by Peter Corris
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.
6
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.
Hank and I were a little early and we studied the models with interest.
‘Pretty green oriented, this stuff,’ Hank said. ‘I’m seeing that everywhere these days.’
‘Hadn’t noticed,’ I said. ‘Tell you what though, with these lights and the air conditioning, the building’s laying
down a fair carbon fingerprint.’
‘Footprint, Cliff, footprint. Time to go.’
We checked in at a high-tech reception desk, were given security passes, and took the lift to the second level. A good-looking woman in a suit and blouse that stopped just short of being a uniform met us and we were escorted down a corridor. Discreet lighting through the tinted glass, framed blueprints on the wall, a rock garden with fountain at a bend.
She opened a door with ‘Personnel’ on a nameplate and nodded to the man and the woman working at computer desks. She knocked on a door that carried the name Ashley Guy.
‘Come,’ a voice within said.
I glanced at Hank, who was fighting off a grin.
She opened the door and waved us in.
Ashley Guy was sitting behind a big desk studying a printed sheet. He stood when we came in and held out a hand to shake. We shook. He sat down and gestured towards two chairs. The room was spick and span, as if some brain work might go on there, but nothing as mundane as filing or keyboarding or signing things. Guy wore the unbuttoned waistcoat of a three-piece suit with a light blue shirt and dark blue tie. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with his fair hair thinning and his waistline thickening.
‘I
can’t give you a lot of time, Mr Bachelor and Mr. .?’
‘Clifford,’ I said.
‘. . Mr Clifford, but I’ll do whatever I can to help in the time available. Of course, we’re very concerned about Henry.’
‘Likewise his daughter, likewise the police pretty soon,’ Hank said. ‘Our enquiries have turned up grounds for more than just concern, but I thought to come to you before bringing in the police with. . all guns blazing, as you might say.’
‘These grounds are. .?’
Hank shrugged. ‘Kind of circumstantial, but it’d help a whole lot if you could tell us precisely what Henry McKinley was working on.’
Guy shook his head. ‘That’s precisely what I cannot do. That information falls under the heading of commercial confidentiality. Every research project here involves us in the outlay of a great deal of money, sometimes for no return. Competition in our field is intense. Perhaps you understand, being in the business you’re in.’
‘Maybe I do,’ Hank said, playing him a little.
Guy hesitated, glancing uncertainly left and right, before taking a slim file from a desk drawer. ‘Anything else-his medical record, qualifications, references, salary, in general terms, contractual provisions, in outline-I’ll be happy to give you.’
‘Healthy, was he?’ Hank said.
‘Very.’
‘Solvent?’
‘Yes.’
‘With time to run on his contract?’
Guy wasn’t stupid. ‘You know this already, don’t you?’
‘That’s confidential,’ Hank said. He nodded to me. I took a folded-up high quality photocopy of McKinley’s drawing and put it on the desk.
‘Someone,’ Hank said, ‘don’t know who just at present but we’re working on it, missed this when he bought up a whole set of McKinley’s drawings. This is a copy, naturally. Mean anything to you, Mr Guy?’
Some say watch the eyes, others watch the mouth; some say look for a frown or hand movements. I know you’d be flat out doing all those things at once and a good liar probably didn’t show anything. Guy looked closely at the drawing, moved it a little, and then shook his head.
‘It appears to be well-executed to my inexpert eye, but I’m afraid I have no idea what it means.’
‘We’re in the same boat,’ Hank said, ‘but it certainly means something because someone paid out quite a few hundred dollars to gather up the ones that went with it.’
Guy shrugged. ‘You’ve got me. Was there anything more?’
Hank stood up and I followed suit. ‘Is there anything more, Mr Clifford?’ he said.
I took the drawing and folded it. ‘I’d say there’s a good deal more, but that’ll do for now.’
Hank executed a courtly half-bow, the way Americans do. ‘Thank you for your time, sir.’
We went out quickly. In the corridor we could see our escort hurrying towards us but Hank held up his hand, shook his head and she stopped.
‘We’re fine. Sure you’ve got better things to do.’
The woman looked nonplussed, but we were on the move and to trot after us wouldn’t be her style. We strolled down the corridor, studying the blueprints as if they meant something to us. When we reached the waiting area for the lifts I touched Hank’s shoulder.
‘Got your mobile?’
‘Sure.’
‘Snap a picture of that bloke there waiting for the up.’
Hank did it with the speed and secrecy I’d known he’d be capable of. We rode the lift to the lobby, handed in our passes, and left the building.
‘Thirsty work,’ I said. ‘Must be a pub around here somewhere.’
We found one in Elizabeth Street and settled down over middies of Old.
‘He wasn’t a personnel man,’ Hank said. ‘Someone higher up.’
I nodded. We’d both noticed the same things: the ‘Ashley Guy’ nameplate had been slid in on top of another but not exactly, so that a centimetre of the previous one still showed, and Guy’s uncertainty about which side of the desk the drawers were on when he reached for the file.
‘Means they’re worried,’ I said.
‘Plus, I never trust a man wearing a three-piece suit.’
