Deep Water

by Corris, Peter

  ‘Bathroom’s next door, and there’s one downstairs.’

  ‘Thanks. Nice room, nice house. Very you, Cliff.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  She laughed. ‘Haven’t seen a three-quarter bed in a while.’

  ‘It’s to deter couples from staying too long. Get yourself set and we’ll have a drink. Gin? Scotch?’

  ‘Gin with plenty of tonic, or I’ll be on my ear.’

  ‘Something to eat?’

  ‘I ate on the plane. It reminded me of that joke about the plane crash, where the survivors ate the bodies of the dead and then the on-board meals.’

  She was holding up very well, but I had to wonder how she’d feel when she saw the familiar sights in daylight, and went to her father’s place, saw his bike, the original of the drawing. I had the drinks ready when she came down. She still looked tired but less tense. I settled her into a chair and we touched glasses.

  ‘To Henry McKinley,’ she said. ‘And screw the bastards who killed him.’

  We drank the toast.

  ‘I’m buggered,’ she said. ‘That’s a bloody long flight in economy. In the morning you can tell me more of those facts you’ve held back.’

  I nodded. She finished the drink and then did what I do—ate the lemon slice. She got up and kissed me, not on the mouth but close.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed if I’m up at three am with advanced jet lag.’

  ‘There’s a radio in the room and the TV and CD player down here. Tea and coffee making in the kitchen. I’ll set them up for you. Just pretend you’re in the Hilton.’

  ‘I’d rather be here.’

  She went up the stairs. A floorboard creaked on the landing. I remembered how it always creaked in just that way when Lily trod on it. There was a photo of Lily on a shelf not far from where we’d been sitting. If Margaret had seen it she hadn’t reacted. I looked at it now and felt the ache.

  I hadn’t eaten since the morning and I suddenly felt the need for fuel. I microwaved some leftover curry and freshened my drink. I ate and then set out the tea and coffee for Margaret and made sure the mugs in the drying tray were clean and that the milk in the fridge hadn’t gone off. Sugar on the bench, bread in the basket near the toaster.

  I sat in the living room that still carried a trace of Margaret’s presence in the air and tried to free-associate about the McKinley case. After a while I decided that I didn’t know enough about Henry McKinley. Was anyone that pure? That dedicated? That uncomplicated? Not in my experience. From what I knew so far, it sounded as if he had no life apart from work, cycling and a long-distance relationship with his daughter and grandchild. I didn’t believe it.

  I needed to know more about the texture of his life in Sydney. Does a fit, healthy, well-heeled widower lead a celibate life? I didn’t think so. Someone must know something closer to the bone. Josephine Dart? Moving on from that, I needed to know more, a lot more, about what kind of work he was doing for the Tarelton mob. They’d closed the doors pretty tight, but there’s always an opening somewhere. A weak link. Ashley Guy?

  I fished out my notebook and scribbled these things down. Sometimes this stuff, done late at night with drink on board, turns out to be froth and bubble in the morning. Sometimes not.

  I took my late-night meds and went up to bed. No light showed under the spare room door. I’d finished the Barnes novel, tried another of his books without success, and started on Port Mungo by Patrick McGrath—about an artist who was a bit of an arsehole, like some I’ve known. I read about half before quitting and turning off the light.

  Lines from Adam Lindsay Gordon buzzed in my head as I drifted off:

  Life is mostly froth and bubble,

  Two things stand like stone.

  Kindness in another’s trouble,

  Courage in your own.

  Bit banal maybe, but his bust is in Westminster Abbey. Les Murray’d never make that.

  11

  If Margaret had a disturbed night I didn’t know about it. I woke up from a sound sleep to the smell of coffee. I found her in the kitchen in white silk pyjamas and a kimono-style dressing gown, pressing the plunger.

  ‘Morning, Cliff. That bed’s okay. I slept just fine. Coffee?’

  ‘You bet.’

  ‘Toast?’

