Deep Water (17 page)

‘Turned off,' he said.

I said, ‘Leave a message as if things are normal.'

Hank cleared his throat, ‘Hey, Ross, waiting on that report. Check in soon, please.'

‘What's on your mind, Cliff?' he said.

‘Which company seems most likely to spend money getting at your employee and enlisting Phil Fitzwilliam?'

‘Lachlan.' Hank and Megan said the word simultaneously.

‘But,' Megan said, ‘a couple of things trouble me. Why was Terry Dart killed and why didn't the Lachlan heavies search the Myall cottage?'

‘I'm guessing,' I said, ‘but they probably didn't intend to kill Dart. Probably just wanted to snatch him as they did McKinley and find out what he knew. It just went wrong. And whoever took McKinley probably had the brief to do
that and nothing more. All up, you'd have to say they aren't very good at this sort of thing.'

‘That's encouraging,' Hank said.

‘The only way we're going to be able to flush them out is to let them think that we have the answer to the big questions—where the aquifer tapping sites are and the details of the technique. Also, just as important from their point of view, we know who killed McKinley.'

Hank nodded. ‘Information we don't actually have.'

‘I get it,' Megan said. ‘Just suppose Crimond believes we
do
have that information, after he next digs into my files.'

‘Trying not to be smug,' I said. ‘But I have to say I see this as an opportunity.

The three of us put our heads together and concocted a story made up of fictitious interviews, the receipt of fictitious documents and aircraft flight plans. The upshot was that we were reporting to our client that we were in possession of information regarding police corruption and McKinley's discoveries. Megan entered all this into her files on the McKinley case.

Hank left Crimond another telephone message, delivered in a rushed manner, saying that the office would be closed for the afternoon and evening because he and Megan were going to take a joyride flight and then go to an important meeting. He said he hoped to see Crimond's report and expense sheet when he got in next morning.

We reviewed the material, revised it, criticised it.

‘How bright is this guy?' I asked.

‘Bright enough,' Hank said. ‘I mean, efficient.'

Megan looked up from the keyboard. ‘How bright is someone who believes the world was created six thousand years ago?'

‘He's a creationist?' I said.

‘Yup.'

‘When does he think the world's going to end?'

‘Dunno,' Megan said, ‘but I'm sure he's got a view.'

‘I still can't see why he'd cross the line,' Hank said, ‘unless this bad cop of yours has him by the balls.'

‘Could be that,' I said. ‘Or money. Creationists aren't against money. Think of Oral Roberts.'

‘The Hillsong Church,' Megan said.

Hank laughed. ‘OK, you Darwinians. So we stake the place out and see if he takes the bait, right?'

We took turns watching from a cafe across the street at an angle to the office. Two-hour shifts, about as long as the waiters would tolerate someone sitting over two cups of coffee. Crimond arrived late in the afternoon on Hank's watch. Megan and I were nearby in her flat when Hank's call came. Meagan answered and handed me the phone.

‘He's in,' Hank said. ‘Been there a few minutes already. Wouldn't take that long to drop his stuff off.'

‘Where's he parked?'

‘He doesn't drive,' Megan said. ‘He's an environmentalist. A green Christian.'

‘Shit. If he's doing what we think he's doing, it'll seem urgent to him. How does he feel about taxis?'

‘OK,' Hank said, ‘judging from his expense sheets.'

Things in inner-west Sydney aren't the way they are in the movies. There are no taxis sitting, ready to follow other taxis. No spots for a car to idle, waiting to tail another car or a cab. It's a traffic jungle. We did the best we could while contributing to the pollution and the greenhouse effect: Megan and I got in our cars with our mobile phones and
cruised around the area, trying to cover the multiple directions our quarry might take if he caught a taxi.

Twenty minutes later Hank called my mobile. ‘He's on the move in a cab, heading towards the city. I'm fucked. Had to sprint to my car but now I'm heading the other way on King. He's stuck at the lights, but I'm just inching along, no way to get round.'

I was out of it, too, going down Enmore Road. I phoned Megan with the information. ‘Where're you?'

