Deep Water (16 page)

‘Reckon this place is bugged?' Hank said.

‘You're the expert.'

He prowled the room. I tried to use my mobile but got no signal. Hank tried with the same result.

‘I know why they didn't take the phones,' he said. ‘I'm betting on a listening device of some sophistication.'

He raised his voice, ‘Hear me, asshole?'

We sat in silence for a while before Hank said, ‘I could do with a coffee.'

‘Ask the guy with the earphones.'

Hank opened his mouth to shout again when Wells entered, or rather stood in the doorway.

‘You can go,' he said.

I eased up out of the chair. It'd been a long night and, although I considered myself to be fully recovered, there was the odd creak and crack. ‘Why's that?'

Wells smiled, well aware of what he was saying. ‘Mr Dimarco's legal representative has made some strong representations.'

Hank waved his mobile. ‘So you let him call out, while we were locked in the soundproof booth?'

‘If you like,' Wells said. ‘I'd suggest that a senior executive of an international firm ranks above a private detective like you with one strike against him, and another who's struck out. I think you follow me, Mr Bachelor.'

‘Fuck you,' Hank said.

Wells swung away, leaving the door open. ‘I liked
The Sopranos
, too,' he said. ‘You forgot to add “cocksucker”.'

* * *

Hank was a coffee addict and couldn't go much longer without a fix. We stopped at a Starbucks in Oxford Street.

If the barista was surprised to see a man with congealed blood spots on his face, she didn't react. Probably not unusual in Oxford Street. She took our orders and our money without a blink.

‘Nice to have friends in high places,' Hank said.

‘Hardly friends, but I reckon it rules out Global as the people who killed McKinley.'

‘Leaving Lachlan and Tarelton. What's your bet, Cliff?'

We sat at a distance from the only other table occupied. The coffee arrived; I didn't really want it and I passed mine over to Hank after he'd drunk most of his, hot as it was, in a couple of gulps.

‘Lachlan,' I said, ‘on the follow-the-money principle. Dr O'Neil said Lachlan had lent money to Tarelton. That'd put Tarelton under pressure, but what if Lachlan had borrowed the money somewhere themselves? More pressure maybe. We know something about Global and Tarelton, but we know hardly anything about Lachlan.'

Hank moved on to the second mug. ‘Megan was working on it but she didn't come up with anything that I know of. Hey, I should get home.'

‘Me, too. I need to clean up these cuts and make sure I haven't got glass in my ears. How come you got away clean?'

‘I hit the deck a mite faster than you, buddy.'

We walked, keeping an eye out for a cab. I was late for my evening meds and the thought annoyed me. How many times in rehab had they told me not to resent the fact that I had to take the medication for the rest of my life?

‘Cliff,' Hank said when we'd almost reached Whitlam Square, ‘I heard what you muttered to that asshole cop. What was all that about?'

‘Tell you tomorrow. Here's a cab. What d'you reckon's closer—Glebe or Newtown?'

‘Fifty-fifty.'

‘Toss you for the fare.'

I won.

I cleaned up, took the pills and was about to go up to bed when I realised that I was wide awake with my mind buzzing. No chance of sleeping. I poured a scotch to replace the one I hadn't finished in Greenacre's office. I switched on the television and channel-hopped until I found a late news broadcast. The event in Double Bay got second billing. With the cameras kept at a distance and smoke in the night air, the shots of Hank, Dimarco and me weren't as clear as they might have been and the focus was initially on Holland being loaded into the ambulance and then on the firemen getting the troublesome electrical fires under control.

The cameras tracked Megan running towards us but Hank's bulk quickly shielded us all from the lens. The commentary accompanying the pictures had virtually no content, but that didn't stop the flow: ‘This does not appear to be a terror-related incident, although that possibility has always to be borne in mind with several alleged terrorists facing trial and the well-known habit of terrorist organisations to …'

I was about to switch off when a camera caught an image of Phil Fitzwilliam and Sean Wells. Fitz was looking
up at the shattered windows and his expression was close to one of satisfaction. Wells had missed this, but when Fitz stared appraisingly at Megan, Wells shot him a look of pure contempt.