  ‘No, thanks. Orange juice with my bloody pills and coffee and that’s it.’

  ‘I’m ravenous.’

  She put two slices of bread into the toaster and poured the coffee.

  ‘I could do you scrambled eggs,’ I said. ‘I remember how from my cholesterol days.’

  She laughed. ‘Maybe another time. Who’s the woman in the photo, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  I didn’t. ‘Lily Truscott. We were together for nearly five years. She was murdered. That’s one of the reasons I took off for the US.’

  She studied me for a moment, then nodded and dealt with her toast. We were sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook.

  ‘You wear a preoccupied look now and then. Would that be about her?’

  ‘Sometimes it would. Sometimes about Megan; sometimes, quite often, about myself. And about your father … and you.’

  ‘Tell me now what you haven’t told me.’

  I gave it to her straight—the dumped and burnt car, the signs of her father having been held over time, the possibility of torture of some kind, maybe triggering the fatal heart attack. She took it well. Probably the nurse training helped, but there was something else working in her, holding her together. When I finished she reached across the table and touched my hand.

  ‘Thanks for telling it like it is, Cliff. I hate being patronised … protected. I’ll see Dad’s lawyer and find out exactly what’s coming my way. Probably a lot, and you know what? My first priority is to find out who killed him. Mr Bachelor and you … you’ll stay on it, won’t you?’

  ‘We will, but …’

  ‘I know, no guarantees.’

  I told her about the attack on Hank’s office and how, thematically, that tied in with the burning of her father’s car but otherwise didn’t point solidly in any direction. Likewise, the securing of the drawings. I didn’t mention the approach from Phil Fitzwilliam—given Fitz’s corrupt history that could tie in almost anywhere.

  ‘Is Megan okay?’ she said.

  ‘Swimming laps the very next day.’

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting her again.’

  * * *

  Margaret showered, dressed pretty much as she had the day before with a fresh blouse, and I drove her to Newtown. She sent her daughter another text message on the way. She’d seen the house, now she saw the office in all its austerity. She could have no illusions about the size of the operation. Didn’t faze her. The carpet had been replaced and the petrol smell was faint. The door to the office, previously always kept open, was closed and a peephole had been installed.

  ‘How do the others feel about what happened?’ I asked.

  Megan smiled. ‘I’m the heroine of the hour. They’re just glad the whole joint didn’t go up in flames.’

  Margaret was businesslike with Hank, friendly with Megan. She used the phone to arrange a hire car and called for a taxi to take her to the depot. I’d given her a key to the house.

  ‘See you back there,’ she said, and was off.

  ‘Staying with you, is she?’ Megan asked.

  ‘For now. I don’t know what her plans are. She makes her own moves as you see. How’re you going with the quarries?’

  ‘Okay. I think I’ve got them all and I’m plotting them on a map. I’m most of the way to tracking down who actually owns them.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Tell you when I finish.’

  She was wearing a bandanna around her head. I pointed to it.

  ‘How’s the wound?’

  ‘Healing. My swim cap covers it and protects it neatly. Faint scar maybe. Doesn’t worry me. Could be sexy.’

  ‘Funny,’ I said, ‘I’ve never found that to be true.’
r />   ‘You’ve probably got too many.’

  I went into Hank’s office and asked him what he was doing.

  ‘Cleaning up a few things and working on getting some inside dope on Tarelton.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘I’ve located the guy who installed their computer network.’

  ‘That’d be a shocking breach of confidentiality.’

  ‘Wouldn’t it? I like our client. She says she’ll back us all the way.’

  I nodded. ‘Question is, how far will we get?’

  ‘Think positive. What’re you doing?’

  ‘Working on a hunch.’

  ‘Oh, yeah? Be secretive. Secretive is good.’

  My notes had not looked wrong-headed in the morning. Rather the reverse. I phoned Josephine Dart.

  ‘Mr Hardy. I’ve seen the reports about Henry. Do you have any other news?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, but I’d like to see you. Today, if possible.’

