Deep Water (9 page)

‘He didn't, love,' I said, ‘but you did pretty good.'

Grant said, ‘You macho types. Time to call the police.'

Hank had picked up on Megan's attitude and abandoned the solicitude. He eased Grant towards the passage.

‘We'll take it from here,' he said. ‘Might need a statement. Did you see this guy?'

Grant shook his head. ‘What're you going to do about the petrol?'

‘Be careful with matches,' Hank said.

‘Petrol and blood,' Megan said, ‘an exciting combination.'

‘Oh, God,' Grant said, ‘quotations.'

I took a closer look at Megan's wound. ‘It needs stitches. Better get you up to RPA. I'll do it, Hank, and then take her home.'

Hank hesitated, but Megan reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded.

I heard Grant say, ‘Someone has to get on to cleaners, carpet people and the insurance company.'

I helped Megan down the stairs and we got a taxi to the hospital. An open, bleeding wound gets quick treatment and she was cleaned up and stitched and given a tetanus shot and some painkillers all inside an hour. She insisted she could walk back to her flat.

‘You helped me buy it,' she said. ‘Time you took a look at it.'

The flat was in a narrow street two blocks south and one or two west from King Street, part of an old warehouse that
had been gutted and done over. It was on the second level, had two bedrooms and a balcony looking out onto Camperdown Memorial Rest Park. The décor, furniture and everything else displayed Megan's taste—plain, functional, unfussy.

‘Hank keeps his own flat by mutual agreement,' Megan said. ‘Bit like you and Lily did. We divide our time between the two places.'

‘It can work. How're you feeling?'

‘Okay. I'm going to have a drink and take a couple of these pills and then I'll feel better until I bomb out. What'll you have?'

‘Same as you.'

We sat on the balcony—minimal traffic, nice breeze over the park, gins and tonic.

Megan touched her forehead. ‘Honourable wound, professional hazard. Bet you took a few.'

‘I still might, the way things are going. Any regrets about … getting involved?'

Megan washed pills down with a solid slug of her drink. ‘Thinking about it.'

‘Good. Tell me, love, does Hank have anything on his plate that'd bring this on—an attempt to wipe out his whole operation?'

She was fading fast but she made an effort to concentrate. ‘There
is
another arson matter involved—torching Dr McKinley's car—but this isn't the same style. I can't think of anything else. It looks like the McKinley case.'

‘Hank's not exactly going to thank me for bringing it to him.'

She smiled. ‘He thanks you for
me
. That'll cover it.'

Hank phoned and said he'd be with her in an hour. He was going to lock the office up and pay a couple of local
kids he'd used in the past to run messages, to keep an eye on the building overnight.

‘Reckon we should tell the cops?' he asked.

‘Let's not,' I said. ‘Let's think about it. See if there's some way we can make it work for us. I'm tired of stumbling around in the dark on this thing.'

I left Megan lying on her bed with her eyes closed. The G & T had been solid and the analgesics had kicked in. Hank wasn't likely to get any conversation from her until breakfast time.

I was halfway down Australia Street heading back to Glebe, a bit tired but walking briskly, when a car pulled up beside me. Two men got out. I recognised one of them—Detective Senior Sergeant Phil Fitzwilliam of the City Command Unit. An old enemy, Fitz had avoided corruption charges by the skin of his teeth several times. As a young copper he'd been decorated for bravery and in his early years as a detective he'd made some significant arrests and secured some notable convictions. That reputation had sustained him in later years when he sailed close to the wind. We'd run up against each other several times, never pleasantly.

‘Hello, Fitz. How's tricks?'

Fitzwilliam had been a lean six-footer in his prime, but beer and big dinners had inflated him and he'd lost centimetres as if he'd had to stoop to carry the weight. His pale blue eyes were sunk in creased, sagging fat.

‘You were always a smartarse, Hardy. That's what they'll say at your funeral. I heard you nearly booked in for one. Pity it didn't happen.'

‘From the look of you, I'd bet on me going to yours rather than the other way around. Not that I would.'

