Deep Water (11 page)

‘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.

At home she asked for more coffee. She said goodnight and I heard the shower running long and hard, first cold then hot—different sounds. I showered in the downstairs bathroom and went up to bed, thinking I might manage a chapter of McGrath. It was a sleep-between-the-sheets night with a fan on and I'd just got settled when the door opened and Margaret came in.

She was wearing just the top of her silk pyjamas and the buttons weren't fastened.

‘This is silly,' she said. ‘I like you and you like me, don't you?'

‘Very much.'

‘Move over.'

She slid into bed and we made love slowly and carefully, each learning what the other liked and needed. When we finished we lay close together with only a film of sweat between us.

‘Was that your first time since the heart attack?'

‘Yes. I'm behind schedule. The hospital pamphlet said you could resume after six weeks.'

She laughed. ‘I think most men start solo.'

‘I thought about it but decided it was immature.'

We were drowsily quiet for a while; then she took my hand and said, ‘You know I'm going back to the States, don't you? This is just …'

‘It's what it is. I know. Nothing to say I can't visit though. Tony'll be fighting for the title soon. What d'you think about boxing?'

‘I don't. What do you think about basketball?'

‘I don't.'

‘Right, I'll come and watch Tony if you'll come and watch the Lakers.'

We rolled apart and drifted off to sleep. I woke first and enjoyed the sight of her sleeping. She had her hand held up near her head, making her look oddly young and vulnerable. I eased out of the bed, showered and put on an old cotton dressing gown. She was still asleep and I put her kimono on the bed and went downstairs to make coffee and listen to the news, get the paper in, start the day.

She came down in her pyjama top and kimono. She kissed me. ‘How's that Cold Chisel song go?'

I recited:

The coffee's hot
And the toast is brown.

‘That's it. I loved that group. Is “Sweethearts” still there?'

I poured her coffee and put the bread in the toaster. ‘I don't know. We'd better find out.'

She pointed to the paper. ‘What's the news?'

I showed her the headline: GOVERNMENT IN DEEP TROUBLE!

‘That's weeks away,' she said. ‘Things change.'

The toaster popped and I put the slices on a plate and pushed them towards her with the margarine and the honey.

‘The government's shot to bits in the polls,' I said. ‘They figure they need time to turn it around.'

‘Reckon they can?'

‘No.'

‘Good. Why're we talking about this and not about finding out who killed my dad? I know it's important, politics, but …'

I got orange juice from the fridge and detached my pills from their foils. I swilled a couple down and then dropped the aspirin tablet into a glass of water, watched it dissolve and drank it. The taste was sweetish and unpleasant. I followed it with a mouthful of coffee.

‘It's not all that important,' I said. ‘Be good to see the last of the present lot, but things'll change only at the margins.'

‘Cliff, come on. You're stalling.'

‘Right,' I said. ‘Things to tell you.'

I told her what Josephine Dart had told me. She listened without interrupting, but she left her toast practically untouched. When I'd finished she drank her coffee which must have been tepid.

‘And you believed her?' she said.

‘I think so.'

‘You think.'

I'd made copies of the three keys that had got me into McKinley's townhouse and the one to the shed padlock. I'd given the copies to the police who'd made a search after the discovery of McKinley's body. The fifth key had puzzled me, as I'd told Mrs Dart. I got the original set from my jacket and singled out the fifth key.

‘She had keys to your father's house,' I said. ‘This one is allegedly the key to the place at Myall. She says the house hasn't been used since her husband's death, not by her anyway. If what she says is true there should be signs of their … activities, and it's possible your father might have left something there that could make sense of what happened to him. Just possible.'

She nodded. ‘You see, it's as I said before. I didn't really
know him. If this is true I'm glad in a way. I never liked to think of him alone and sexless. Pedalling away the frustration. I suppose I was thinking of a nice female companion, someone I'd like, but you can't legislate for people's sex lives, can you?'

‘No way known so far.'

‘So when're we going up there to take a look?'

Before setting off for the coast, we went in to Newtown to tell Hank and Megan the latest.

‘Jesus,' Hank said, ‘that opens up a can of worms.'

‘Ugly image,' Margaret said.

Hank said, ‘Sorry, Ms McKinley, I …'

Margaret smiled. ‘Margaret, remember?'

Megan watched this exchange with amusement. As far as I could tell, Margaret and I presented exactly as before, but some women can read signs not apparent to most. She was fighting to repress a knowing smile.

‘Any quarries up there?' I asked, just to deflect her.

She went to her desk and shuffled paper. ‘There is as it happens—Larson's quarry at a place called Howard's Bend, not that far away.'

She tapped keys and the printer spewed out a sheet.

‘Bit of a mystery this,' Megan said. ‘Mind you, most of them are. Ownership or leasehold has to be tracked through a minefield of interlocking companies. I'm struggling, I admit. But you might check this one out physically. Why not?'

I took the sheet and folded it. We left.

‘She knows we're fucking,' Margaret said when we reached the street.

‘Yes. She—'

A movement across the street took my attention and I caught a glimpse of Phil Fitzwilliam in a car pulled up at a set of lights. He looked my way and then said something to his driver as the car accelerated away, jumping the red light.

‘What?' Margaret said.

‘Nothing. Just saw someone I don't want to see.'

‘I suppose you've got a few enemies?'

‘A few.'

‘But friends as well, right? Who's this Frank Parker you talk about?'

‘He's my best friend, and he outweighs quite a few enemies.'

We took my car because Margaret said she wasn't confident about driving any great distance on the wrong side of the road. She was worried about the turns on and off the bridge.

‘I can just see the headline,' she said. ‘“Expat driver causes pile-up on bridge”.'

We'd originally planned to go up and back in the one day, but Megan's quarry would take up some time, so we stopped in Glebe and packed overnight bags. In the past I'd have taken a pistol, even on a benign trip like this, but I didn't have a licensed firearm anymore, or an unlicensed one. The last illegal gun I'd had I'd thrown into the harbour after I'd tried to kill a man—Lily's murderer—with it. The gun had jammed, for which I was eternally grateful. I packed a camera instead.

Myall was about 200 kilometres north-west of Sydney. I'd never been there but the directions I'd got from the web
seemed easy enough. Drive about 70 kilometres north of Newcastle and then 10 kilometres off the Pacific Highway. The village, the region, were named for the Myall Lakes, where I seemed to remember there'd been important archaeological digs in the past. I'd forgotten the details. Something significant about stone axes and the length of time the Aborigines had been in the country—longer than anyone thought.

Margaret and I chatted about these sorts of things on the drive. I played an Edith Piaf CD and one of the best of Cold Chisel and we pledged to find out about ‘Sweethearts'. The Falcon, recently tuned up, performed well and I enjoyed the first decent stint I'd had at the wheel since the heart episode. We had a rest stop just north of Newcastle—light beers and salad sandwiches. Time was when a country salad sandwich was white bread with a thick layer of butter, a slice of tomato, a slice of beetroot and some limp lettuce; mayonnaise if you were lucky. These were California style—wholemeal rolls with your choice of almost everything. There are things we should thank America for.

Margaret took over the driving. ‘I haven't driven a stick shift in years,' she said.