Deep Water (5 page)

Mrs Dart returned with the coffee things on a tray. She pushed the morning paper aside on the coffee table and put the tray down.

She saw me inspecting the bookshelves.

‘Terry was a great reader, from utter rubbish to quantum physics. I'm middlebrow, I'm afraid—biographies, memoirs and well-written thrillers. How do you take your coffee?'

I told her I took it black without sugar. She kept making inconsequential remarks as she poured and I judged that she was holding various emotions in—grief, anger, frustration. The coffee was excellent and I said so.

She sipped and nodded. ‘Somebody killed my husband. I don't know why. We were childless. He was my life and I can't just let it go as if …'

She shook her head and drank some more coffee.

‘I understand,' I said. ‘You said your husband and Henry McKinley were close?'

‘They were
very
close, like brothers. They shared …' She broke off and stared out of the window. The cloud had cleared and the view was stunning, but she wasn't seeing it. She was looking at something else, something inner. It was almost embarrassing to be present and I drank some coffee for protection.

‘They shared almost everything—the same interests—geology, the outdoors, drawing, photography, cycling. I once said they ought to get a tandem bicycle and go riding on the one machine because they rode together so much. A sort of private joke …'

Geology, drawing, photography—was that a fatal connection?

I said, ‘You'll have to tell me everything that happened.'

She left the room and came back with a folder containing a number of newspaper clippings. The tabloid and the broadsheet had reported on the death of Terence Dart, fifty-seven, of Dover Heights in a hit and run accident. Dart's
body had been discovered at 6.05 am by a jogger on New South Head Road. He'd been thrown violently from his bike, which was a crushed ruin, and had died from massive injuries. Police called for anyone who might have been in the area when it happened to come forward. No one did, although there must have been light traffic at the time.

‘I had Charles Morgan, my solicitor, press the police for details which they were very reluctant to reveal, but he did manage to learn that there were no skid marks, no signs of the vehicle swerving or losing control, even momentarily. Terry was deliberately killed.'

I sifted through the clippings. ‘I think you're right. Did your husband wear a helmet?'

‘He did, of course, always. But the autopsy showed that his injuries were to the neck and the upper part of the spine where the helmet offers no protection.'

She selected one of the clippings and pointed to a paragraph. ‘The jogger said the bike was a ruin. Doesn't that suggest a terrific impact at a great speed?'

I nodded. It was clear what she was doing. Focusing on the forensic detail was helping her to keep grief at bay and herself together. She was going to make me part of that process and I was willing. I asked her about her husband's profession and the friendship with McKinley.

‘Terry was a seismologist on a contract with the CSIRO. So of course he was interested in rock formations and the like. This wretched government had cut back on research funds so he was frustrated at being unable to pursue things as far as he would've liked. He said he was being phased out and had nothing to do but fill in forms and shuffle them. He and Henry argued about whether the private sector or the government sector held out the most
promise. I couldn't follow the details, but I think they came to the conclusion that …'

‘What?'

‘That it really didn't matter. Government was in bed with business, business was in bed with government and science didn't matter a hang. Terry had some hopes that things might change, but …'

‘Were they working together on anything? Informally maybe?'

She shrugged. ‘Who can say? They rode their bikes for miles in all directions, further than I'd care to drive. They certainly … looked at things, took photos.'

‘And Henry made drawings.'

‘I suppose so. What are you getting at?'

I told her about the drawings and the mysterious buyer and the one that had slipped through the net. I said I'd show it to her to see if it gave her any ideas. That reassured her about my interest. I asked if I could look at her husband's workroom—his files, his photographs. She agreed. Then I popped the real question.

‘And I need to do the same with Henry McKinley. Do you know who his lawyer is?'

‘No. But that's not a problem, Mr Hardy. Not if you agree to follow this up for me.'

I nodded. ‘As I said, I'm not officially engaged. I can look into whatever seems relevant.'

‘I can pay you.'