Fitz turned to the other man. ‘See what I mean, Detective Constable? Always with a comeback. Never at a loss for words, but an arsehole just the same.'

His colleague nodded sycophantically. At a guess he was thirty, twenty years younger than Fitz, and with a lot to learn.

Fitz turned his bulk slowly and pointed to their car. ‘Come on, Hardy. We've got things to talk about.'

I wasn't really worried. The old days, when cops like the famous ‘Bumper' Farrell, and imitators like Phil Fitzwilliam, would take you somewhere quiet and beat you so the marks didn't show, were gone. Physical intimidation was out of fashion, but there were plenty of other methods. Also, Fitzwilliam had a very uncertain temper—provoke him too much and he just might react violently. I felt fit and strong, but a broken sternum is a broken sternum and I didn't want to be on the end of one of Fitzwilliam's wild swings.

I sat in the back of the car with Fitzwilliam while the young policeman drove. For some time Fitz said nothing, which was unlike him. He enjoyed the sound of his own voice, boasting, exercising his authority. I tried to look unconcerned and to keep quiet while the driver did a skilful U-turn and headed back towards Newtown.

‘Do you remember being scrubbed as a private detective by the Board? For life?'

‘I do.'

‘It's come to my attention that you're making enquiries as if that ruling meant nothing to you.'

‘It's not quite—'

‘I don't give a fuck what it's not quite like. Your mate Bachelor is allowed to employ associates as long as they have the appropriate qualifications. You bloody well don't and you know it. Bachelor's licence is hanging by a thread.'

He was right. The PEA's Act is specific on this matter and rightly so. Can't have people running around doing the job without the training.

‘Make your point, Fitz.'

We were travelling down King Street and the driver made the turn into Missenden Road, cut across to Bridge Road and headed towards Glebe. Fitzwilliam said nothing until we pulled up in front of my house.

‘There you are, Hardy. Brought you home. Don't say I never did nothink for you. And I see you've spent some money on the joint.'

I had. Front garden cleaned up, guttering replaced, tiles and pavers expertly relaid, fence and gate renewed and painted. All done while I was away.

‘A tidy-up,' I said, reaching for the door handle.

Fitzwilliam grabbed my arm; pudgy though he was, he still had a strong grip. ‘I haven't forgotten the couple of times you put me in the shit, Hardy. You and that mate of yours—that fuckin' Parker. I don't like you. I don't like you inheriting money from your dead slut of a girlfriend, and I don't like you surviving a heart attack and coming up roses.'

I wanted to hit him, but you just can't do it. ‘I'd feel the same about you if things were reversed.'

‘I can't do bugger all about all that—nothink, but I can tell you if you go on playing fuckin' private eye, I'll get Bachelor's licence lifted and I'll find a way to get charges laid on you both. Piss off!'

He released me, opened the door and used his bulk to shove me out. The door slammed and the car drove away.

Interesting development. Would Phil Fitzwilliam have the clout to get Hank's licence lifted? I doubted it. So far Hank had a pretty clean sheet and it takes more than one infringement to bring about a cancellation. I should know; I had a pile of them before I finally went too far. There was no question that Fitz hated my guts and wanted to get even with me, but it was an odd way of going about it. How had Fitz heard about our investigation of Henry McKinley's disappearance? There were several ways—a leak from the Missing Persons Division, information from Josephine Dart, or a spin-off from Hank's enquiries. The last was the most likely and that brought the Tarelton company squarely into the picture.

I didn't go in for interior renovation of the house. I liked it the way it was, and with some new carpet, fixing of the staircase and some quarry tiles to replace the kitchen lino, I was content. I'd had a bit of rising damp treated, a few walls repainted. On the advice of the people installing wireless broadband and Foxtel I'd spent money on the wiring. The insurance company would be happy about that.

Not wanting to mix my drinks, I sat in the breakfast nook in the kitchen with a gin and tonic on the scarred table and thought about Fitz. Among those in the know, he'd been notorious for taking kickbacks from companies and individuals for information about police interest in their affairs. With ICAC and other watchdogs active, he'd probably gone quiet on that lately. But, since the Tarelton
enterprise, with headquarters in Surry Hills, was firmly inside Fitz's patch, could it be that he was on the payroll?

