Deep Water (6 page)

‘Would that be a conflict of interest?'

No way to dodge the question. ‘Not if the two matters are related.'

‘You think my father's dead, too, don't you?'

‘Margaret, I think the best hope is that he found he was in danger of some serious kind and has gone into hiding.'

‘That doesn't sound like Dad.'

I thought, but didn't say:
Or that someone is holding him to force him to do something.

She picked up on the pause. ‘God, I know it looks bad, but I'm still hoping.'

‘It's all speculation. I'll tackle the lawyer. Hank will give you his email address and you should alert him to what we're doing. Depending on how that works out, we'll gee up the police and the media to get busy.'

‘This is all going to cost a lot of money. I can raise—'

‘You're not to worry about that. I can cover the cost for now and we can sort things out later, depending on the results.'

‘Why would you do that?'

‘For selfish reasons, mainly.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘I'll explain another time. Meanwhile, please just do what you've been doing—authorising things and people—it's all you can do for now. Oh, I'll get Hank to scan this drawing of your father's I mentioned and send it. See if it means anything to you. How's the weather?'

‘Like always. Thank you, Cliff.'

I rang off. She was a smart woman and the explanation for why I was putting in the time and the kilometres wouldn't have been hard for her to grasp—I was grateful to her for providing me with a chance to do the sort of thing I'd done for more than twenty years. It was work I enjoyed, mostly, and which I'd done well, mostly. I hadn't come up with any ideas on how to occupy myself for the rest of my life, which, according to the medicos, was a good long
stretch if I looked after myself. Certain avenues were blocked and others—golf, monitoring my investments, hobby farming—didn't appeal. For now, I didn't have to think about it. Selfish, as I said, and not something you want to parade with a loved, missing father at the centre of things.

I emailed the bits and pieces of information I'd collected so far to Hank.

Horace Greenacre had an office, or rather a suite of offices, in Double Bay, above the boutiques and bijou shops of various kinds. It was accessed through a heavy glass door at street level with his name etched on it and a deep-carpeted staircase. Over the years I'd had a few clients in the suburb and, despite their money and/or their pretensions, their problems turned out to be much the same as people's every-where—deceit, greed, love, hate. But solicitors there are more specialised than those in less affluent areas. They tend to deal in family trusts, quiet transfers of assets and the briefing of QCs when their clients get into trouble—which they do.

Viv Garner had smoothed my path, so I was ushered into Greenacre's office by his secretary with more deference than I'd encountered in lawyers' precincts in the past. Strangely, being an ‘associate' of a licensed PEA and a client and friend of another member of the legal profession earned me more respect than being a private detective myself.

Greenacre was in his fifties, impeccably groomed and suited with a trim figure that suggested gym membership and diet tonic with his gin. Although Viv must have told him about my being drummed out of the profession,
Greenacre didn't let on. He got up from behind his desk to greet me a few steps inside the door and shook my hand.

‘Mr Hardy, I'm very glad to meet you. I've been worried about Henry for some time. Can't reach him. Come in, come in and let's talk. Viv Garner has a very high regard for you and of course I'll help in any way I can. Have a seat.'

He went behind his desk but slid his chair partly out so that it wasn't a complete barrier between us as I took a chair off to one side.

‘Mr Greenacre, I'll be blunt—'

‘Horace.'

An old trick, always works—interrupt the flow, allow a second to size a person up. ‘Horace, are you telling me you've had no communication from Henry McKinley for nearly two months and have no idea where he is?'

Greenacre wasn't fazed, or not much. He picked up a sheet from his desk, looked it over and put it down. ‘I resent the implication but I appreciate the need to ask the question. The answer is no.'

‘Thank you.'

‘I've had a communication from Margaret McKinley, several in fact. Again, singing your praises. She asks, authorises you might say, me to answer any questions you might have. I'm prepared to do that, up to a point. Fire away.'

‘In his last meeting with you, whenever that was, did McKinley express any concerns, doubts about the work he was doing, worry about his personal safety?'