‘It's not an issue at this point, Mrs Dart.'

She looked up at me but it wasn't me she was seeing—it was something or someone else. I caught a flash of a sexual signal, quickly suppressed.

‘Terry had a key to Henry's house. I have it right here.'

* * *

One of the rooms in the three-bedroom apartment served as Terry Dart's study. It was orderly, with a filing cabinet, bookcases, a laptop computer and printer and the usual jars with pencils and pens sticking out. I opened the filing cabinet, which was only sparsely filled with folders bearing names I didn't understand. Seismological terms. The books were mostly about that subject and related ones—vulcanicity, glaciation. He'd evidently read up a bit on global warming and alternative energy as well as the water crisis in Australia and elsewhere. The only personal touches were a set of trophies sitting on top of the bookcase.

Josephine Dart had sat in the room's easy chair while I made my inspection. ‘Terry was very proud of those,' she said. ‘He said they stood for aching muscles and gallons of sweat.'

Dart had evidently won a couple of long-distance road races and placed in a few more. ‘He must've been good.'

‘Good. Yes, when he was younger, but not at the top level. It didn't bother him. He was a lovely, calm, kind, considerate man from the day I met him until the morning he rode off. It's so bloody unfair.'

Something about the room bothered me. I opened the drawers in the desk—printer paper, cheque books, invoices, a postcode book, staples, printer cartridges, expended and new.

‘What?' Mrs Dart said.

‘Something's missing.'

She looked carefully. ‘Everything's as he left it.'

It came to me in a flash. ‘Where's his briefcase?'

She got up quickly. ‘He kept it tucked down between the desk and the filing cabinet.'

The space, wide enough to hold a sizeable briefcase, was empty.

‘Mrs Dart, have many people been in the flat since your husband died?'

She nodded. ‘We had a wake … a party. My brother organised it. Terry was an only child. Terry would have liked it—they played some of his favourite music—“Bolero” and “The Ritual Fire Dance” and things from
Carmen
. There were quite a few people—neighbours and from the CSIRO and the cycling club. I didn't know them all.'

‘Did anyone comment on McKinley not being there?'

‘Of course,' she said sadly. ‘It was a talking point.'

I asked her if she'd come with me when I inspected Henry McKinley's house but she refused.

‘I went there quite often. Sometimes with Terry, sometimes without,' she said. ‘We had some wonderful times together. I don't think I could bear to see it all empty and … dead.'

She produced five keys on a ring. I asked whether she wanted some kind of authorisation from McKinley's daughter or the private detective she'd hired.

‘I thought you were the private detective.'

That was ticklish, but something I had to get used to. ‘I'm more or less retired. I'm just doing this as a favour to Ms McKinley. She was a nurse in the hospital in California when I had a heart attack.'

‘My goodness! You look fit now.'

‘Yes, I'm fine.'

She gave me the keys. ‘I trust you, Mr Hardy.'

You don't get a lot of that in this business and her remark buoyed me up even though I was sure there were things she wasn't telling me and that what I was learning added up to bad news for Margaret McKinley.

* * *

Henry McKinley's townhouse was part of a small set of newish places, modelled on the good old Victorian terrace. The architect had done his job well and the houses blended in nicely with the old and new stuff around them. The street was a bit back from New South Head Road and elevated, so that the houses had a view of the water with the trees of the Royal Sydney golf course off to the south. The security wasn't state of the art but it was adequate. A high, solid wooden gate at street level opened easily with one of the keys on the bunch and there was a security grille over the front door and bars on the windows on the lower level. A balcony ran along the width of the house and I could see greenery hanging down over the rail. The space in front was taken up with the traditional white pebbles and a few largish plants, looking bedraggled, in pots.

Another key opened the grille door and yet another the front door. I waited before going in. I hadn't been tentative about my approach, but I was prepared to defend it if challenged. No challenge came. The adjoining townhouses were quiet—professionals out earning enough to live there.

