Deep Water (15 page)

‘Mr Hardy—very good to hear from you. How do things stand?'

‘It's time for a meeting. Could you propose a venue?'

‘Well, we have a well-equipped boardroom and—'

‘I bet you do. We don't. We have a few cubbyholes. I like the idea of Horace Greenacre's place. He seemed to have a bit of space. Perhaps you could arrange that.'

‘I'm sure I could. When do you suggest?'

‘This evening.'

‘That's very short notice.'

‘You said it was urgent.'

‘You're right, I did. Okay. I'll phone Horace. Shall we say seven o'clock?'

‘Seven thirty,' I said, just to be annoying.

‘Very well.'

‘That's 19.30 hours.'

‘You are a very irritating man, for someone who has been stripped of his private detective's licence.'

He hung up.

‘The lawyer's place,' I said to Megan, ‘at seven thirty. We get there about forty minutes late.'

‘Why?'

‘So we can watch the news—see how the water crisis is going.'

I spent the afternoon swimming slow laps in the Victoria Park pool and at the Marrickville gym where Tony Truscott was training. He looked sharp, and he told me the contracts for his title fight were being drawn up.

‘I hope you'll be there, Cliff.'

‘I will. Did I see you stumble just a fraction when you weren't quite sure where the ropes were?'

He grinned. ‘You bastard. Yeah, have to get that right. Know the ring like your living room. He will. Did you?'

I laughed. ‘Mate, in my last fight I saw the ropes looking up from the canvas. An old-time fighter told me he could smell where they were. Didn't have to look.'

‘They moved slower back then.'

‘You're right. Have you got a firm date?'

‘These Yanks try to screw with your head. It's maybe this and maybe that. I don't take any notice. I'm fighting for Lily. That's all the focus I need.'

I nodded and threw a left lead at him that he picked off as if I was in slow motion.

Hank and I arrived at Double Bay separately, within a few minutes of each other. He was alone.

‘Where's Megan?' I said.

He shrugged. ‘She got a call just as we were leaving. Don't know what about. She said she'd take a cab and probably be a bit late.'

‘That's OK,' I said. ‘I'll tell them someone else is coming—keep them on their toes.'

We went up the stairs to Greenacre's suite. He wasn't there, but his secretary was.

‘The other gentlemen are in the conference room,' she said. ‘This way, please.'

We entered a room with a long table and high-backed chairs. There were paintings on the walls and a wet bar and coffee-making gear discreetly tucked behind some greenery. Soft, concealed lighting. Two men stood by a tall window looking out at the evening sky. Both wore dark suits. One had silver hair and the other, who was vaguely familiar, had no hair at all. Silver-hair turned around as we came in and moved towards us, his hand extended.

‘I'm William Holland and this is my associate, Clive Dimarco.'

Hank shook the hand. ‘Hank Bachelor, this is Cliff Hardy.'

I exchanged nods with both men. ‘We have an associate of ours coming. She'll be along soon.'

Holland didn't like it but what could he do? ‘Excellent,' he said. ‘Let's get started here. Do either of you want anything to drink?'

Hank shook his head.

‘Scotch,' I said. ‘Ice only.'

Holland inclined his head. ‘Clive, if you'll be so good, mineral water for me.'

‘Sure.' Dimarco's New York accent was strong, unlike Hank's, which had been eroded by his time in Australia. He prepared the drinks, making a scotch for himself as least as solid as mine.

We were all on our feet and uncertain how to arrange ourselves. Eventually, Holland took a chair near the top of the table but not at its head, and we all sat.

Dimarco drank, took a miniature tape recorder from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘I reckon we ought to have a record of this meeting.'

Hank had a similar device in the pocket of his denim jacket and he produced it with a flourish. ‘I agree,' he said.

‘I'll start the ball rolling,' Holland said after sipping his drink. ‘We entered into an agreement with Tarelton Explorations to share the fruits of Dr Henry McKinley's research into …'

‘Tapping the Sydney basin aquifer,' Hank said.

‘Exactly. Unhappily, relations between us and Tarelton deteriorated over time and we feared that our interest, and I might say our investment—'

‘You invested money in Tarelton itself or directly into McKinley's research?' The whisky was smooth, the sort of stuff I'd buy myself if I ever got used to being affluent.

