Deep Water ch-34

by Peter Corris

  ‘She had keys to your father’s house,’ I said. ‘This one is allegedly the key to the place at Myall. She says the house hasn’t been used since her husband’s death, not by her anyway. If what she says is true there should be signs of their. . activities, and it’s possible your father might have left something there that could make sense of what happened to him. Just possible.’

  She nodded. ‘You see, it’s as I said before. I didn’t really know him. If this is true I’m glad in a way. I never liked to think of him alone and sexless. Pedalling away the frustration. I suppose I was thinking of a nice female companion, someone I’d like, but you can’t legislate for people’s sex lives, can you?’

  ‘No way known so far.’

  ‘So when’re we going up there to take a look?’

  Before setting off for the coast, we went in to Newtown to

  tell Hank and Megan the latest.

  ‘Jesus,’ Hank said, ‘that opens up a can of worms.’

  ‘Ugly image,’ Margaret said.

  Hank said, ‘Sorry, Ms McKinley, I. .’

  Margaret smiled. ‘Margaret, remember?’

  Megan watched this exchange with amusement. As far as I could tell, Margaret and I presented exactly as before, but some women can read signs not apparent to most. She was fighting to repress a knowing smile.

  ‘Any quarries up there?’ I asked, just to deflect her.

  She went to her desk and shuffled paper. ‘There is as it happens-Larson’s quarry at a place called Howard’s Bend, not that far away.’

  She tapped keys and the printer spewed out a sheet.

  ‘Bit of a mystery this,’ Megan said. ‘Mind you, most of them are. Ownership or leasehold has to be tracked through a minefield of interlocking companies. I’m struggling, I admit. But you might check this one out physically. Why not?’

  I took the sheet and folded it. We left.

  ‘She knows we’re fucking,’ Margaret said when we reached the street.

  ‘Yes. She-’

  A movement across the street took my attention and I caught a glimpse of Phil Fitzwilliam in a car pulled up at a set of lights. He looked my way and then said something to his driver as the car accelerated away, jumping the red light.

  ‘What?’ Margaret said.

  ‘Nothing. Just saw someone I don’t want to see.’

  ‘I suppose you’ve got a few enemies?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘But friends as well, right? Who’s this Frank Parker you talk about?’

  ‘He’s my best friend, and he outweighs quite a few enemies.’

  We took my car because Margaret said she wasn’t confident about driving any great distance on the wrong side of the road. She was worried about the turns on and off the bridge.

  ‘I can just see the headline,’ she said. ‘“Expat driver causes pile-up on bridge”.’

  We’d originally planned to go up and back in the one day, but Megan’s quarry would take up some time, so we stopped in Glebe and packed overnight bags. In the past I’d have taken a pistol, even on a benign trip like this, but I didn’t have a licensed firearm anymore, or an unlicensed one. The last illegal gun I’d had I’d thrown into the harbour after I’d tried to kill a man-Lily’s murderer-with it. The gun had jammed, for which I was eternally grateful. I packed a camera instead.

  Myall was about 200 kilometres north-west of Sydney. I’d never been there but the directions I’d got from the web seemed easy enough. Drive about 70 kilometres north of Newcastle and then 10 kilometres off the Pacific Highway. The village, the region, were named for the Myall Lakes, where I seemed to remember there’d been important archaeological digs in the past. I’d forgotten the details. Something significant about stone axes and the length of time the Aborigines had been in the country-longer than anyone thought.

  Margaret and I chatted about these sorts of things on the drive. I played an Edith Piaf CD and one of the best of Cold Chisel and we pledged to find out about ‘Sweethearts’. The Falcon, recently tuned up, performed well and I enjoyed the first decent stint I’d had at the wheel since the heart episode. We had a rest stop just north of Newcastle-light beers and salad sandwiches. Time was when a country salad sandwich was white bread with a thick layer of butter, a slice of tomato, a slice of beetroot and some limp lettuce; mayonnaise if you were lucky. These were California style-wholemeal rolls with your choice of almost everything. There are things we should thank America for.

