Deep Water (4 page)

I phoned the Montifiore Gallery, got the proprietor, and made an appointment to see her early in the evening. I drew a blank at both the home and business numbers for Terry Dart. I left voicemail messages at both numbers.

The gallery was in Harris Street, Ultimo, a walk away. I arrived at six pm as people were turning up for the opening of a new exhibition. The artists were a sculptor and painter whose names were unknown to me, which didn't mean anything—I couldn't name a single Australian sculptor alive or dead and very few live painters. The first challenge was the stairs—steep, concrete, two long flights. The other first-nighters were mostly young and handling the stairs easily.
Come on, Hardy
, I thought,
you can do it
.
I did, at a respectable pace, with only a little help from the rail on the last few steps.

The gallery was a large expanse, painted white with big windows letting in the last of the daylight and lights strategically placed to take over and flatter the exhibits. The crowd was a mixture of the affluent and the scruffy, possibly the scruffy trying to look affluent and the affluent trying to look scruffy. The paintings were abstracts that my eye skated over as though they weren't there; the sculptures were well-wrought wooden pieces—skeletons of boats, boldly carved figurines reminiscent of Nolan's Ned Kelly work and others difficult to interpret but interesting to look at. As the room filled, most attention focused on the sculptures and gave me the feeling that the red stickers would be coming out soon.

I made my way to the bar where a couple of kids barely old enough to drink were serving red and white wine. I accepted a glass of red for my heart's sake and asked if Marion Montifiore was present. One of the youngsters pointed to a fortyish woman with silver hair and dressed stylishly in black. She was talking animatedly about one of the paintings to a fat man in a suit who seemed more interested in her than the art work. That wasn't surprising. She was strikingly good looking with olive skin, dark eyes and features bordering on perfection. A matronly, overdressed woman led the fatty away and I approached before anyone else could nab her.

‘Ms Montifiore? Cliff Hardy. We spoke on the phone this afternoon.'

It was one of those occasions when you like to present a card to obviate some explanations. It crossed my mind that I should get one—reading
Cliff Hardy
… and then what?

She turned her Tuscan eyes on me. ‘Oh yes, about dear Henry McKinley.'

Her voice sounded as if it had been tuned to perfect pitch.

‘I didn't realise it was an opening night. I'd have come at another time.'

‘No, no, at these things you need all the bodies you can get. I saw you taking an interest in the sculptures. They're good, aren't they?'

‘You saw …?'

She touched my non-drinking arm. ‘I have eyes in the back of my head and at the sides. This is going quite well, I think. I can spare a few minutes. Come with me.'

I followed her through a door off to one side near the bar. The office was small, plain and furnished and equipped in impeccable taste. She sat on the corner of the teak desk; I stood. The chair on offer looked so comfortable I'd have been reluctant to leave it.

‘I'm hoping you can tell me something about Henry McKinley,' I said.

That brought a frown. ‘I don't understand. I thought you were going to be able to tell me …'

I shook my head. ‘I'm sort of acting for his daughter who I met in America. She said she'd contacted you.'

‘She did, but I told her I hadn't heard from Henry since his exhibition. I said I'd get in touch if I heard anything, but …' Her shrug was eloquent.

‘Tell me about the exhibition.'

‘Oh, it was a very small thing—four pen and ink artists with ten pieces each. I'd have to say that Henry's weren't the very best but someone obviously thought they were.'

‘How's that?'

‘Someone bought all ten. No, nine. One was slightly damaged and withdrawn at the last minute.'

‘Who bought them?'

‘I'm not sure I should—'

‘Look, the man is missing. His daughter is worried sick and she's commissioned a private detective to investigate his disappearance. I'm working with that detective. I can give you a number to check on what I'm saying.'

I must have projected intensity, sincerity, something, because she suddenly looked concerned. The serene, beautiful mask cracked. ‘He … he paid in cash. It wasn't a lot. Three hundred and fifty dollars for each. A little over three thousand dollars in all.'

‘Carried them away under his arm?'