‘The former, with a clear understanding that Dr McKinley's work would be fully supported.'

‘I think maybe Tarelton was playing you for a sucker,' Hank said. ‘Our information is that they were borrowing money from other sources. Could be from this Lachlan Enterprises outfit.'

Holland and Dimarco exchanged concerned looks. ‘We certainly weren't aware of that,' Holland said.

I said, ‘OK, so we've each given the other some information. Our brief is to discover who killed McKinley—nothing more, nothing less. Any information on that?'

‘Of course not,' Dimarco said. ‘We at Global were completely shocked by his death.'

I was wondering why Megan hadn't showed up, but I had a flash and snapped my fingers. ‘Now I've placed you. You were at the funeral.'

‘Right. Paying our respects.'

‘Only trouble with that is,' Hank said, ‘we have a statement on DVD from Dr McKinley that he had no knowledge of any … subsidiary arrangements made by Tarelton.'

I drank the rest of the scotch. ‘Yeah, and when he found out about them, he became worried. Didn't want to reveal what he'd discovered because he suspected that these commercial arrangements were designed to exploit the aquifer to the detriment, shall we say, of the public interest.'

Dimarco shook his head, pale, lumpy and glowing under the soft light. ‘We knew nothing at all …'

‘You're lying,' Hank said. ‘We know from Dr McKinley's statement that Global offered him a substantial bribe for the information.'

Holland couldn't contain himself. ‘This statement, this DVD—does he …?'

‘Do you deny you offered him money?' I said.

Again, Dimarco and Holland exchanged looks. ‘These are intricate commercial arrangements,' Dimarco said.

‘We're negotiating, here,' Holland said, leaning forward. ‘It's a rough and tumble world. If your … client is prepared to consider an offer …'

He'd missed the point, and I was ready to give him the sort of reply he wouldn't want to hear when the window behind him and Dimarco exploded. Glass flew around as a volley of shots poured in, hitting some electrical fitting and plunging the room into darkness.

Instinctively, Hank and I dived for the floor, but I could feel blood running down my face from where the flying glass had nicked it. Dimarco had dived sideways, knocking Holland from his chair.

‘Hank,' I said, ‘you OK?'

‘Yeah. Untouched.'

‘Dimarco?'

‘I'm all right, but I think William's been hit.'

A light fitting was sputtering, sending out sparks. The heat triggered the smoke alarm and the sprinkler system. The room became a wet, howling mess as sirens sounded outside, drawing closer. A choking smoke filled the room and we started coughing and wiping at our eyes. Hank and I lifted Holland bodily and, with Dimarco kicking chairs out of the way and us crunching glass under our feet, we scrambled out of the room, down the corridor and reached the stairs.

The woman who'd let us in was standing on the stairs screaming and Dimarco yelled at her to shut up and get out of the way. She stumbled to the bottom, still screaming. Hank was supporting Holland's upper body and his clothes were getting soaked with blood. We got Holland out onto
the footpath and my knees were about ready to give way when two paramedics took over.

The next few hours were a shit storm of cops, firemen, paramedics and TV crews. William Holland had been hit, not by a bullet, but by a shard of glass that had taken a chunk from the side of his head, causing massive bleeding. Working under a rigged-up emergency light, the paramedics had stemmed the flow, loaded him onto a stretcher and rushed him to hospital.

Dimarco, Hank and I were soaked by the sprinklers, and Dimarco had a lot of blood on his Armani suit. A second batch of paramedics escorted us across the street, away from the blaze of flashing lights. Police were holding back reporters as the fire crew withdrew after making sure that the place wasn't going to burn.

A paramedic crouched by the bench where Dimarco, Hank and I were sitting and looked us over closely. He stood up, puzzled.

‘You guys don't seem to be in shock,' he said.

Dimarco took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered them around. The paramedic took one; Hank and I refused. ‘I guess we've been under fire before,' Dimarco said.

‘Is that right?'

A plain clothes detective had come up quietly. I was busy blotting my minor facial cuts with a wad of tissues, but I looked up when I heard the voice. It was Phil Fitzwilliam.

