Deep Water

by Corris, Peter

  ‘Here’s something else you might not know. Margaret McKinley, Dr McKinley’s daughter and heir, has enlisted the services of Bachelor Private Enquiry Incorporated to investigate her father’s death. I’m an associate of Bachelor’s.’

  There was a pause before Holland said, ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  So Greenacre was only giving out selective information. That was good. I’d talked the thing over with Hank and Megan in what was left of the hour after my brief visit to the pub. We’d agreed it was unlikely that the actual kidnappers and probable torturers of Henry McKinley would make the approach Holland had: unlikely, but not impossible. Also, McKinley, on the DVD, said Global Resources had tried a soft approach—a bribe. Didn’t acquit them of responsibility, but it suggested they might be the ones to deal with. We had that one card to play—the bribe allegation. The trick would be to use it to find out more. Holland might know more about the focus of McKinley’s work than we did.

  It was a juggling act and a chess game. We needed to talk to Dr O’Neil before we talked to Holland.

  ‘I’ll call Ms McKinley in the States,’ I said to Holland, ‘and get back to you if you give me your number. I gather it’s urgent?’

  ‘Fairly urgent. I’ll expect your call when?’

  ‘Within forty-eight hours.’

  He gave me the number and cut the call.

  We grouped in Hank’s office.

  ‘What does he sound like?’ Megan asked.

  ‘Smooth. What have you found out about the company?’

  ‘It’s biggish. International. Mining interests mostly, particularly in South Africa. Your Mr Holland is the CEO of the Australian division rather than the whole show.’

  ‘That’s interesting,’ Hank said. ‘Always good to deal with someone who’s answerable to someone else. Can give you an edge.’

  ‘We’re going to need it, unless we can learn something useful from Dr O’Neil. Megan and I can try to contact her tomorrow morning, but I think all three of us should go to the meeting with Holland. My guess is he’ll have others along.’

  ‘That’s better,’ Megan said. ‘I want to go.’

  ‘It’s going to be a chess game,’ I said.

  Hank groaned. ‘I’m lousy at chess.’

  ‘Me, too,’ I said.

  ‘I’m pretty good,’ Megan said.

  I gave her one of my winning grins. ‘Thought you might be. Your mother was.’

  The Four Bays Cycling Club clubhouse turned out to be a garage, one of a set cut into a cliff on a street a block back from New South Head Road in Rose Bay. A roller door had the club name, only partly disfigured by graffiti, stencilled on it. Megan and I gathered there at seven twenty on a brisk morning with a sharp wind coming off the water.

  ‘They ride for an hour,’ Megan said, ‘rain, hail or shine, and they cover a bloody lot of clicks.’

  ‘Admirable. I wouldn’t fancy the hills.’

  ‘They thrive on them. Think of the Tour de France.’

  ‘That’s for money. More understandable. Here they come.’

  A group of riders swept around a bend and headed towards us, pedalling fast on the flat stretch. At about a hundred metres out, they slowed and coasted the rest of the way. We could hear their voices carrying clearly on the morning air above the sounds of traffic and the stiff breeze. There were ten people in the group, including two women.

  ‘She’s the thin one with the red helmet,’ Megan said.

  ‘I recognise her. She put in a brief appearance at the funeral.’

  The riders bunched up, shook hands, chatted and inspected their bikes. We walked over to where the woman Megan had singled out was making an adjustment to the strap on one of her pedals.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Megan said, ‘Dr O’Neil?’

  The woman pulled off her helmet and shook out her long, dark hair. She was good looking—thin-faced with large dark eyes. In her lycra outfit, she displayed a body without a gram of extra fat.

  ‘Yes, I’m Susan O’Neil. Who—?’

  Megan spoke quickly but quietly. ‘Sorry to grab hold of you like this, but it’s important that we talk with you. We’ve been hired by Margaret McKinley, Dr Henry McKinley’s daughter, to investigate his death.’

  She was still half occupied by the strap, still probably considering how she’d done on the ride, but now she stopped what she was doing and studied us closely. The other riders were filing into the garage and I could see the racks waiting for their bikes. They must have showers and changing rooms inside. Nice set-up.