‘Of course not. I tagged them and they stayed for the rest of the exhibition period. It was only ten days.'

‘Then what?'

‘Someone came to collect them, showing the receipt.'

‘Is all that legal? What about GST, commissions, certificates?'

‘It wasn't a lot of money and I knew Henry would be thrilled. Any artist would.'

‘But he didn't get to see the red stickers.'

‘No. I have to get back.'

‘In a minute. I assume you took your commission. What is it—twenty per cent?'

‘Forty.'

‘Jesus. I'm in the wrong game. Describe the man and tell me about the drawings.'

I'd heard that people in the art business were tough and Marion Montifiore bore that out now. She moved off the desk and towards a cupboard. ‘I haven't the least recollection
of what he looked like. He was unremarkable. As for the drawings I don't have to describe them. I have the damaged one here. They were all much the same.'

She took something wrapped in brown paper from the cupboard.

‘You can take it. You can tell Henry's daughter I have several hundred dollars held here which I suppose she can claim if …'

‘Several hundred?'

‘The total sale amount minus my commission and the rental fee the artists pay.' She thrust the package at me. ‘Please go!'

The crowd had thinned out a little while we'd been talking. Fatty and his possessive partner had gone and there was almost no one taking an interest in the paintings. I was drawn back to the sculptures—particularly to the largest of the skeleton boats. The artist's name was Robert Hawkins and what he'd done to this beautiful piece of timber made you feel that something new and fine had come into the world under his hands. With Lily's money, I could have afforded to buy it, but I had nowhere to put it worthy of its quality.

I saw Marion Montifiore glaring at me from across the room, so I deliberately took my time examining the boat and other pieces. She could hardly order me to leave. I took out my cheque book, but all I did was scribble the artist's name down on the back of it. Petty, but she'd got under my skin. I didn't usually rub people up the wrong way as badly as I had her. Had to wonder if I was losing my touch.

I restrained my curiosity about the drawing until I got home. I'd left half of my red on Marion's desk, so I poured myself a glass and took a swig before tackling the wrapping. Her wine was better than mine, but she could afford it. Judging by what she said about her business, I wouldn't have been surprised if the artists had to pay for the opening.

I slid the drawing, on stiff, high-quality paper, out of its cardboard cylinder, unrolled it and spread it on the table, holding down the corners with books. I stared at the bold strokes, the white spaces and inked-in areas with total incomprehension at first. The more I looked the more certain associations formed. But they were very vague. I had
the impression of something spacious, possibly circular and very much part of the physical world. An interpretation, perhaps an imaginative representation of something real. Or was I kidding myself?

Henry McKinley's signature appeared in small but clear letters near the bottom right hand corner, and the word ‘North' appeared in slightly larger letters above it.
North? What did that mean?
I drank some more wine, usually an
aid to thinking, but nothing else came to me. Marion Montifiore had said that the drawings were all similar, a set. So were the others South, East and West? And what else? North-east, North-west etc?

A crease ran from a few inches down on the left hand side to a few inches in at the top. It barely touched the drawing and was slight. I'd have been happy to smooth it out, shove the thing under glass and hope for the best. But then, I'm content with prints of the few pictures I like—a bit of Vincent, a bit of Brett,
Blue Poles
.

I thought it through as I finished the wine and set about making one of my three or four standard dishes—shepherd's pie. Obviously, the drawings meant something to the man who'd paid a fair amount of money for them. And he didn't buy them for their artistic merit because if he'd had an expert eye for the work he'd have noticed that the other artists had ten pieces on display and Henry only nine.
Where's the other one?
I'd have said.
And here's another two-fifty and bugger the damage.

I needed access to Henry's house to see whether he'd left any information about the drawings. To be legitimate, that meant getting Hank to follow up the missing persons report and have the police enter the house. Legitimate, but not much use. There was no way the police would allow me to go in and, much as I trusted Hank's instincts in general, I needed to do the investigation myself. I needed to know whether my impressions of the drawing bore any relation to reality. I might come across drafts or notes. And if I stumbled across other things to do with Henry's employment, well, so much the better. There were ways to get into locked houses and I knew quite a few of them.