‘You gentlemen, and I don't include you, Hardy, have some explaining to do.'

Dimarco whipped his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Not without my lawyer present.'

Hank produced his mobile, but didn't say anything.

‘How about you, Hardy?' Fitzwilliam said. ‘Are you going to call in that cunt Garner, like you always do?'

I stood up and shook some of the fragments of glass from my clothes. ‘Gee, Phil, I thought you meant I didn't have to do any explaining, that I was free to go.'

Two more detectives—the one I'd seen with Fitzwilliam before, and another, looking as if he might be of equal or senior rank—had joined Fitzwilliam, who bit back whatever response he'd been going to make to my remark. ‘Two of these men are known to me, Inspector—private enquiry agents; one disbarred, both of ill repute. I don't know the other man.'

Dimarco, quite recovered and poised, produced his card. ‘Clive Dimarco, vice-president of Global Resources.'

The man Fitz had deferred to was about his age but in much better physical condition. His suit was good without being too good, and he held himself like a man used to being listened to, not needing to bully—unlike Fitz. He ignored Dimarco's card.

‘I'm Detective Inspector Sean Wells. You're going to have to accompany us to Surry Hills to answer—'

He stopped as I brushed him aside. Megan had got through the police barrier somehow and was hurrying towards us. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Horace
Greenacre arguing fiercely with a cop, pointing at Megan. I could feel Hank thrusting forward but I sensed Fitz-william interposing his bulk.

Megan looked me with a depth of concern she'd never shown before, not even back in San Diego.

‘Cliff, you're bleeding! Hank, are you OK? What happened? I'm sorry, I …'

Hank put his arms around her.

Looking down I saw that my shirt was splattered with blood. I said, ‘It's OK, just a few scratches. Looks worse than it is. Someone broke up our meeting. It's a good thing you weren't there, but what kept you?'

‘My sister, half-sister, rang. She wanted to get back in touch. I couldn't stop her yakking, and then I couldn't get a cab.'

Fitzwilliam was glowering, and Wells was looking aggressively in the direction of the TV crews.

‘We have to go to Surry Hills,' I said. ‘Shots were fired.'

‘My God!'

Hank handed her his car keys. ‘Don't worry. Go home. We'll sort it out and I'll be back in a few hours.'

‘Don't bet on it,' Fitzwilliam said.

Greenacre had finally persuaded the police to let him through and he came bustling up, puce-faced with indignation. ‘What the hell have you done to my office? I'll sue the lot of you.'

Wells took charge. ‘You'll have to accompany us, sir. This is a very serious matter. A man's been badly hurt and property has been severely damaged. We'll need statements from everyone involved.'

Hank was holding Megan by the shoulders, half shielding her from the police. ‘She's
not
involved!'

Wells nodded. ‘You're free to go.'

Hank released her and Megan jiggled the keys. ‘I don't know. I—'

‘That's it,' Wells barked. ‘We've stood around long enough for those TV bastards to get pictures and make up stories. Fitz, Carter, let's get moving.'

The cops herded us, and it was either fight or go. Megan understood and backed up.

‘How's your fucking heart, Hardy?' Fitzwilliam whispered as we moved away from the TV lights and towards the cars.

‘Cold as ice where you're concerned,' I said, ‘and I'm considering just what recent conversations I might put in my statement.'

It would depress me to work in any institutional building, but the Surry Hills Police Centre would depress me more than most. The designers have done their best with the lighting and the pot plants, but the place carries an aura of bureaucratic and hierarchical insensitivity and fear. The junior cops fear their seniors, the senior cops fear the top brass, and they fear the politicians, lawyers and each other. Whenever I go in there, I get the sense that the police service doesn't have catching criminals at the top of its agenda.

Wells delegated a uniformed officer to put Hank and me together in one room and I saw Greenacre and Dimarco being ushered into separate rooms. In classical police style we were left alone for a spell. The room was comfortable enough, with carpet, institutional chairs and table, and an air-conditioner doing its thing. No windows; we were two
floors below street level. Who ever heard of an interrogation room with a view?