Cliff Hardy: Deep Water Part 3

She took something wrapped in brown paper from the cupboard.

'You can take it. You can tell Henry's daughter I have several hundred dollars held here which I suppose she can claim if ...'

'Several hundred?'

'The total sale amount minus my commission and the rental fee the artists pay.' She thrust the package at me. 'Please go!'

The crowd had thinned out a little while we'd been talking. Fatty and his possessive partner had gone and there was almost no one taking an interest in the paintings. I was drawn back to the sculptures-particularly to the largest of the skeleton boats. The artist's name was Robert Hawkins and what he'd done to this beautiful piece of timber made you feel that something new and fine had come into the world under his hands. With Lily's money, I could have afforded to buy it, but I had nowhere to put it worthy of its quality.

I saw Marion Montifiore glaring at me from across the room, so I deliberately took my time examining the boat and other pieces. She could hardly order me to leave. I took out my cheque book, but all I did was scribble the artist's name down on the back of it. Petty, but she'd got under my skin. I didn't usually rub people up the wrong way as badly as I had her. Had to wonder if I was losing my touch.

4.

I restrained my curiosity about the drawing until I got home. I'd left half of my red on Marion's desk, so I poured myself a gla.s.s and took a swig before tackling the wrapping. Her wine was better than mine, but she could afford it. Judging by what she said about her business, I wouldn't have been surprised if the artists had to pay for the opening.

I slid the drawing, on stiff, high-quality paper, out of its cardboard cylinder, unrolled it and spread it on the table, holding down the corners with books. I stared at the bold strokes, the white s.p.a.ces and inked-in areas with total incomprehension at first. The more I looked the more certain a.s.sociations formed. But they were very vague. I had the impression of something s.p.a.cious, possibly circular and very much part of the physical world. An interpretation, perhaps an imaginative representation of something real. Or was I kidding myself?

Henry McKinley's signature appeared in small but clear letters near the bottom right hand corner, and the word 'North' appeared in slightly larger letters above it. North? What did that mean? I drank some more wine, usually an aid to thinking, but nothing else came to me. Marion Montifiore had said that the drawings were all similar, a set. So were the others South, East and West? And what else? North-east, North-west etc?

A crease ran from a few inches down on the left hand side to a few inches in at the top. It barely touched the drawing and was slight. I'd have been happy to smooth it out, shove the thing under gla.s.s and hope for the best. But then, I'm content with prints of the few pictures I like-a bit of Vincent, a bit of Brett, Blue Poles.

I thought it through as I finished the wine and set about making one of my three or four standard dishes-shepherd's pie. Obviously, the drawings meant something to the man who'd paid a fair amount of money for them. And he didn't buy them for their artistic merit because if he'd had an expert eye for the work he'd have noticed that the other artists had ten pieces on display and Henry only nine. Where's the other one? I'd have said. And here's another two-fifty and b.u.g.g.e.r the damage.

I needed access to Henry's house to see whether he'd left any information about the drawings. To be legitimate, that meant getting Hank to follow up the missing persons report and have the police enter the house. Legitimate, but not much use. There was no way the police would allow me to go in and, much as I trusted Hank's instincts in general, I needed to do the investigation myself. I needed to know whether my impressions of the drawing bore any relation to reality. I might come across drafts or notes. And if I stumbled across other things to do with Henry's employment, well, so much the better. There were ways to get into locked houses and I knew quite a few of them.

I put the drawing back into the cylinder and locked it in a strongbox where I keep things like my pa.s.sport, my birth certificate, divorce papers and the acknowledgement that I'd paid out the mortgage. I took the medication to control my cholesterol and thin my blood and went to bed. I thought I'd sleep well after the long walks but I didn't. The disappearance of Henry McKinley, the purchase of his drawings, the reticence shown by his employers had worked their way into me and I couldn't stop thinking about the usual questions-who, when, why, how? Those sorts of questions, with no answers coming through, can keep you awake.

I got up and settled into an armchair to read Julian Barnes's novel Arthur and George, and let the questions slip away as the old, empty house creaked and hummed around me.

I slept late. Went out for the paper and saw that the opposition was holding its lead over the government a week into the election campaign. I was absorbing this in satisfying detail and drinking coffee with more pills lined up, when the phone rang.