I missed Lily. In recent years, with cases like these, I'd formed the habit of laying the evidence, or, lacking any, the assumptions and theories, out for her and getting her opinion. More often than not she'd come up with a useful suggestion that would clear the fog and suggest a course of action. But the fog was thick now.

I tried to remember when I'd last eaten and couldn't. I was losing weight from all the walking and skipping meals. I made myself a sandwich and ate it although I had no appetite. The ache for Lily; the attack on Hank's office and the damage to Megan; the threat from Fitzwilliam and the nagging feeling of lifelong dependence on medications were nagging at me. I wondered if I was still up for this kind of work, even as a supernumerary. Then the phone rang.

‘Cliff, it's the middle of the night and I woke up with a bad feeling. Has something happened?'

I don't believe in the paranormal, but this sort of thing occurs. It's just a heightened anxiety in my book. You don't hear about the times the alarm proves to be false.

‘Yes, Margaret, your father's body has been found. He was killed. I'm very sorry.'

A pause, and then her voice shook. ‘I've tried to prepare myself for it. I've seen lots of deaths. But you can't, can you, when it's your own people?'

‘Not really, no,' I said. ‘If you need some time now you can hang up and call back. I'll be here …'

‘No! I'd rather have you there. I mean I'd rather be with you. Oh God, I'm confused. Just talk to me about it.'

‘The police are involved and cooperating with Hank and me. We're doing everything we can to try to find out who did it. For the moment it's under wraps.'

‘Why?'

I explained about the police strategy. ‘Will that work?'

‘I doubt it, but it's worth a try. The story'll have to get
out soon because the police'll be asking for witnesses and they'll want media coverage, but for now …'

‘How did it happen?'

‘It seems that he died from heart failure, but he'd been attacked and injured.'

‘He was a strong man, I bet he fought back.'

‘Nothing of this is public knowledge. Don't say anything to anyone. Not even to Lucinda.'

‘I understand. Cliff, I'll have to come home, won't I?'

‘You will. Can you arrange it?'

‘I've got some leave accumulated and Lucinda's been agitating to see her father and her new half-sister. Her holidays are coming up. She can stay with them. I can swing it. Take a few days.'

‘Do that,' I said, ‘and text me the details. I'll meet you and you can stay here. I've got a spare room. Nothing fancy.'

‘I don't need fancy. I need someone to talk to and for … answers and explanations. My poor dad … he didn't deserve anything like this.'

No answer to that. We talked briefly and then she cut the call. I told her she could ring any time and I sat by the phone with the dregs of my drink for a while thinking she might press for more information but she didn't call back.

I rang Megan's number early the next morning and got Hank, as I expected.

‘How is she?'

‘Up and about, Cliff. I tried to tell her to take it easy but she wouldn't listen.'

‘Her mother was that way.'

‘And like you're not? She's gone to Victoria Park to swim laps, and she says as soon as I do something about the gas—
sorry, petrol—in the office, she'll get on with the quarry research. Says she's come to like quarries. They have interesting histories. Wants to buy one.'

Margaret McKinley was the sort of person who did what she said she was going to do. They're not all that thick on the ground. I'd got my car back and I met her at Mascot three days later in the evening. She looked tired and strained but also exhilarated. Generally speaking, Sydney isn't a bad place to fly into—not too hot, not too cold and you can mostly count on a clear sky. That's how it was and she was appreciating it.

She gave me a sort of hug, which I returned. Casually dressed in slacks, a blouse and a loose jacket, she'd travelled light, with just her cabin bag and a medium-sized suitcase. We trooped through to the car park and she stopped me after I'd opened the boot.

‘Let me have a look at you.'

I put her case in the boot and turned and stood for her inspection, selfconsciously.

She nodded. ‘You've completely recovered, haven't you? More energy than before the heart alarm? Taking better care of yourself?'

‘Right,' I said.

‘I knew you'd come good.' She laughed. ‘Listen to me, I'm talking Australian already.'