‘No.'

‘Were you involved in the contractual arrangements he made with Tarelton Explorations?'

‘Henry showed me the contract. The remuneration was handsome and the undertakings the company made to
provide research facilities and staff seemed generous. I thought some of the restrictions were severe—limitations on what could be published and a long period after the expiry of the contract whereby Henry couldn't do much of anything at all. The sort of thing leftists want to impose on former government ministers and the like, but Henry said he was happy with the arrangements and I saw no reason to advise him otherwise.'

‘The contract was to run for …?'

‘Five years.'

‘That seems a long time.'

Greenacre shrugged. ‘They evidently valued his contribution.'

‘Do you know anything about what that might have been?'

‘No. The details of Henry's professional work are way beyond me.'

‘Me too. Last question. McKinley's will. Any strange bequests? Anything surprising?'

Now he displayed some professional caution. ‘What are you getting at?'

‘The man's disappeared. There are signs of some sort of … disturbance in his affairs. Let's face it, he could be dead. I need to know if his will reflects anything unusual in his past, especially the recent past.'

‘I thought you'd ask that and I checked the will. This is tricky. I certainly can't go into details while Henry's whereabouts are unknown.'

‘I'm not asking for details.'

He took up another sheet of paper. ‘Printout of Ms McKinley's email,' he said as he reread it. ‘Just making sure I understand her instructions precisely.'

I wondered what she'd written, not that I was ever likely to know. This man played strictly by the book. He put the sheet down and shook his head.

‘There's nothing unusual in the will. Just exactly what you'd expect.'

‘I assume Dr McKinley had investments?'

‘Substantial.'

‘Who handles his financial affairs?'

He shook his head. ‘Before answering that I'd need further instruction.'

I thanked him and left Hank's card asking him to get in touch if any information came his way. Horace didn't like me one little bit, but he wanted to keep Margaret McKinley as a client in the hope of doing business with her. To that end he was prepared to be polite to me. Just.

My car was still up on blocks in a friend's garage awaiting a final service and tune-up, and I'd caught a cab to Double Bay. I hadn't been away more than six months but Sydney traffic seemed to have got worse, if that was possible. It was stop, start and crawl for long stretches and the new tunnels didn't seem to have had any good effect. On the return trip, glad I wasn't driving myself, I had plenty of time to think about the next move. Two options—get the police on the job or tackle Tarelton Explorations directly.

I'd put it to Hank. Might have to persuade him a little, but I was pretty sure which way he'd jump. The taxi dropped me in Newtown and I went up the steps to Hank's office under the newly installed fluorescent light. In my time there, you could scarcely see your hand in front of your face on that stairway. Hank wasn't the only tenant to
have upgraded his premises. The way things were going, the landlord would be stressing them all by raising the rent.

Hank was on the phone in one room and Megan was on the internet in the other. Both looked up, made welcoming signs and got on with what they were doing.
Kick your heels, Hardy. You're supernumerary now.

Megan got free first and I asked her what she was doing.

‘Confidential,' she said.

‘Jesus!'

She stood and kissed my cheek. ‘Hello, Cliff, are you feeling as well as you look?'

‘You'll get on. Yes, love, I'm fine. Back to my best at the gym.'

‘Really?'

‘Well—nearly. I'm here about the McKinley matter. How busy is Hank?'

‘Busy enough, but he'll find the time. The coffee maker's more or less where you had it.'

She went back to the computer. I wanted to ask her how things were going between her and Hank but I didn't: our relationship didn't quite reach into those personal zones. Not yet, maybe never. I had to be content with what I had and, mostly, I was. I watched her out of the corner of my eye as I made coffee, and saw myself in her olive complexion and dark hair. There was something of her mother, though, in her powers of concentration and her cool manner. Cyn could work me over with that attitude whenever she chose, and she did.

‘Hey, Cliff!'

Hank advanced towards me—all 195 centimetres and one hundred kilos of him.