Light streamed in from a skylight halfway along the passage that led to a narrow set of stairs. I opened the door to the room immediately on the right. A bedroom. Double bed, neatly made up, the usual fittings, no sign of disturbance. Likewise the sitting room further down. The room suggested a non-fussy person of good taste. The furniture was comfortable rather than stylish. Neither the TV nor the sound system was new and the big, old bookcase with glass doors had the look of something handed down through the family—neither fashionable nor practical, but cherished. Its key stood in the lock. The books inside were a mixture of
the very old—a Collins set of Shakespeare's plays—and the very new—Robert Hughes's autobiography. There was an emphasis on art and associated subjects—
Drawings
by Michael Fitzjames,
The Paintings of DH Lawrence
, a book on nineteenth century photography and three or four studies of Picasso.

The dining room was small but with space enough for a no-nonsense pine table and solid chairs; the kitchen had another skylight and about as much stuff as a single man would need to cook, refrigerate and sit down for a quiet drink. The wine rack held five bottles of red—five more than my ex-wife Cyn had left behind when we split. A door from the kitchen gave out onto a bricked courtyard where everything—flowers, shrubs and herbs—was overgrown. Bird droppings stained the garden setting; leaves had collected around the legs of the chairs and table.

A small aluminium shed occupied a corner of the courtyard. It was padlocked but a smaller key on the ring took care of that. A bicycle was held up on pegs attached to the wall. A heavy plastic cover was draped over it and there were tools I didn't recognise, cans of oil, jars of something or other arranged neatly on a shelf. Three helmets hung from one peg, three pairs of bike shoes from another. I felt sad about the well-cared-for things a man I didn't know had left behind him—if that's what had happened. I re-locked the shed.

I went up the stairs. There was a bathroom with a medium sized spa bath—something you'd need after those bike rides—a shower recess and toilet. At the back was a darkroom, fitted up with the red light, and the printing and developing equipment. The study was in the front. Both of these rooms had been searched, torn apart.

No help for it. I sent off a long email to Margaret McKinley bringing her up to date. Impossible to be optimistic. I told her that I'd located the name of her father's solicitor and his email address in my search of the townhouse, and asked her to contact him with an authorisation to talk to me.

My solicitor, Viv Garner, didn't think much of this when I told him what I was doing.

‘I doubt he'll do it on the strength of an email,' he said. ‘Give me the details and I'll get in touch and try to square it all away. Of course that's what you had in mind when you told me all this.'

‘I'm an open book to you, Viv,' I said. I gave him the name. ‘I want to get a look at McKinley's mail in his post office box. No way to tell if whoever searched the house found the key. Maybe he kept it on him.'

‘That's very tricky,' Viv said. ‘Takes time. You say she's hired Hank Bachelor to enquire into her father's disappearance. You're involved, of course, but you've got no status with the police or McKinley's lawyer or his employer.'

‘Moral authority,' I said, and I told him about Josephine Dart.

‘Moral authority's not worth shit. But you'll do what you want to do, I know that. I'll try to smooth out some of the snags. Who do I bill for my time and effort?'

I grinned. ‘Who else but Hank?'

I calculated the time difference and rang Margaret McKinley.

‘Emails can be a bit cold,' I said. ‘I wanted to talk to you and answer any questions. And see how you're holding up.'

‘Thank you, Cliff. It's funny, it's all so far away but just hearing you makes it seem a lot closer.'

‘Is that better or worse?'

‘I'm not sure. You say the police and the lawyer are the next people to approach. What about Dad's employer?'

‘I think we need to know as much as we can about the circumstances before tackling them. Our initial approaches, like yours, haven't got anywhere.'

‘I was so sorry to hear about Mr Dart. I know how fond Dad was of him.'

‘Like brothers, his wife said.'

‘What do you make of her?'

I realised that I hadn't formed a clear opinion. ‘I suppose you'd say she was vibrant, also sad and angry. She wants to hire us to look into her husband's death … which she's sure was murder. She could be right.'