on the phone this afternoon.’

It was one of those occasions when you like to present a card to obviate some explanations. It crossed my mind that I should get one-reading Cliff Hardy . . and then what?

She turned her Tuscan eyes on me. ‘Oh yes, about dear Henry McKinley.’