‘Hank,' I said. ‘What've you done to the coffee? Smells drinkable.'

‘Blame Meg.'

Meg is it now?
I thought, but I said, ‘I want to move ahead on McKinley.'

Hank beckoned me into his office.

‘I'm with you on this, Cliff. I know it's important to you, but—'

‘I'm paying.'

‘Say again.'

‘As of now, you're on a full retainer and expenses. I'll arrange an account debit and … however the hell these things are handled now on an ongoing basis.'

Hank leaned back in his chair and studied me as I sipped the coffee. ‘You sure about this?'

‘Look—we've got a missing man whose study and darkroom have been searched to the point of destruction, his close friend, possibly murdered, whose briefcase was stolen. Coincidence? I don't think so. You've got an anonymous person buying up the missing man's drawings and an employer not cooperating. Plus …'

‘Plus what?'

I told him about my interview with Josephine Dart and my feeling that there was more to her connection with McKinley, and maybe more to McKinley himself, than met the eye. I said I'd talked to McKinley's lawyer, who would play along for a certain distance.

‘This is a workable case,' I said.

‘Sure it is. But throw in an ex-private eye working the street and financing the investigation himself, that puts a spin on it.'

There was no point in trying to put one over Hank. He
looked like a jock and often talked like a jock, but he was smart and a good reader of people. I finished the coffee and put the cup on the desk.

‘OK, you've nailed me. I'm attracted to the woman and I need something to do. Is that good enough for you?'

I surprised myself with the first part of the statement and the sincerity I'd expressed. That did the job for Hank. He clapped his big hands together. ‘You lay it on the line, man. What d'you suggest?'

‘A direct approach to the Tarelton people.'

‘Tried it once, remember. Got fobbed off by some dude in personnel.'

‘Do it again, mate. But this time get across that you've learned McKinley's home has been broken into and searched, that his closest friend has had a fatal accident and that a possibly significant McKinley drawing is in your possession. Tell the personnel bloke to get that message through to the higher-ups.'

‘Will do,' Hank said.

I went to the gym in the morning—treadmill at a moderate speed and gradient, free weights and the machines. What I'd told Megan was true; I was almost back to what I'd been doing before. I told myself I'd reach precisely that level next session. Something had been holding me back and I wasn't sure what. I didn't like the feeling of unconscious caution, if that's what it was.

I had a massage from Wesley Scott, the manager of the gym and a longstanding friend.

‘You healed good,' Wes said, looking at my scar which was now just a slightly discoloured line running down the middle of my chest. The hair that had been shaved off was growing back. Pretty soon the scar would be all but invisible.

‘Purity of mind and body.'

Wes snorted. ‘Lost some muscle tone along the way. Getting it back, I'd say. Not quite there. Take it easy, Cliff. Don't push it. Remember, man, you were dead but for a computer and a little old electric machine.'

‘Thank you so much, Wesley,' I said. ‘Just rub, will you?'

* * *

Hank rang to say that he had an appointment with the head of personnel at Tarelton for that afternoon.

‘I want to come along,' I said. ‘You can do all the talking. I just want to look and listen.'

Hank's hesitation was momentary. ‘OK. Make a copy of that drawing and bring it along. Might help.'

‘That's a very good idea.'

The Tarelton building was on Elizabeth Street, a few blocks from Prince Alfred Park—named after a royal back in Victorian times. I don't remember that he ever did anything useful. Not many of them did from that day to this. Tarelton Explorations was housed in a three-storey building painted a becoming shade of grey and renovated to within an inch of its life. It had probably been a red brick factory or warehouse, but now it featured tinted windows, big sliding glass doors and a marble-floored lobby with glass cases displaying models of some of the projects the company claimed to have participated in—a dam, a bridge over a river, a tunnel under a river and a lake that doubled as a decoration for a beach resort and a wetland for wildlife. I couldn't figure where exploration came into it, but it did occur to me that the lobby would be a good setting for Robert Hawkins's boats.