  ‘How do I know that’s true?’

  Greenacre had faxed a copy of the power of attorney document Margaret had signed. I produced it and my long-cancelled PEA licence. Megan had a Bachelor Enquiries card with her name on it.

  I said, ‘We know something of Dr McKinley’s concern about the integrity or otherwise of Tarelton Explorations and other interested parties. We thought it safer to approach you away from your place of work.’

  ‘Thank God for that.’ Her dark, evaluating eyes shifted between us. ‘You’re father and daughter.’

  ‘We are,’ Megan said.

  ‘I don’t know why, but that helps me to believe you. Please wait until I rack the bike and get changed and then I’ll be willing to talk to you.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Megan said.

  ‘I should say I’ll expect you to talk to me before I talk to you.’

  She wheeled the bike away and was the last rider into the garage. The roller door came down.

  ‘Game of chess,’ Megan said.

  Dr O’Neil came down a set of steps above the garage. She was wearing a dark blue pants suit like the one she’d worn at Rookwood, heels, grey blouse, carrying a smart leather drawstring bag. She used the remote to unlock a silver-grey Subaru parked in the street, and gestured for us to follow. The car had a device for securing a bicycle on the roof.

  ‘Probably goes on hundred kilometre rides up and down mountains somewhere out bush,’ I said as Megan started the engine. We were in her old VW 1500, a car she refused to part with—like me with my Falcon.

  ‘I thought you liked athletic women.’

  ‘I did, now I feel a bit outclassed.’

  We followed the Subaru to Double Bay where it swung into a parking spot outside a coffee shop. Megan had to drive further to find a space. We walked back and Dr O’Neil was waiting for us at an outside table. She was nervous, fiddling with the packets of sugar, as we sat down.

  ‘I’m betting you’d have a long black,’ I said.

  She smiled. ‘You lose—super-strength cap and I sugar it. Those rides burn up the calories.’

  ‘Would you go in and order, Cliff?’ Megan said. ‘We’re on expenses, Dr O’Neil. Mine’s a flat white.’

  I did as directed. Bringing Megan was the right move. When I got back the two women were on first name terms and the earlier tension had dissipated.

  ‘I’ve told Susan about Dr McKinley’s DVD and his suspicions,’ Megan said. ‘And that you saw her at Dr McKinley’s funeral.’

  She smiled. ‘Come to think of it, I saw you, too.’

  ‘We’ve got a meeting lined up with a representative of Global Resources,’ I said. ‘Not sure what he’s going to say, but …’

  The coffee came and Susan O’Neil did as she said she would—shovelled sugar into her mug. ‘I know what he’ll say. He’ll offer the world for information about the aquifer and how to get to it.’

  I sipped at my long black; it was very good, and so it should have been at the price. ‘What about the others—Lachlan and Tarelton?’

  Susan shrugged. ‘Don’t know anything about Lachlan. All I know is that the bigwigs at Tarelton are going spare. Apparently the company borrowed a hell of a lot of money on the expectation that Henry would deliver and now they’re caught in a debt trap. They’re cutting staff. I’m going to save them the bother by handing in my notice when I can be sure I’ll get what’s due to me.’

  ‘It’d be useful if we had more card
s to put on the table when we meet the man from Global,’ Megan said. ‘Our only interest is finding out who killed Dr McKinley, but I’m sure his daughter would hold to his idea of not exploiting his work. Is there anything else you can tell us?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  I decided to be blunt. ‘Do you know the site and the technique?’

  ‘No, I don’t, thank God.’

  She’d almost finished her coffee and was preparing to leave.

  ‘Could it be a quarry?’ Megan said.

  Susan burst into laughter. ‘A quarry? Don’t be ridiculous. Did Henry leave a clue about a quarry?’

  ‘Maybe,’ I said.

  She gathered up her bag. ‘Would have been a red herring then. Didn’t Henry say anything about his research procedure on the DVD?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Megan said.

  Susan sat down again and went back to fiddling with the sugar. ‘I wonder why not.’