‘Yee-hah, I'm in King Street at the Missenden Road lights and I see a taxi coming towards me in a little bunch of other vehicles. Has to be him.'

Fine
, I thought,
plan working, but why did it have to be her?
A protective part of me wanted to ditch it, and part of me didn't. I turned left, trying to snake my way back in the right direction. I dived through a small gap, probably causing road rage before I answered her.

‘Follow him. We'll fall in behind and catch you as soon as we can. Be careful, love. Be very careful.'

Megan and Hank had hands free communication in their cars; I didn't, so I broke the law by staying in touch with them on the mobile. Megan kept the taxi in sight and kept up a running commentary as Hank and I tried to catch up—difficult in the thick, late afternoon traffic. Megan was enjoying herself. That worried me.

I was reminded of the John Cleese commercial for golf balls where he said in mock Scots: ‘It's a Scottish game—it was no meant to be fun.' This business wasn't meant to be fun, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. The thing is, it isn't
always
fun, and Megan had yet to find that out. She'd kicked a would-be arsonist downstairs and now she was following a taxi like Bogart in
The Maltese Falcon
. High
points; the low points would come. I didn't want them to. I didn't want her in the business. I didn't want the responsibility.

I wrestled with these thoughts as I tracked Megan over the Harbour Bridge. Hank passed me, let me know he was doing it, and I had conflicting thoughts about him, too:
Hiring a creationist? Critical of us sceptics?

Hank called me. ‘Got her in sight, looks to be headed towards Manly.'

He hung up and Megan called. ‘Manly,' she said, ‘and guess whose headquarters are in Manly? Lachlan Enterprises. The cab's heading that way—see you there, and don't even say it, Cliff—I won't let him spot me.'

‘Cruise past,' I said. ‘Stop as near as you can where you can't be seen and point it out to us.'

We met up in a street beside Ivanhoe Park. Megan pointed across to an office building that went up about as high as regulations allowed in the area.

‘Pretty good taxi ride,' I said. ‘Wonder if he'll put it on his expense sheet.'

‘He better not,' Hank said grimly, ‘the son of a bitch. That was great work, Meg, keeping the cab in sight all that way.'

‘It's in the genes,' I said.

We stood, looking across at the building in the fading light. The breeze from the water did the things it always does in Sydney—lifted the spirits, whetted the appetite and the thirst.

‘They're up there chewing over the bogus information,' Megan said. ‘So important that he had to do it in person, not with a phone call. The question is, who in the Lachlan mob is in the game?'

‘The dirty work'd be contracted out,' I said, ‘but someone inside Lachlan'd be handling the operation.'

‘I can get a list of the principals,' Megan said.

Hank stretched to his full 195 centimetre height; the muscles in his back and shoulders pushed his jacket up and the sleeves were stretched tight by his biceps and triceps and other muscles most of us don't have or know about. ‘Fuck that,' he said. ‘We need to have a meeting with Ross.'

I could feel tension building between the pair and didn't want it to go any higher. ‘It's a nice night,' I said, ‘and we're in magnificent Manly. I vote we talk about it over a few drinks and something to eat.'

‘Your solution for just about everything,' Megan said.

Not a great start.

We found a fish restaurant near the water. If there's a better meal than grilled barramundi with chips and salad and dry white wine I don't know what it is. We all opted for the same thing—the beginning, I hoped, of restored harmony. The first few glasses would help, too.

‘I'll be the mug,' Megan said when she'd demolished half of her meal. ‘What say we assemble everything we have and turn it over to the police. They grill Ross-baby, investigate Lachlan and like that.'

I shook my head. ‘We haven't got enough on Crimond. A good lawyer'd give him protection and probably threaten Hank with a suit for something—slander, unfair dismissal.'

Hank nodded. ‘The cops probably wouldn't touch it. It's all too … loose.'

Megan speared a chip. ‘So?'

Hank said, ‘I vote we put the pressure on Ross to name names.'

Megan looked doubtful; she nibbled at an impaled chip. ‘Threatening him with what? Violence?'

Hank shrugged.