'Mr Hardy? This is Josephine Dart. You telephoned yesterday.'

'Yes, Mrs Dart. Thanks for calling. It's about Henry McKinley. I take it Terry Dart is your husband. I'm told he and McKinley are friends.'

I heard her draw in a breath and a change come over her voice. 'They were friends, very close friends. My husband was run down and killed by a hit and run driver when he was out cycling.'

'I'm very sorry. When did this happen?'

'A few weeks ago. Not long after Henry's daughter telephoned from America. Terry was very worried about Henry. I've heard of you, Mr Hardy. You were in the news earlier in the year, weren't you?'

'That's right.'

'You're a private investigator. Are you investigating Henry's disappearance?'

'Not officially, no. I'm ... just looking into it for his daughter who I met in California. She gave me your number.'

'I want you to investigate Terry's death. It was murder, I'm sure of it.'

'I think we should talk,' I said.

Josephine Dart lived in Dover Heights in an apartment complex one block back from where the land drops abruptly down to the water. I had to check for the street in the directory, and I noticed that the Dart address was more or less directly in line with McKinley's address across the peninsula. Dover Heights isn't a busy part of Sydney. There are more apartments than houses, mostly with garages, so the streets aren't cluttered. No shops to speak of and no beach. The suburb gives the impression of having nothing to be busy about.

Apartments command high prices though, given the proximity to more exciting places, especially if a view is part of the deal. Good security. I was buzzed in and instructed to take the lift or the stairs. I'd chosen to walk from where I'd parked, mostly uphill, and I took the stairs to support my fitness regime. Standing outside the security door, I could see that the Darts had the whole package. The unit was three flights up and on the side of a building that was at the right angle to command a view south to Bondi, north towards Watson's Bay and east to New Zealand.

Josephine Dart was tiny, barely 150 centimetres in her high heels. She was perfectly groomed with a helmet of black hair, a pearl necklace and a blue silk dress. Her makeup was discreet, emphasising her large eyes and high cheekbones. She looked like a former ballerina, not that I'd ever met a ballerina, former or otherwise. Her voice was surprisingly strong, coming from such a small frame.

'Please come in, Mr Hardy. I've made coffee. I hope you drink coffee. So many people don't these days.'

The short pa.s.sage gave onto a living room set up to be lived in. There was a leather couch, a couple of matching chairs, a coffee table, a magazine holder, TV and a sound system and bookshelves. None of it was excessively tidy: a few magazines drooped from the holder; there were loose CDs and DVDs sitting beside their racks; some of the books had been shelved flat. The room was dominated by two ceiling to floor windows leading out to a wide balcony. Some cloud had drifted over, muting the light, but the view could only be described as an eyeful.

'Sit down. I'll get the coffee.'

I prowled the bookshelves-an eclectic lot, in no particular order, ranging from sport to philosophy. Lance Armstrong's It's Not About the Bike sat next to A Brief History of Time. There was a strong showing of battered green and orange Penguins.

Mrs Dart returned with the coffee things on a tray. She pushed the morning paper aside on the coffee table and put the tray down.

She saw me inspecting the bookshelves.

'Terry was a great reader, from utter rubbish to quantum physics. I'm middlebrow, I'm afraid-biographies, memoirs and well-written thrillers. How do you take your coffee?'

I told her I took it black without sugar. She kept making inconsequential remarks as she poured and I judged that she was holding various emotions in-grief, anger, frustration. The coffee was excellent and I said so.

She sipped and nodded. 'Somebody killed my husband. I don't know why. We were childless. He was my life and I can't just let it go as if ...'

She shook her head and drank some more coffee.

'I understand,' I said. 'You said your husband and Henry McKinley were close?'

'They were very close, like brothers. They shared ...' She broke off and stared out of the window. The cloud had cleared and the view was stunning, but she wasn't seeing it. She was looking at something else, something inner. It was almost embarra.s.sing to be present and I drank some coffee for protection.

'They shared almost everything-the same interests-geology, the outdoors, drawing, photography, cycling. I once said they ought to get a tandem bicycle and go riding on the one machine because they rode together so much. A sort of private joke ...'