I put the drawing back into the cylinder and locked it
in a strongbox where I keep things like my passport, my birth certificate, divorce papers and the acknowledgement that I'd paid out the mortgage. I took the medication to control my cholesterol and thin my blood and went to bed. I thought I'd sleep well after the long walks but I didn't. The disappearance of Henry McKinley, the purchase of his drawings, the reticence shown by his employers had worked their way into me and I couldn't stop thinking about the usual questions—who, when, why, how? Those sorts of questions, with no answers coming through, can keep you awake.

I got up and settled into an armchair to read Julian Barnes's novel
Arthur and George
, and let the questions slip away as the old, empty house creaked and hummed around me.

I slept late. Went out for the paper and saw that the opposition was holding its lead over the government a week into the election campaign. I was absorbing this in satisfying detail and drinking coffee with more pills lined up, when the phone rang.

‘Mr Hardy? This is Josephine Dart. You telephoned yesterday.'

‘Yes, Mrs Dart. Thanks for calling. It's about Henry McKinley. I take it Terry Dart is your husband. I'm told he and McKinley are friends.'

I heard her draw in a breath and a change come over her voice. ‘They
were
friends, very close friends. My husband was run down and killed by a hit and run driver when he was out cycling.'

‘I'm very sorry. When did this happen?'

‘A few weeks ago. Not long after Henry's daughter telephoned from America. Terry was very worried about Henry. I've heard of you, Mr Hardy. You were in the news earlier in the year, weren't you?'

‘That's right.'

‘You're a private investigator. Are you investigating Henry's disappearance?'

‘Not officially, no. I'm … just looking into it for his daughter who I met in California. She gave me your number.'

‘I want you to investigate Terry's death. It was murder, I'm sure of it.'

‘I think we should talk,' I said.

Josephine Dart lived in Dover Heights in an apartment complex one block back from where the land drops abruptly down to the water. I had to check for the street in the directory, and I noticed that the Dart address was more or less directly in line with McKinley's address across the peninsula. Dover Heights isn't a busy part of Sydney. There are more apartments than houses, mostly with garages, so the streets aren't cluttered. No shops to speak of and no beach. The suburb gives the impression of having nothing to be busy about.

Apartments command high prices though, given the proximity to more exciting places, especially if a view is part of the deal. Good security. I was buzzed in and instructed to take the lift or the stairs. I'd chosen to walk from where I'd parked, mostly uphill, and I took the stairs to support my fitness regime. Standing outside the security door, I could see that the Darts had the whole package. The unit
was three flights up and on the side of a building that was at the right angle to command a view south to Bondi, north towards Watson's Bay and east to New Zealand.

Josephine Dart was tiny, barely 150 centimetres in her high heels. She was perfectly groomed with a helmet of black hair, a pearl necklace and a blue silk dress. Her makeup was discreet, emphasising her large eyes and high cheekbones. She looked like a former ballerina, not that I'd ever met a ballerina, former or otherwise. Her voice was surprisingly strong, coming from such a small frame.

‘Please come in, Mr Hardy. I've made coffee. I hope you drink coffee. So many people don't these days.'

The short passage gave onto a living room set up to be lived in. There was a leather couch, a couple of matching chairs, a coffee table, a magazine holder, TV and a sound system and bookshelves. None of it was excessively tidy: a few magazines drooped from the holder; there were loose CDs and DVDs sitting beside their racks; some of the books had been shelved flat. The room was dominated by two ceiling to floor windows leading out to a wide balcony. Some cloud had drifted over, muting the light, but the view could only be described as an eyeful.

‘Sit down. I'll get the coffee.'

I prowled the bookshelves—an eclectic lot, in no particular order, ranging from sport to philosophy. Lance Armstrong's
It's Not About the Bike
sat next to
A Brief History of Time.
There was a strong showing of battered green and orange Penguins.