I'd been digesting what we knew as well as the good food. I had a clean plate and an empty glass. I grabbed the wine bottle and poured the last of it—a small measure for each of us. It was the second bottle. We'd need coffee and a walk before taking to our cars.

‘We've established the connection,' I said. ‘Good first step. Now we have to hook them firmly and get them to show their hand.'

‘How?' Megan said.

‘By convincing them that we know, or are close to knowing, what McKinley discovered and that we've got a lead on who killed him.'

‘You said that. I still say how?'

‘I'm open to suggestions.'

‘Don't be coy, Cliff,' Hank said. ‘What've you got in mind?'

‘We have to draw someone, anyone'll do, from Lachlan out into the open. We're pretty sure McKinley was picked up in Myall. We've got the evidence, the specs. What if we've discovered a witness?'

Hank and Megan exchanged looks. ‘You cunning bastard,' Hank said.

I nodded. ‘Thank you. I'm not saying it'll work, but we've identified what they believe to be a mole—sorry for the spook-talk—inside our operation. We've already fed him some disinformation. We can feed him some more—like a meeting we're arranging somewhere with a fictitious witness.'

Hank signalled for the waiter and ordered three long black coffees. ‘They'd want their hard guy, the contractor, there for a meeting like that.'

I drank the last of my wine. ‘I would.'

‘A fictitious witness,' Megan said. ‘Jesus, we'll need to be inventive.'

‘Jesus could just be the key,' I said.

I was introduced to Ross Crimond in Hank's office the next day. He'd come in, he said, to discuss the report and expense sheet he'd dropped in the night before, but it was clear he was looking to hang around, hoping to pick up additional bits of information. He was thirtyish, fair, freckled, stocky. He was one of those people that the loosening up of dress, language and manners that had started in the sixties seemed to have passed by. He wore neat trousers, shirt and tie and a jacket. His shoes had been polished recently. Nerdy, you'd call him, until you saw the body language and heard him talk. He spoke in a deep confident voice and moved like a dancer. Hank had told me that he had a business and criminology degree from Bond University and had won medals as a fencer. He'd passed the TAFE PEA course with flying colours and done a few yards as an insurance investigator.

His handshake was firm and I remembered his steadying hand on the stairs. ‘Mr Hardy,' he said, ‘heard a lot about you. Glad to meet you. Goodness, it was you on the stairs.'

‘Cliff,' I said. ‘No harm done.'

‘You lectured at the Petersham TAFE a few years before I got there.'

‘Hardly that,' I said. ‘I gave a few talks—brought in a few cops and crims as props.'

‘You were a legend.'

I shrugged. ‘You seem to have all the right tickets, Ross. If you don't mind me asking, why're you slumming as a casual in this crummy outfit?'

A strike against him right there—no sense of humour. He took a beat or two to reply and said, ‘I intended to make this my profession, but quite recently I received the Lord Jesus Christ into my life and now I'm in training to be a minister in the Soul Saviour Church.'

‘Good luck,' I said. ‘Costs money does it, the training?'

‘Not that much, but the more one can contribute to the congregation the better one prays, and performs at everything.'

‘That's what's wanted, performance,' I said. ‘Hey, Hank, how was the joy flight? Did you find McKinley's pilot?'

Hank looked up from his computer. ‘Working on it.'

Crimond smiled. ‘Joy flight. That sounds nice. Business or pleasure?'

‘Business,' Hank said. ‘We've got this case—dead geologist looking for something worth a zillion. We got a tip he was looking from the air. We're trying to find the pilot who took him up. I've got a licence myself. Went for a spin with Meg yesterday just to get familiarised at the airport. Could be a long haul. This report's fine, Ross, and the expenses are on the light side. You could spread yourself a bit more.'

‘Can I help with this case you've got?'

‘Maybe,' Hank said. ‘Come in here and we'll talk about it.'

Megan went on with her work at the computer and I took myself off to the gym. I'd neglected my workouts for a few days, and I felt the effects of the lay-off when I got on the first machine. There are two schools of thought in this situation: one says push through it at the level you're used to, and the other says take it a bit easier. I go with the latter. Wesley Scott wandered out of his office and watched me on the seated rower.