  Margaret took over the driving. ‘I haven’t driven a stick shift in years,’ she said.

  ‘We call it a manual.’

  ‘Whatever. Be a challenge not to stall it.’

  She didn’t. The secondary road was good and we followed it to a bridge across the Myall River, skirted the towns on either side and followed the road, not as good now, west beside the river for a couple of kilometres. The guide books described Myall as a ‘village’ and that’s what it was, if not a hamlet. It consisted of about twenty houses that all seemed to be hiding from each other, a general store and a boat and fishing gear hire establishment beside the jetty. Not my idea of a holiday destination but I don’t fish. The river had muddy banks and mangroves.

  The house was up a gravel stretch bearing an amateurish sign reading ‘Mosquito Track’.

  ‘Great,’ Margaret said, ‘just what we need-a dose of Ross River fever. I can’t see Dad up here, there’s nowhere to cycle.’

  He wasn’t here to cycle, I thought, but said nothing as she pulled up in front of a weatherboard cottage mostly hidden by thickets of lantana.

  We went up an overgrown path to the front porch. From there I could see a couple of boats downriver but no other sign of activity. If privacy was what you wanted, this was it. The key worked and we stepped into a short hallway leading to a living room. The house had the musty smell of being closed up for a long while, plus touches of damp, dust and dead flies. The living room was comfortable with armchairs, a coffee table, well-stocked bookshelves and a television and CD player.

  There were two bedrooms off the living room. I took the one on the right, Margaret took the other. The room I entered held a queen-sized bed with a black satin cover. There were mirrors attached to the walls adjacent to the bed. A TV with DVD player stood at the end of the bed. A wardrobe held a variety of fetishist clothing-silk, satin, leather, latex items in sizes from very small to fairly large. The top drawers in the bedside chest contained an array of sex toys-dildos, masks, gags, restraints-and a variety of lubricants and condoms. The lower drawers held neat stacks of pornographic DVDs.

  I switched on the bedside lamp and got what I expected-a red glow. I left the room and found Margaret sitting on a chair staring into space.

  ‘Fun and games,’ she said. ‘A cross between what I imagine a brothel and a dominatrix dungeon would be like. I wonder where they keep the coke and the herb? I could do with a joint.’

  I nodded. ‘Same in the other room. Nothing really cruel though, and signs of care being taken. No harm done with everyone willing.’

  ‘You’re right. It’s just a bit hard to take in, when it’s your parent.’

  ‘Mine would’ve got along a lot better with a bit of the same,’ I said. ‘Well, Josephine Dart was telling the truth.’

  Margaret smiled. ‘I wonder how she’s going to deal with all the accoutrements when the lease runs out.’

  ‘She might renew.’

  ‘You say she said she loved my dad. I’d like to meet her, I think.’

  ‘She’s impressive in a brittle kind of way.’

  Margaret jumped up. ‘Give me a kiss.’

  We kissed close and hard.

  ‘Have you ever been into stuff like this?’ she asked.

  ‘Skirted the edges once or twice. It didn’t do a lot for me.’

  ‘Mm, I had a brief dyke phase after my husband split but it didn’t take.’

  We broke apart and went out to the kitchen. It was mid-twentieth century style with lino, laminex and formica, and a hot water tank over
the sink. But it had the right modern fittings-a microwave, dishwasher and gas stove. Margaret opened a few cupboards and found them well stocked with tinned and packet food and jars containing rice, sugar and flour. She pointed to the jars.

  ‘Dad was a great one for that,’ she said. ‘We lived in this old house at first and had to watch out for rats.’

  I opened a cupboard and found bottles of whisky, brandy and rum. The fridge held bottles of soda and tonic along with gin and vodka and vermouth. There was tomato and orange juice and a jar of olives.

  ‘They did themselves proud,’ I said.

  Margaret sniffed at the opened carton of milk and made a face. She leaned against the sink, suddenly looking tired. ‘Why’re we here, Cliff? With all this sex and jollity, I kind of forget.’