Hank took out his mobile and studied the photograph. The man was big, florid, overweight, in an expensive suit and with an expensive haircut. ‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know, but he’s familiar. It’ll come to me.’
Hank took a long drink and sighed. ‘That’s real beer. Are you cool about me and Megan, Cliff?’
‘You’ve both been around long enough and had enough experience to know what you’re doing. I hope you’re good for each other. I’d say the chances are better than even.’
‘I should’ve known not to expect a straight answer.’
‘There aren’t any straight answers to real questions.’
Back in the Newtown office, Hank plugged the phone into one of his computers and printed out the photograph. He laid the print on his desk and the three of us gathered round to look at it.
‘Likes his lunch and dinner,’ Hank said.
Megan looked at us both. ‘You really don’t know, do you?’
I said, ‘I feel I should, but. .’
‘That’s Hugh Richards,’ she said, ‘shadow minister for minerals and energy in the state parliament.’
‘I’m a bit out of touch,’ I said. ‘How solid’s this state government?’
‘They’re on the nose,’ Megan said. ‘You must have seen the stuff in the papers-law and order, transport, water. .’
‘I thought that was standard state politics-shit on the last lot while they try to shit on you. And nothing gets done except calls and hand-wringing over the things people want to do-like gambling, watching porn, drinking and taking drugs.’
‘Jesus,’ Hank said. ‘That’s fundamental cynicism.’
‘He’s right,’ Megan said, ‘but it looks a bit worse for this government. The word is there’s a high profile child sex abuse case with a drag component coming up and some DUI matters that could be very embarrassing.’
‘How d’you know all this?’ I said.
Hank mimed clattering a keyboard. ‘She reads blogs.’
‘I’ll have to try to find out what that means, exactly,’ I said. ‘What about this Hugh Richards?’
‘The things that’re protecting this government,’ Megan said, ‘are four-year terms and the useless opposition. But Richards is thought to be a possible saviour. I’ll do some work on him.’
7
Hank had arranged a Skype hook-up with Margaret McKinley so that we could all see each other on the computer screens. It was late at night for us, early in the morning for her, but that was fine because she was due to start an early shift. She was in her nurse’s uniform, looking crisp and competent.
‘Hi, guys,’ Margaret said. ‘You’ve been busy. Don’t worry. I know there’s no good news. I’ve adjusted to that.’
She’d had emails from Hank and me. She held the faxed copy of her father’s drawing so we could see it. It had lost some of its definition in the transmission but still had a powerful clarity of line and shading.
‘The original’s better, Margaret,’ I said, ‘and we’re keeping it safe for you. What d’you make of it?’
‘Hello, Cliff. I’ll be glad to have it. I haven’t got a lot of Dad’s stuff. He was a perfectionist and he didn’t keep what he didn’t think was up to scratch. And he sold a bit, so thanks. I’ve looked at it from every which way, and the only thing I can come up with is-a quarry.’
Hank and I looked at each other.
‘That’s a whole lot better than anything we thought of, Ms McKinley,’ Hank said. ‘A quarry. Why not? Facing north, or looking north, or something.’
The admiration in Hank’s voice brought a smile to Margaret’s face, animating it. She was an attractive woman with the attraction usually muted by her concerns and responsibilities. Now it showed through to its best advantage.
‘Will that help?’ Ma
rgaret said.
I gave her a positive nod, wanting to do more. ‘It could. It really could.’
‘Gotta be lotsa quarries around,’ Hank said after the hookup finished.
‘I dunno, probably not that many these days. They tend to be used as landfill or get topped up and turned into parks. I don’t like the feel of it though, if Margaret’s right.’
‘Holes in the ground, you mean?’
‘Yeah.’
‘She seemed like a pretty together woman. I’d say she could handle whatever comes up.’
I nodded. ‘I think so, too. Hardest thing would be not ever knowing.’
Hank yawned. He was putting in long days working a couple of cases. ‘Suppose it was the Tarelton crew who bought the drawings and the drawings are of a quarry, so what? What d’you find at the bottom of a quarry? Rocks?’
‘Or water,’ I said.
‘I’ll get Meg onto a quarry search. Ain’t nothin’ she can’t do with Google. She tells me she’s digging up all she can on this Hugh Richards.’
Tired as he was, Hank was still on the job. He shuffled through what he had in the McKinley file. ‘Shit!’
‘What?’ I said.
‘Margaret says he drove a Toyota SUV. Spare tyres, spare gas, he could go any place.’
‘It wasn’t meant to be easy.’
‘Hey, I’ve heard that. Who said it?’
‘A former prime minister. Used to be a villain, less of a villain these days.’
‘What do you think about the guy you’ve got in now?’
‘Beyond redemption.’
I drove home and took my medications with water and waited a while before I made myself a nightcap. Hank would be going back to be with Megan. Good luck to them. I made the drink a strong one. Loneliness wrapped around me like a sweaty sheet on a hot night. I thought of Margaret McKinley in her white uniform with her dark hair held back by a red band. I finished the drink and took the image up to bed with me with the Barnes book. The book was still good but the image didn’t do me any good. I had a restless night.