  She sighed. ‘I anticipated that. Yes, you can come here, now if you wish.’

  I thought I might’ve been met with reluctance, but not so. She sounded almost relieved, and I had a feeling that perhaps I was making some progress as I drove to Dover Heights again. She met me at the door as before but her manner was very different. Defensive? Apprehensive?

  The flat had the same appealing lived-in look with a touch of neglect at the edges. Josephine Dart was dressed as before, simply and elegantly, but with strain showing in her face. I wasn’t offered coffee. We stood in front of those windows full of blue sky and grey-green sea.

  ‘You know, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m only guessing.’

  ‘I gave you something to guess with, didn’t I?’

  ‘Secrets are hard to keep and they don’t always do you any good. Just a few things you said had me wondering.’

  ‘It’s a relief, actually. So just a few words steered you in the right direction?’

  ‘Not really,’ I said. ‘When I sat down to think about it, Henry McKinley came across as just too good to be true.’

  ‘He was my lover.’

  I nodded. ‘Did your husband know?’

  She smiled. ‘Oh, so you’re only halfway there.’

  She turned away from the window and walked across to a drinks tray I hadn’t seen on my last visit. She dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured solid slugs of scotch. She held the drink out towards me in a hand that barely shook.

  ‘Have a drink,’ she said. ‘Yes, Henry was my lover and Terry knew because they were lovers, too. And there were others.’

  part two

  12

  It all came out in a rush. The Darts and McKinley had been involved in a ménage à trois with a difference, in that McKinley was the lover of both partners in the marriage. The arrangement had started almost ten years before, she said, and had continued happily right up until McKinley’s disappearance.

  ‘Are you shocked, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘Nothing shocks me except reality television and house prices.’

  She smiled. ‘A man of the world.’

  ‘You said there were others.’

  ‘Yes, occasionally. Another man, or another woman. I wasn’t going to have both hands tied behind my back, if you follow me.’

  ‘And no friction, ever?’

  ‘Scarcely ever, and then it was quickly overcome.’

  ‘I don’t mean between you three. I meant from the others.’

  ‘Only once. A few years back. A man Henry met somewhere. He joined us a few times but he became … possessive.’

  ‘Of who?’

  ‘Of me. Terry and Henry persuaded him that his behaviour was unacceptable. I believe he protested but he didn’t persist.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Oh, no. No names. No real names.’

  I looked around the flat. ‘Easy enough to find out who you were.’

  ‘You don’t imagine we had … meetings here or at Henry’s place when there were others involved?’

  ‘Where then?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I need to know everything I can about Dr McKinley’s movements.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Well, at Myall on the lower north coast. A house there—leased in a false name. We were careful. What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I have to take a look at any place McKinley spent time at. He might have left things …’

  ‘I suppose it’s possible. He went up there on his own from time to time. I’ll give you the address. You already have the key.’

  I’d wondered about that extra key. ‘How long has the lease got to run?’

  She shrugged. ‘About a year. We … it was renewed recently. We never thought …’

  ‘Are you planning to go there?’

  She looked at me as if I’d uttered an obscenity. ‘No, never again!’

  She gave me the address and saw me to the door.

  ‘So you’re going to keep working. Do you need money?’

  I told her that Margaret McKinley was in Sydney and would finance the investigation. Her tiny hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘You’ll tell her about … us?’

  ‘I’m not sure. If I have to.’

  ‘We did nothing wrong,’ she said defiantly. ‘We hurt no one.’

  ‘I hope that’s true,’ I said.

  I sat in the car and thought about it. Wife-swapping seemed like an eighties thing, but this wasn’t exactly that. More bizarre, or more under control? It was difficult to say. But the information opened up new lines of enquiry. What if Henry McKinley’s extracurricular activities had opened him up to blackmail from some quarter—a colleague, a rival? What if Terry Dart had nursed a grudge, a jealousy, unknown to his wife—wanting exclusive possession of her or McKinley—and had eliminated his lover by accident or design?