  ‘To see if your father left anything to suggest. .’

  ‘What killed him. Right. Where d’you you think we should look? Maybe under the beds-or in them? Come on, Cliff, they did nothing here but screw in various combinations.’

  I pointed to the cup, glass and spoon on the draining rack. ‘Mrs Dart said your father sometimes came here on his own,’ I said. ‘These’re probably his.’

  She shrugged. ‘I want to get away from here. Let’s go look at the bloody quarry.’

  ‘Bear with me.’ It seemed unlikely that McKinley would put anything of professional importance in the boudoirs or the kitchen. I took a quick look at the bathroom-neat, tidy, no hiding places. That left the living room. I worked through the bookshelves while Margaret sat, sceptically fiddling with a strand of hair. Nothing.

  How do you store data? I thought, trying to put myself in the scientist’s shoes. I wasn’t sure. How do you best hide something? I knew the answer to that-where everyone can see it. There was a rack of DVDs under the player-movies, documentaries. I finger-picked my way through them and in the middle found an unlabelled disc.

  ‘What’s that?’ Margaret said. ‘Their home movies? I don’t think I want to see it. Maybe I do.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I turned on the TV, put the disk into the DVD player and pressed PLAY.

  14

  McKinley appeared on screen and Margaret gave a gasp.

  ‘He looks so old and sick,’ she murmured.

  He was in his study, swivelled around in his chair to face the camera. A sheaf of notes sat on his desk. He spoke in a strong, clear voice, at odds with his eroded, almost fragile appearance. ‘I want to place on record something of my recent researches and some of the problems that have been thrown up. I was commissioned by Edward Tarelton to investigate the possibility of tapping into the vast aquifer that lies beneath the Sydney basin. This contains an incalculable volume of pure water, access to which could solve urban Sydney’s water problem long into the future.

  ‘The existence of this water has been known for a very long time and many geologists and other scientists have attempted to find a method of utilising it. Parts of the deposit have been tapped apparently successfully but problems of subsidence have arisen as a result. Buildings have cracked and require stabilisation. This will continue. However, my investigations reveal that the greater part of the aquifer is sealed off from the portions that have been tapped and remain intact and undisturbed. A heavy, apparently impenetrable layer of sandstone overlays the main body of the aquifer. Any attempt to blast through this layer, even in the event of its highly unlikely success given the density and thickness of the layer, would result in the release of the water under such pressure that no monitoring device could control it.

  ‘I believe I have a found a site where the aquifer could be safely tapped, given a very considerable investment of capital, the carrying out of a meticulous environmental impact survey, and the employment of highly trained and principled technicians. I’ve also devised the correct technique for the operation to be done safely. Under the terms of my contract-a secret agreement entered into between Tarelton Explorations and myself to preserve confidentiality-I am obliged to provide this information to the company. I have not done so. In fact, after I became aware of certain things, I have provided misleading and erroneous information.’

  I hit PAUSE.

  ‘Jesus,’ Margaret said, ‘this is big. Have you ever heard of this aquifer thing?’

  ‘All I know about it is what I’m learning now.’

  I pressed PLAY again.

  ‘The confidentiality I spoke of has been breached,’ McKinley went on. ‘And I believe there are now two other organisations who are aware of my researches and have received the preliminary, positive reports I tendered to Tarelton. This information has come to me through a source I trust-one of my research assistants at Tarelton- Susan O’Neil. According to Dr O’Neil, Tarelton has entered into agreements with Lachlan Enterprises and Global Resources in violation of my agreement with Tarelton.

  ‘My own subsequent enquiries suggest that all three companies have serious and suspect political connections and are more like rivals than cooperative partners. Perhaps Edward Tarelton has made a mistake in recruiting the others. I assume he needs the capital. But the upshot is that I no longer feel prepared to report in full on my research. I now believe that whatever organisation possesses this data will use it to circumvent legal requirements and will attempt to exploit the aquifer for purely selfish, commercial purposes.

