Deep Water (18 page)

‘Haven't seen you lately, man.'

I tried not to sound short of breath when I answered but I couldn't help it. ‘Busy.'

‘Cemetery's full of busy men not so busy now.'

‘You're a ray of sunshine, Wes.'

‘I like to remind people that an hour and a dollar spent here saves money on your hospital bills. You're doing OK, Cliff. Just don't slack off. Let's see another set.'

Back in the office I found Crimond gone, Megan off for a swim, and Hank looking pleased with himself.

‘How'd it go?' I asked.

‘I think he bought it. I went with your suggestion—told him we might possibly have a witness to McKinley being taken away, but we weren't sure. I said the party was a very religious person and you and Megan, as unbelievers, weren't sure of his sanity.'

‘That's good,' I said. ‘You were extemporising there, mate.'

‘Sure. I said we were trying to line up a meeting with him and a person from his church and that maybe Ross could be useful at the meeting.'

‘He lapped it up?'

‘He's not dumb, Cliff. Don't make that mistake now that he's a player. He questioned me a bit and I fed him
some stuff about the spectacles that helped to convince him. I mentioned the village. As I say, I think he went for it.'

‘Good. Sounds as if you handled it just right.'

‘So now we set up a meeting with the imaginary witness, with Ross invited along, and he tells Lachlan and they send someone. We grab that someone and pressure him and Ross and … what can go wrong?'

‘Everything,' I said.

‘You're mad,' Megan said when we outlined the plan. ‘You mean you intend to trot along to some dodgy meeting and confront the person, or persons, who killed Henry McKinley and torched his body?'

‘Not without back-up,' I said.

‘The police?'

‘Not yet.'

Megan was right; it was time to stop going it alone. I was about to explain the next part of the plan when my mobile rang.

‘Mr Hardy, this is Susan O'Neil.'

‘Yes, Dr O'Neil.'

‘I handed in my notice at Tarelton. They reacted furiously and threatened to sue me for breaking my contract, which isn't true, strictly speaking. I was wrestling with that when I got a call from Lachlan Enterprises offering me a job at a higher salary with better conditions. I mentioned the difficulty I was having with Tarelton and they offered to meet any legal costs I might incur. What's going on? It's all about Henry, isn't it? I feel I'm caught in the middle of something I don't understand, and my professional reputation is a sort of football.'

‘You're exactly right,' I said, ‘but we think things are coming together. My advice is to keep your head down for a time. Say, a week. Can you do that?'

She said she could and I told her I'd keep her in touch with developments.

‘You're juggling a few balls, you two,' Megan said.

I nodded. ‘Quite a few and more to come.'

Hank and I had discussed the next move. He called Dimarco at Global Resources and gave him an outline of how things stood—our belief that Lachlan Enterprises was behind McKinley's death and our confidence that Global wasn't involved.

The conversation was on broadcast: ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,' Dimarco said. ‘And what about the results of Dr McKinley's research?'

‘That's still uncertain.'

Megan raised an eyebrow.

Dimarco said, ‘Well, that's very interesting but why're you talking to me?'

‘Your rivals,' Hank said, ‘in this and I'd guess other things, are Tarelton and Lachlan. Tarelton's in financial trouble, borrowing money, losing staff. Lachlan lent them money and are worried about getting it back, let alone a return. They're trying to poach Tarelton's people. We have a scheme to prove their involvement in McKinley's death. That'd be devastating for them, good for you.'

‘I can see that,' Dimarco said. ‘But I still don't see—'

‘We need your help.'

Hank told Dimarco in very general terms about our entrapment plans. He said that when the meeting took place we'd need him present as a witness and the help of some of Global's security people. You can't go wrong
appealing to the ego of corporations and their executives. There was a distinctly eager note in Dimarco's voice when he said he'd discuss the proposition with CEO Holland.

‘How's he doing?' Hank asked.

‘He's healing, but he's angry. I think we can do business.'

Hank told him he'd be in touch about the meeting and they could make strategic plans.

When he'd finished the call, Megan turned to her computer and began scrolling through files.