Geology, drawing, photography-was that a fatal connection?

I said, 'You'll have to tell me everything that happened.'

She left the room and came back with a folder containing a number of newspaper clippings. The tabloid and the broadsheet had reported on the death of Terence Dart, fifty-seven, of Dover Heights in a hit and run accident. Dart's body had been discovered at 6.05 am by a jogger on New South Head Road. He'd been thrown violently from his bike, which was a crushed ruin, and had died from ma.s.sive injuries. Police called for anyone who might have been in the area when it happened to come forward. No one did, although there must have been light traffic at the time.

'I had Charles Morgan, my solicitor, press the police for details which they were very reluctant to reveal, but he did manage to learn that there were no skid marks, no signs of the vehicle swerving or losing control, even momentarily. Terry was deliberately killed.'

I sifted through the clippings. 'I think you're right. Did your husband wear a helmet?'

'He did, of course, always. But the autopsy showed that his injuries were to the neck and the upper part of the spine where the helmet offers no protection.'

She selected one of the clippings and pointed to a paragraph. 'The jogger said the bike was a ruin. Doesn't that suggest a terrific impact at a great speed?'

I nodded. It was clear what she was doing. Focusing on the forensic detail was helping her to keep grief at bay and herself together. She was going to make me part of that process and I was willing. I asked her about her husband's profession and the friends.h.i.+p with McKinley.

'Terry was a seismologist on a contract with the CSIRO. So of course he was interested in rock formations and the like. This wretched government had cut back on research funds so he was frustrated at being unable to pursue things as far as he would've liked. He said he was being phased out and had nothing to do but fill in forms and shuffle them. He and Henry argued about whether the private sector or the government sector held out the most promise. I couldn't follow the details, but I think they came to the conclusion that ...'

'What?'

'That it really didn't matter. Government was in bed with business, business was in bed with government and science didn't matter a hang. Terry had some hopes that things might change, but ...'

'Were they working together on anything? Informally maybe?'

She shrugged. 'Who can say? They rode their bikes for miles in all directions, further than I'd care to drive. They certainly ... looked at things, took photos.'

'And Henry made drawings.'

'I suppose so. What are you getting at?'

I told her about the drawings and the mysterious buyer and the one that had slipped through the net. I said I'd show it to her to see if it gave her any ideas. That rea.s.sured her about my interest. I asked if I could look at her husband's workroom-his files, his photographs. She agreed. Then I popped the real question.

'And I need to do the same with Henry McKinley. Do you know who his lawyer is?'

'No. But that's not a problem, Mr Hardy. Not if you agree to follow this up for me.'

I nodded. 'As I said, I'm not officially engaged. I can look into whatever seems relevant.'

'I can pay you.'

'It's not an issue at this point, Mrs Dart.'

She looked up at me but it wasn't me she was seeing-it was something or someone else. I caught a flash of a s.e.xual signal, quickly suppressed.

'Terry had a key to Henry's house. I have it right here.'

One of the rooms in the three-bedroom apartment served as Terry Dart's study. It was orderly, with a filing cabinet, bookcases, a laptop computer and printer and the usual jars with pencils and pens sticking out. I opened the filing cabinet, which was only spa.r.s.ely filled with folders bearing names I didn't understand. Seismological terms. The books were mostly about that subject and related ones-vulcanicity, glaciation. He'd evidently read up a bit on global warming and alternative energy as well as the water crisis in Australia and elsewhere. The only personal touches were a set of trophies sitting on top of the bookcase.

Josephine Dart had sat in the room's easy chair while I made my inspection. 'Terry was very proud of those,' she said. 'He said they stood for aching muscles and gallons of sweat.'

Dart had evidently won a couple of long-distance road races and placed in a few more. 'He must've been good.'

'Good. Yes, when he was younger, but not at the top level. It didn't bother him. He was a lovely, calm, kind, considerate man from the day I met him until the morning he rode off. It's so b.l.o.o.d.y unfair.'

Something about the room bothered me. I opened the drawers in the desk-printer paper, cheque books, invoices, a postcode book, staples, printer cartridges, expended and new.

'What?' Mrs Dart said.

'Something's missing.'

She looked carefully. 'Everything's as he left it.'