  ‘Serious environmental damage and harm to large sections of residential and business areas would result from irresponsible tapping and exploitation of what I call the greater aquifer.

  ‘Again, this is clearly contrary to my arrangement with Tarelton, which was that all legal conditions governing the aquifer would be met, with the company deriving an appropriate reward, but no more. The state government has the rights to the deposit, but may make arrangements for its use. I fear that political and commercial considerations may override ethics at this point. I was excited by the research project, seduced by the funds and expertise available to me and I was naive.’

  I paused the disc again. ‘This is heavy stuff,’ I said. ‘He’s talking about three competitors, all looking to make dodgy millions from his work done in good faith. Sorry, Margaret, I’m really talking to myself. Trying to get a handle on this.’

  Margaret said, ‘Each one of them with reasons to steal what he discovered or. . kill him. I need a drink.’

  She went out to the kitchen and came back with two glasses-solid scotches with water. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  McKinley’s frozen image came to life again. ‘I have reason to believe that these. . competing forces, shall I call them, are aware of my hesitation and will continue, in their different ways, to bring pressure to bear. I have been virtually threatened by Tarelton and Lachlan and offered a ridiculous inducement by Global Resources, which I refused, not that there was any possibility of their actually paying it.

  ‘I believe my life is in danger and I am trying to think of a secure way to document the site and the technique so that the legal and ethical standards can be met. I haven’t yet come up with one and I’m making this record just to. . I suppose protect myself. I’m confused and unwell. The strain of this problem has affected my health, which has always been excellent. I am short of breath and subject to episodes of fatigue quite unfamiliar to me.

  ‘I’ve thought of approaching the police, but one of the threats I mentioned actually came from a police officer and I know that at least two of the involved companies have corrupt senior government ministers working in their interest. I’m considering going higher, but water is now such a political, moral and environmental touchstone that I don’t know who to trust. .’

  Margaret covered her eyes with one hand and gestured for me to stop the recording.

  ‘Poor, poor Dad,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t he hop on a plane and. .’

  I shook my head. ‘I suspect he was aware of being watched, and the last thing he would have wanted would be to draw you and Lucinda into the mess.’

  She nodded and flapped her hand. ‘Go on, please.’

  ‘The
data is not electronically recorded,’ McKinley continued. He gestured at the notes on his desk. ‘And I propose to burn these documents. I want to find a way to communicate my findings personally to a trustworthy person or organisation but I’m not hopeful. This records my sincere desire to do the right thing. I hope my beloved daughter and grand-daughter will become aware of that and think well of me.’

  The screen went blank. Margaret sobbed uncontrollably.

  In the past, people paid a lot of attention to fireplaces. Now, we regard them as ornamental, and I hadn’t even noticed that the living room had one. As Margaret regained self-control, I went over to the fireplace: the grate was full of ashes, clearly the remnants of many sheets of paper. Henry McKinley had done what he said he would do and his multimillion dollar information had been locked up inside his head. The question was-had anyone forced the information from him and, if so, who?

  Margaret took a strong pull on her drink and watched me as I poked at the ashes in the vain hope that the destruction hadn’t been complete.

  ‘He was a brave man,’ I said.

  ‘He was a bloody fool. The corruption here can’t be that bad. Why didn’t he go to the media?’

  ‘Look, as he says, he was bound by a legal agreement. If he went to the media they’d be wary about that and take some time over it, then stuff could leak out and he could be in all sorts of trouble. His credibility could be shot. He shouldn’t have destroyed the notes, though. That put the entire burden on him and he didn’t look well enough to handle it.’

  Margaret finished her scotch and went out to the kitchen for the bottle. She freshened both drinks. ‘Do you think we’ll ever find out what happened?’

  ‘We can try. This Dr O’Neil is someone we have to talk to, and I’ve got an idea who the policeman he mentioned might be.’

  She didn’t pursue that and for a minute I thought she might have resigned herself to no result and be looking for a way to tell me so. But I was wrong.