Early the next morning, I phoned Megan's flat. Hank answered sleepily.

‘It's Cliff. This is important. Don't let Megan out of your sight this morning. Don't let her go for the papers. Don't let her go for a swim. Don't let her do anything but stay with her till you get to the office. Can you secure the door to the street?'

‘What? Yeah, once the other tenants are in. But that means no clients. Why …?'

‘Before they get there, and we'll let them in one at a time. We'll just tell them it goes with the territory of sharing premises with a private eye. What time will you be there, precisely?'

Hank was alert now, sensing my seriousness. ‘You name it.'

It was six twenty-five am, barely light. ‘Eight o'clock sharp. I'll be there. I'll fill you in then.'

‘You'd better do that, Cliff. You've been holding back on me … on us.'

I cut the call and took a big pull on the coffee I'd made to try to pep myself up after a minimal and restless sleep. My next call was to my oldest friend, Frank Parker, retired
deputy commissioner of police but still with consultative roles of various kinds. He answered, only marginally less sleepy than Hank.

‘Frank? Cliff Hardy.'

‘Oh, Jesus, at this hour? I saw the news last night. What trouble are you in now?'

‘Nothing special—bit of murder, intimidation, that sort of thing. I need some information about a certain long-serving, highly discreditable officer.'

‘Are you on a secure line?'

‘Is anyone these days?'

‘True, well, I'll take a risk. That's the way it is with you, Cliff, right?'

‘Keeps you young, Grandpa. Phil Fitzwilliam. I don't want details, just his current status.'

I knew that the police internal affairs unit kept a running check on officers who'd stepped over the line, whether they'd been brought to book or not. One of Frank's unofficial consultancies was with internal affairs. Frank had risen in the ranks through the tumultuous years of the New South Wales police service. Never mentioned in inquiries or Royal Commissions, he'd kept his nose clean through integrity and sheer intelligence—a rare combination in that world. He'd come close to disaster more than once when corrupt officers had tried to draw him in to their conspiracies. On one of these occasions, I'd been able to help him stay clear of the mess. Frank was grateful and loyal and he hated bent cops.

‘Code red,' he said. ‘Very compromised. Heading for a fall.'

‘How hard a fall?'

‘Professionally? Total.'

‘Legally?'

‘Hard to say. Possible he'd do some time. It'd depend on the quality of the lawyers he could afford.'

‘What's the time frame?'

‘Sooner rather than later. Be careful, Cliff. He's not just a money siphon, he's a vicious bastard and word is there are a couple of people under the dirt on his account. Not lately, but … Are you likely to cause him grief?'

‘Maybe.'

‘That'd be nice, but take care.'

I thanked him and rang off. Frank's son, Peter, was my anti-godson—all of us, Frank, his wife Hilde and me being staunch atheists. I'd taught Peter to surf until he was better at it than me. It was a close bond and Lily had been a part of it. I thought about her as I hung up. A freelance journalist, her pursuit of a story about police corruption had resulted in her murder. She'd have enjoyed a target like Phil Fitzwilliam.

I was at the door to the King Street building at a couple of minutes to eight and Hank, carrying a cardboard tray with three coffees on board, turned up on the dot with Megan.

‘You look like you've been peppered with birdshot,' Hank said.

The cuts, now scabbing, made my face feel tight and sore. Smiling hurt, so I didn't smile. Hank looked tired, Megan looked worried; we weren't a happy bunch. I held the coffees while Hank unlocked the door, relocked it and kicked a wedge firmly into place.

‘Unless things have changed we've got about an hour
undisturbed before the others get here,' I said. ‘I've got a bit to tell you.'

I told them. About my longstanding enmity with Phil Fitzwilliam, about his approach and his threat to Hank's licence.

‘You should have told me before,' Hank said.

‘Yeah, but I thought it was bluff and …'

‘You thought you could handle it yourself,' Megan said. ‘Typical.'

‘Something like that. Anyway, I spotted him again giving Margaret and me the eye and there he was again last night.'

Hank worked on his coffee, still antagonistic towards me. ‘Doing what?'