  ‘We should have told you,’ Megan said. ‘Cliff and Margaret found ashes in the fireplace in the cottage. He said he’d burnt all his notes. We weren’t holding back, we just …’

  Susan nodded. ‘It’s OK. He wiped his computer clean of the serious data and mine too before he went missing. I’ve had to cover up, pretend to be analysing his results. It’s been a strain.’

  ‘There is something else you can tell us, isn’t there?’ I said.

  She nodded. ‘I just don’t know why …’

  Megan’s tone was sympathetic. ‘We should have shown you the DVD. We still can. He mentions you in the best possible terms. We think his reticence was out of a wish to protect his daughter, and you, Susan.’

  Susan was almost tearful. ‘He was a lovely man. Great fun. I knew he liked me, but there was never the slightest word or gesture out of line.’

  He had that area covered, I thought.

  ‘We haven’t heard a word to his discredit,’ Megan said.

  Susan stopped fiddling with the sugar. ‘OK, here it is. Henry’s real research was done from the air. That’s why I laughed at the quarry suggestion. He didn’t go burrowing around on the ground. He chartered a plane and he took photographs and he had a system for analysing them. I helped him, but I only dealt with his figures and his coordinates, comparing them with the geological record.’

  I drained my cold coffee and sat back in my chair. ‘Tarelton would have known about that.’

  Susan shook her head. ‘No. He worked on the ground first and presented some findings that got the execs excited. That’s when he …’

  ‘What?’ I said.

  ‘He chartered the flights himself. He didn’t tell them shit.’

  ‘But he told you,’ Megan said.

  ‘I found out. He put the photos into the system but I knew they weren’t from official sources and they were brand new.’

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ I said, ‘the photos were all on the computers and they were wiped.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And you were never able to pinpoint …?’

  ‘No way. I’m sorry.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Megan said. ‘That’s all very useful. Are you sure you can carry on at Tarelton after all this?’

  ‘Just.’

  We started to move and I thought of one last question. ‘Where did he catch the flights from?’

  ‘You really are a detective,’ Susan said. ‘Bankstown airport.’

  17

  ‘Useful,’ I said as Megan drove us back to Newtown.

  ‘Mmm.’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘I was just thinking what a shitty world it is.’

  ‘Only parts of it.’

  ‘Here’s the possibility of a solution to the city’s water crisis and the only people with any integrity, the only ones not trying to make money out of it, get screwed.’

  ‘Yeah, but at least the greedy ones haven’t made the money yet and maybe they never will.’

  ‘You don’t think Dr McKinley’s site and other information’ll ever be known?’

  ‘He did a good job of wiping it off the record.’

  Megan was quiet for a while, coping with the heavy traffic along Broadway. At a long traffic light stop she said, ‘I was thinking there’s a job for Hank here. Did you know he has a pilot’s licence?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘He knows the drill. He could go to Bankstown airport and perhaps locate the pilot McKinley hired and then find out the area he was interested in. Who knows? The pilot might even have copies of the photographs. It’d depend on what equipment was used.’

  ‘You’re keen to discover McKinley’s secret are you, love? That’s not our brief.’

  ‘I care about the city. So should you and everybody else. No one’s ever going to do anything about saving all the water that just runs into the sea, and the desalination plant’s a crock of shit.’

  ‘Wouldn’t hurt for Hank to have a go,’ I said.

  Margaret emailed that she’d arrived safely, had her daughter with her, and had more or less sorted out the problems with her ex. She told me about the power of attorney and hoped I didn’t find it too great a responsibility. I replied that I appreciated her trust in me and that we were making progress, but were still well short of a resolution.

  She replied, confessing that she’d taken a photo of me with her cell phone without me knowing and had shown it to her daughter. Lucinda said I looked like an older, rougher version of Russell Crowe. I could live with that. Bit taller, though.

  I phoned Global Resources and was put through to William Holland very speedily.

  ‘Mr Hardy—very good to hear from you. How do things stand?’

  ‘It’s time for a meeting. Could you propose a venue?’