‘Hah,' she said, ‘according to these notes, Hank, you reckoned that Dimarco and this copper Wells were seeing eye to eye. Dimarco'll tell him all about this.'

‘He will,' I said, ‘when we're ready for him to do just that.'

We agreed to set up the meeting for two nights ahead at my house. There were plenty of places for our back-up team to hide themselves—upstairs, in the jungle of vine and creeper at the side of the place and at the back of the block where it dipped down sharply and there were neglected and overgrown bushes.

‘A homey atmosphere,' I said, ‘makes for confidence.'

‘It'll take careful orchestrating—choreographing, really,' Megan said. ‘The Lachlan people'll want to see a real witness.'

‘Any suggestions?'

‘Ross knows all of us,' Hank said. ‘We need a cleanskin.'

‘Patrick,' Megan said. ‘He'd be perfect, and he'd jump at the chance.'

‘I bet he would,' Hank said.

Patrick Fox-James was an actor and musician. He and
Megan had been on together for a few years; they'd performed in plays and done a two-hander comedy act on a Pacific cruise boat. The relationship had fizzled out. I never knew why. Hank's jealousy was understandable. Actors—you could never tell about them. But Megan was right; Fox-James could play the part and the danger involved wouldn't deter him. He'd done his own stunts in some television work. He looked like an aesthete, but was physically tough and courageous. We persuaded Hank.

We left it there for the time being. As Megan said, it was going to be tricky: we had to draw Crimond in and give him time to contact the players at Lachlan; we had to work on Dimarco, anticipate his moves, and eventually agree to allow a police presence. Choreography.

I left Hank and Megan not on the very best of terms. As Bob Dylan says, ‘How much do we have to pay for going through these things twice?' Or more than twice. Relationships have their own dynamic and agendas and you intervene at your peril.

I walked home. King Street was buzzing and would buzz until the early hours. The evening was cool and I kept up a brisk pace going through Victoria Park to the Glebe Point Road intersection. Glebe at night used to be more like Newtown, busier than it was now. Gentrification had quietened it down. I bought some Lebanese takeaway and cleanskin white wine and prepared for another lonely night. I was in a strange mood as I made my way down towards the water: I missed Lily but my thoughts turned quite often to Margaret McKinley; I was working again, but not really working, not in the old way.

I reached my gate and juggled the food and wine as I scrabbled for my keys. I heard a sound, caught a smell, then felt a stabbing pain in the small of my back.
A kidney punch!
I dropped everything and turned to hit back but a blow to the side of my head blurred my vision. Another blow blacked me out. Funny things happen in moments like that—all I registered as the darkness closed in was that the wine bottle hadn't broken.

When I came to, I found myself in my own living room, with a plastic restraint anchoring my right wrist to the arm of the sofa. A damp towel hit me in the face.

‘Fix yourself up a bit, Hardy. You're a mess.'

The voice was familiar, but my vision was still fuzzy. I used the wet towel to clear my eyes and then pressed it against the aching places on my head. A lighter clicked and I smelled tobacco and smoke. Phil Fitzwilliam lounged against the wall near where I sat. He drew on his cigarette and flicked ash on the carpet.

‘I warned you, Hardy.'

The cool towel felt good against the throbbing spots. I blinked several times and began to feel as if I might be able to talk and function. I'd been wrong about Fitz: a direct approach; not one of his sideways jobs as in the past. What did that mean? Confidence? Desperation?

‘You're out on a long, thin limb here, Phil.'

‘I wouldn't say that.'

He took a ballpoint pen from the breast pocket of his jacket, reached into another pocket and fished out a pistol.
He wiped the pistol with a handkerchief and put the pen up the barrel. He opened the door of the cupboard under the stairs and shoved the pistol deep into the jumble inside. Then he shut the door and opened it, feigning surprise.

‘What's this? Looks like an illegal weapon, traceable to a serious wounding, with your fingerprints on it. With your record …'

‘What about the coke and the paedophiliac porn?'

‘No need. I can guarantee you some time inside, Hardy, and you and I know there are people in there who'll be pleased to see you.'