‘Being unpleasant, but I watched TV footage of the Double Bay stuff last night and I saw him taking a look at Megan. That worried me. Phil was notorious for getting to people through their family members. Applying pressure by proxy, sort of.'

‘He can't pressure me,' Megan said. ‘I haven't done anything since a bit of shoplifting when I was twelve. Oh, and one warning for dope possession.'

‘You don't have to have done anything. Phil'd have access to cocaine, heroin, eccies—whatever you like, if he wanted to go that way.'

Megan still looked sceptical. ‘Why would he?'

I finished my coffee. I'd already had some, strong and black, at home and now I was feeling a bit wired after no breakfast and God knows what chemicals in the pills I had to take. I could feel ideas jumping around in my head in no
particular order and with no solid foundation. It must have showed.

‘Are you all right, Cliff?' Megan said. ‘Maybe we should leave this until—'

‘Maybe we shouldn't,' Hank said.

I pulled myself together with an effort. ‘Hank's right. I'm guessing now, trying to make connections, but Frank Parker tells me Fitzwilliam is in the gun with internal affairs. “Compromised”, he said, and likely to need a lot of money for legal help to keep out of jail. I reckon he's in the pocket of whoever doesn't want an investigation of Henry McKinley's death.'

‘Yeah,' Hank said, ‘that plays, but who is it—Tarelton or Lachlan?'

I turned to Megan. ‘What have you come up with on Lachlan?'

She shrugged. ‘Very secretive. Ostensibly some kind of resources exploration outfit, but basically money movers. Registered in the Bahamas. A blog says they launder money, but it's a pretty hysterical blog. More sober sources say they're cashed-up, smallish, keen to grow.'

‘Follow the money,' Hank said.

‘I'm way out on a limb here now,' I said, ‘but if I had to bet I'd like Lachlan for stopping the investigation and Tarelton for disrupting our meeting. My guess is that Tarelton still has hopes of getting through to the water, while Lachlan's worried about anyone finding out what happened to Dr Henry.'

‘What about Lachlan's loan to Tarelton?' Hank said.

‘It'd be small beer compared to what they'd face if they were convicted for arranging the murder of a prize-winning Australian scientist working for the common good.'

We sat around talking the thing over until a hammering on the street door broke up the meeting and Hank let the first of the other tenants in. I could hear him explaining things to the woman who ran a picture framing business and heard her laugh obligingly. Hank has a way about him.

‘You said you had a casual working for you,' I said when Hank returned. ‘The guy who nearly knocked me down the stairs. Apologised nicely but didn't introduce himself.'

‘Ross Crimond. No, you're right. He hasn't been in touch for a time. There were signs he was in after hours the other night—he's got a key and the security code—but I'd have expected a report from him by now.'

‘What's he working on?'

‘Routine stuff—accident claims, process serving.'

‘You say he was in at night. Does he have computer skills?'

‘Of course—why I hired him.'

‘Are you sure of him, Hank?'

Megan had let another tenant in and coming back she caught the tail end of our conversation.

‘I'm not,' she said.

Hank looked uncomfortable. First, he'd learned that I'd held out on him, then that his lover could be targeted by a bad cop, now that she distrusted his professional judgement.

‘Meg,' Hank said, ‘he's OK.'

‘He's a creep. A God-botherer. He wears polo shirts buttoned up to the neck and tucked into his pants.'

‘You Ossies,' Hank snapped, ‘any mention of God and you—'

‘Hold it,' I said. ‘Megan, can you find out whether this … what's his name again?'

‘Ross Crimond,' Hank said.

‘… whether he accessed your stuff on Tarelton, Lachlan and Global.'

‘I think so.'

Worry replaced Hank's troubled look. ‘He shouldn't do anything like that.'

Megan tapped away, swore, tapped some and then swung around. ‘He's been into the files. He knows everything we know.'

‘Maybe just curious,' Hank said.

Megan shook her head. ‘He made copies.'

‘Shit,' Hank said. ‘I should have—'

‘It's not so bad,' Megan said. ‘He doesn't know anything about all this stuff Cliff keeps in his bloody head.'

Hank grinned, glad of her implied support, before he grabbed his mobile, dialled, waited.