  ‘Well, we have a well-equipped boardroom and—’

  ‘I bet you do. We don’t. We have a few cubbyholes. I like the idea of Horace Greenacre’s place. He seemed to have a bit of space. Perhaps you could arrange that.’

  ‘I’m sure I could. When do you suggest?’

  ‘This evening.’

  ‘That’s very short notice.’

  ‘You said it was urgent.’

  ‘You’re right, I did. Okay. I’ll phone Horace. Shall we say seven o’clock?’

  ‘Seven thirty,’ I said, just to be annoying.

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘That’s 19.30 hours.’

  ‘You are a very irritating man, for someone who has been stripped of his private detective’s licence.’

  He hung up.

  ‘The lawyer’s place,’ I said to Megan, ‘at seven thirty. We get there about forty minutes late.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So we can watch the news—see how the water crisis is going.’

  I spent the afternoon swimming slow laps in the Victoria Park pool and at the Marrickville gym where Tony Truscott was training. He looked sharp, and he told me the contracts for his title fight were being drawn up.

  ‘I hope you’ll be there, Cliff.’

  ‘I will. Did I see you stumble just a fraction when you weren’t quite sure where the ropes were?’

  He grinned. ‘You bastard. Yeah, have to get that right. Know the ring like your living room. He will. Did you?’

  I laughed. ‘Mate, in my last fight I saw the ropes looking up from the canvas. An old-time fighter told me he could smell where they were. Didn’t have to look.’

  ‘They moved slower back then.’

  ‘You’re right. Have you got a firm date?’

  ‘These Yanks try to screw with your head. It’s maybe this and maybe that. I don’t take any notice. I’m fighting for Lily. That’s all the focus I need.’

  I nodded and threw a left lead at him that he picked off as if I was in slow motion.

  Hank and I arrived at Double Bay separately, within a few minutes of each other. He was alone.

  ‘Where’s Megan?’ I said.

  He shrugged. ‘She got a call just as we were leaving. Don’t know what about. She said she’d
take a cab and probably be a bit late.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I’ll tell them someone else is coming—keep them on their toes.’

  We went up the stairs to Greenacre’s suite. He wasn’t there, but his secretary was.

  ‘The other gentlemen are in the conference room,’ she said. ‘This way, please.’

  We entered a room with a long table and high-backed chairs. There were paintings on the walls and a wet bar and coffee-making gear discreetly tucked behind some greenery. Soft, concealed lighting. Two men stood by a tall window looking out at the evening sky. Both wore dark suits. One had silver hair and the other, who was vaguely familiar, had no hair at all. Silver-hair turned around as we came in and moved towards us, his hand extended.

  ‘I’m William Holland and this is my associate, Clive Dimarco.’

  Hank shook the hand. ‘Hank Bachelor, this is Cliff Hardy.’

  I exchanged nods with both men. ‘We have an associate of ours coming. She’ll be along soon.’

  Holland didn’t like it but what could he do? ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘Let’s get started here. Do either of you want anything to drink?’

  Hank shook his head.

  ‘Scotch,’ I said. ‘Ice only.’

  Holland inclined his head. ‘Clive, if you’ll be so good, mineral water for me.’

  ‘Sure.’ Dimarco’s New York accent was strong, unlike Hank’s, which had been eroded by his time in Australia. He prepared the drinks, making a scotch for himself as least as solid as mine.

  We were all on our feet and uncertain how to arrange ourselves. Eventually, Holland took a chair near the top of the table but not at its head, and we all sat.

  Dimarco drank, took a miniature tape recorder from his pocket and put it on the table. ‘I reckon we ought to have a record of this meeting.’

  Hank had a similar device in the pocket of his denim jacket and he produced it with a flourish. ‘I agree,’ he said.

  ‘I’ll start the ball rolling,’ Holland said after sipping his drink. ‘We entered into an agreement with Tarelton Explorations to share the fruits of Dr Henry McKinley’s research into …’

  ‘Tapping the Sydney basin aquifer,’ Hank said.

  ‘Exactly. Unhappily, relations between us and Tarelton deteriorated over time and we feared that our interest, and I might say our investment—’