‘They'll be more pleased to see you when your time comes.'

He smiled. ‘Never happen.'

The ash on his cigarette was long now. He reached to the nearest bookshelf, turned the photograph of Lily over, and carefully deposited the ash on top of it.

‘That cunt got what she deserved.'

I shook my head, even though it hurt. ‘Phil, Phil, you're a worried man. Internal affairs are breathing down your neck. You say I've got enemies in jail—you've got 'em inside and outside. I'd say that Sean Wells'd like to see you in the protection unit at the Bay. Probably wouldn't visit except to see how stressed you were.'

‘All manageable.'

‘Yeah, maybe. With money. How much is Tarelton paying you to run interference?'

‘Who says anyone's paying me? Maybe I just hate your guts.'

‘You never did anything on impulse, Phil. There was always a quid in it for you. And we're talking about a big quid here. D'you know about this water thing?'

Fitzwilliam was never hard to read. Until I used the magic word, he was getting ready to drop his butt on the carpet and stamp it out, but he changed his mind. He lifted his foot, stubbed the cigarette on his heel and dropped the butt on the upturned photograph.

‘What about water?'

‘They're keeping you in the dark, mate. A guy named McKinley was working for Tarelton. He discovered a way to solve the city's water problem forever and a day. Then he got killed, as you'd know. Hank and I were investigating the murder for McKinley's daughter. Tarelton became uneasy, made some funny moves we caught on to. They wanted to stop our investigation and see if some way could still be found to turn on the tap, if you follow me. What did they tell you? Let me guess. They said we were looking for evidence to back the daughter's duty of care suit and that they were facing a big payout and needed your help. That's bullshit.'

‘Fuck you. You always talked a blue streak, Hardy, and got yourself out of trouble. Not this time.'

But I knew I'd got to him. At his best, Fitzwilliam was quietly menacing, but it could turn to bluster when he lost confidence. I'd seen it before in the witness box, and it was obvious again now.

‘Tarelton's in trouble,' I said. ‘There're two other players in the game. Tarelton borrowed big money from one of them and is under pressure. These three are all still hoping to get in on the water deal. Tarelton's got at least one shadow minister on side and the others've probably done the same. It's state and federal politics and international capitalism, Phil. Too big for you, too big for us, but we can still get something out of it if we play it smart.'

Fitzwilliam lit another cigarette. ‘You've just about lost me, but go on.'

‘There's some guesswork in it from us, but it looks like this: Tarelton hired a shooter to break up the meeting between Hank and me and Global Enterprises—that's one of the other players. The shots were aimed high—no real risk to life or limb. The guy from Global copped some flying glass. I suspect you arranged that, but … never mind.'

‘The fuck do you mean, never mind?'

‘We think the other player was responsible for McKinley's death and probably another one. That's who we're after.'

‘A couple of cowboys, that's what you two are. Even if I believed this bullshit you'd never stand a chance against these big companies. They've got money to burn and more lawyers than you can shake a stick at.'

I shrugged. ‘Have it your own way. In any case, we're not interested in Tarelton. There's no reason for you to put the moves on us.'

‘Like I say, maybe I just want to.'

‘Look, Phil, you can do yourself some good out of this. Pick up some points you're going to need when internal affairs come down on you.'

‘Who says they will?'

‘I have my sources.'

‘Fucking Parker.'

Just the mention of the name seemed to bring the trouble hanging over him closer to his mind. He dropped more ash on the floor.

‘For Christ's sake go out to the kitchen and get a bloody ashtray. I'm not going anywhere.'

He did, returning with another cigarette alight and a saucer. He had a decent slug of my whisky in a glass. He settled into a chair and stared at me. He sipped, crossed his legs, trying for casual and not making it.

‘Go on,' he said, ‘entertain me.'

‘You know how it works. It's tit for tat. If you were in on a successful murder prosecution—exposing corporate corruption, protecting the public interest—a lot of your transgressions would be downgraded, even forgiven. It'd be worth a whole lot more to you than putting a couple of private eyes out of business.'