  And what of the man who hadn’t played the game, whoever he was? Josephine Dart had a special, fragile allure. It was easy to imagine someone becoming obsessed with her, particularly in the context of a sexual free-for-all. Could he have killed McKinley and Dart and be biding his time?

  I had the problem of whether or how to tell Margaret. There was a chance she wouldn’t believe it—see it as a fantasy dreamed up by a grieving woman. I didn’t think it was that. The Myall address gave the story solidity and had to be checked out. I had a memory flash of Lily sitting at her computer, working on a story and looking up at me as I brought her a drink.

  ‘This thing opens up like a fucking fan,’ she’d said one time.

  I knew what she meant. I decided to wait until I knew what Margaret’s moves were. She had to consult the lawyer; there was the release of her father’s body to be negotiated and a funeral to arrange. She had enough on her plate. The Myall expedition could wait.

  Margaret sailed into the arrangements with tremendous efficiency. Horace Greenacre had shown her the will naming him and Margaret as executors. McKinley, a firm atheist, had insisted on a secular send-off with a minimum of fuss and cremation. Margaret put one of those no flowers/donations to the Fred Hollows Foundation notices in the paper.

  Greenacre, several members of the cycling club and Ashley Guy from Tarelton attended the Rookwood chapel. A couple of suits I didn’t know were there. Cops? Josephine Dart didn’t show. A tallish, thin woman in a dark dress and jacket arrived late and didn’t stay long. Margaret and the leader of the club spoke briefly and some of Henry’s favourite music was played—Mozart, Vivaldi, Bach.

  Not enough bodies for a wake or a proper party. Margaret thanked each person individually. They took off, leaving just Margaret and me.

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was a fizzer. I couldn’t even cry.’

  ‘Pretty cold,’ I agreed, ‘but it doesn’t really matter. You’ve got strong memories, haven’t you?’

  We crunched across the gravel to my car. I was too hot in my suit, the only dark one I have. I peeled off the jacket; my shirt was sticking to my back. Margaret was cool in a blue dress. The only black thing about her
was her handbag.

  ‘Memories, yes,’ she said, ‘good ones but not that strong. He was away so much, always working. I’m not sure that I really knew him.’

  We got into the car and she leaned across and gave me another of her low-octane kisses.

  ‘Tell you what, Cliff, Dad’s favourite tipple was single malt scotch on one block of ice. I vote we buy a bottle and have a few. I feel like getting pissed.’

  I overruled that. We went back to Glebe and I shed the suit. We got a taxi to the Rocks and had the scotches in one of the new, trendy licensed cafes. We walked around for a while and then had a seafood meal with a lot of wine. Then Irish coffee. She insisted on paying.

  ‘I’m coming into quite a lot of money,’ she said, spearing a chunk of swordfish.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘Puts college for Lucinda beyond doubt.’

  We discussed Lucinda; we discussed Megan; we discussed Lily and Margaret’s ex-husband. We talked politics and books until it got quite late and the emotion, such as it was, of the day and the alcohol got to her and we caught a taxi to Glebe. She leaned against me and I put my arm around her on the way.

  At home she asked for more coffee. She said goodnight and I heard the shower running long and hard, first cold then hot—different sounds. I showered in the downstairs bathroom and went up to bed, thinking I might manage a chapter of McGrath. It was a sleep-between-the-sheets night with a fan on and I’d just got settled when the door opened and Margaret came in.

  She was wearing just the top of her silk pyjamas and the buttons weren’t fastened.

  ‘This is silly,’ she said. ‘I like you and you like me, don’t you?’

  ‘Very much.’

  ‘Move over.’

  She slid into bed and we made love slowly and carefully, each learning what the other liked and needed. When we finished we lay close together with only a film of sweat between us.

  ‘Was that your first time since the heart attack?’

  ‘Yes. I’m behind schedule. The hospital pamphlet said you could resume after six weeks.’

  She laughed. ‘I think most men start solo.’