It came to me in a flash. 'Where's his briefcase?'

She got up quickly. 'He kept it tucked down between the desk and the filing cabinet.'

The s.p.a.ce, wide enough to hold a sizeable briefcase, was empty.

'Mrs Dart, have many people been in the flat since your husband died?'

She nodded. 'We had a wake ... a party. My brother organised it. Terry was an only child. Terry would have liked it-they played some of his favourite music-"Bolero" and "The Ritual Fire Dance" and things from Carmen. There were quite a few people-neighbours and from the CSIRO and the cycling club. I didn't know them all.'

'Did anyone comment on McKinley not being there?'

'Of course,' she said sadly. 'It was a talking point.'

I asked her if she'd come with me when I inspected Henry McKinley's house but she refused.

'I went there quite often. Sometimes with Terry, sometimes without,' she said. 'We had some wonderful times together. I don't think I could bear to see it all empty and ... dead.'

She produced five keys on a ring. I asked whether she wanted some kind of authorisation from McKinley's daughter or the private detective she'd hired.

'I thought you were the private detective.'

That was ticklish, but something I had to get used to. 'I'm more or less retired. I'm just doing this as a favour to Ms McKinley. She was a nurse in the hospital in California when I had a heart attack.'

'My goodness! You look fit now.'

'Yes, I'm fine.'

She gave me the keys. 'I trust you, Mr Hardy.'

You don't get a lot of that in this business and her remark buoyed me up even though I was sure there were things she wasn't telling me and that what I was learning added up to bad news for Margaret McKinley.

Henry McKinley's townhouse was part of a small set of newish places, modelled on the good old Victorian terrace. The architect had done his job well and the houses blended in nicely with the old and new stuff around them. The street was a bit back from New South Head Road and elevated, so that the houses had a view of the water with the trees of the Royal Sydney golf course off to the south. The security wasn't state of the art but it was adequate. A high, solid wooden gate at street level opened easily with one of the keys on the bunch and there was a security grille over the front door and bars on the windows on the lower level. A balcony ran along the width of the house and I could see greenery hanging down over the rail. The s.p.a.ce in front was taken up with the traditional white pebbles and a few largish plants, looking bedraggled, in pots.

Another key opened the grille door and yet another the front door. I waited before going in. I hadn't been tentative about my approach, but I was prepared to defend it if challenged. No challenge came. The adjoining townhouses were quiet-professionals out earning enough to live there.

Light streamed in from a skylight halfway along the pa.s.sage that led to a narrow set of stairs. I opened the door to the room immediately on the right. A bedroom. Double bed, neatly made up, the usual fittings, no sign of disturbance. Likewise the sitting room further down. The room suggested a non-fussy person of good taste. The furniture was comfortable rather than stylish. Neither the TV nor the sound system was new and the big, old bookcase with gla.s.s doors had the look of something handed down through the family-neither fas.h.i.+onable nor practical, but cherished. Its key stood in the lock. The books inside were a mixture of the very old-a Collins set of Shakespeare's plays-and the very new-Robert Hughes's autobiography. There was an emphasis on art and a.s.sociated subjects-Drawings by Michael Fitzjames, The Paintings of DH Lawrence, a book on nineteenth century photography and three or four studies of Pica.s.so.

The dining room was small but with s.p.a.ce enough for a no-nonsense pine table and solid chairs; the kitchen had another skylight and about as much stuff as a single man would need to cook, refrigerate and sit down for a quiet drink. The wine rack held five bottles of red-five more than my ex-wife Cyn had left behind when we split. A door from the kitchen gave out onto a bricked courtyard where everything-flowers, shrubs and herbs-was overgrown. Bird droppings stained the garden setting; leaves had collected around the legs of the chairs and table.

A small aluminium shed occupied a corner of the courtyard. It was padlocked but a smaller key on the ring took care of that. A bicycle was held up on pegs attached to the wall. A heavy plastic cover was draped over it and there were tools I didn't recognise, cans of oil, jars of something or other arranged neatly on a shelf. Three helmets hung from one peg, three pairs of bike shoes from another. I felt sad about the well-cared-for things a man I didn't know had left behind him-if that's what had happened. I re-locked the shed.