Cliff Hardy: Deep Water Part 6

'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?'

'h.e.l.lo, 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?' Margaret 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. 's.h.i.+t!'

'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.

Stefan Gunnarson had been a senior officer in the Missing Persons Division for a good part of my career as a PEA. We'd got on well in a rough and ready way, and I was glad when he'd got the top job. We hadn't had any dealings after that but when I learned that his son, Martin, was now in the spot with the rank of inspector, I was encouraged to ring Gunnarson senior, who'd retired, and ask him to put in a word for me with the head man. Stefan Gunnarson was one of those cops who'd still have a drink with me after my licence was cancelled. He said he'd talk to his son and that was how I came to be sitting in Martin Gunnarson's office in the Surry Hills Police Centre securing a small slice of his time. I'd emailed him a rundown on the case.

He was a duplicate of his dad-short, heavy set, dark, nothing like your stereotypical Scandinavian.

'This is all highly irregular, Mr Hardy,' he said, fingering a slim file in front of him.

'It's not only regularity that gets results. Ask any proctologist.'

He winced. 'Dad warned me about your jokes.'

'That's the only one, I promise. You'll admit it looks very dodgy-no sign of him or his car, house broken into, strange goings on about his drawings ...'

'Agreed, but the trail's very cold.'

'The daughter posted him missing weeks back and Hank Bachelor followed up a while later.'

'We're understaffed and stressed.'

'So you outsourced it to the private sector?'

Gunnarson didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The defiant set of his heavy features said it all.

'Look,' I said, 'I don't want to get on the wrong side of you. I'd like you to do the usual thing-print some flyers, talk to the media.'

'Why do I have the feeling there's something more?'

'And bring some pressure to bear on Tarelton Explorations.

They're ... involved.'

'They're also influential.'

'That right? All the more reason. I'm just suggesting you have someone senior pay a call, ask a few questions.'

'And you'll do what?'

'See if feathers fly.'

'We can't act as your ... what d'you call those servants that go out to scare up the pheasants for the n.o.bs to shoot at?'

'Beaters.'

'Right, beaters.'

'Your dad did just that, a couple of times, and he didn't regret it.'

'Are you saying he owes you and so I owe you?'

'No. I messed things up once big-time and we're square.'

Gunnarson laughed. 'How have you stayed alive so long?'

'I sometimes ask myself that.'

'I bet you do. I'll send someone and you'll get an edited report.'

'Edited?'

'I've bent over, but I'm not going to let you f.u.c.k me.'

Megan had been very busy. She was compiling a list of quarries in an area stretching from Nowra in the south to Newcastle in the north and west to the Blue Mountains. She refused to tell me how many she had so far and I didn't press her. I was more interested in what she'd turned up about Hugh Richards.

'He's a nasty bit of work,' she said. 'A G.o.d-botherer, as you'd expect given the party he belongs to. Very narrowly escaped prosecution for tax evasion and fraud back before he got into parliament. He's rich, with interests in a string of companies, all that at arm's length now, of course.'

'Of course.'

'The word is that he's still actively involved in some of those companies and that he's a busy share trader.'

'How does he get away with that?'

'There's a theory, and I got this from your mate Harry Tickener, that he's got something on the bosses in his party and maybe on one or two in the government.'

'Great. Just what we need, a political angle.'

Nothing happened for almost a week as Megan kept googling. I went to the gym, took my meds, checked that a flyer about McKinley was posted on the web and in the usual places, and that reports about his disappearance appeared in the press. Nothing on TV. Then Hank got a call.

'From Chief Superintendent Ian d.i.c.kersen of Serious Crimes,' Hank said. 'He wants me and you and any materials we have on McKinley to come in to Surry Hills this afternoon. I guess I'm free. You?'

'Yes. Any more information?'

'About zip, except that I think he mentioned the word conference, and I gather your pal Gunnarson's going to be there.'

'I wonder if we should take a lawyer with us?'

Hank tapped his mobile. 'I've got my guy briefed and ready to spring into action.'

We rolled up at the appropriate time and were escorted to a conference room with a large table and comfortable chairs-for a police station, that is.

d.i.c.kersen was forty-plus, polished, part of the new breed. Not scruffy, not flash, not fat, not thin-a man for all occasions. He introduced himself, introduced Gunnarson to Hank and introduced the woman present, Detective Sergeant Angela Roberts, to both of us. She was black, part of an even newer breed.

When we were seated d.i.c.kersen said, 'DS Roberts interviewed a person named Guy at Tarelton Explorations. I thought it might be useful for you to compare notes with her.'

Hank and I nodded in her direction. They'd have to be mental notes-neither of us had brought a single sheet of paper. If d.i.c.kersen noticed he didn't comment.

'Well, to business,' he said. 'We've found Henry McKinley. I'm sorry to have to tell you that he's dead. He appears to have died violently.'

It wasn't unexpected, but you always hold out hope. It'd hit Margaret hard.

'That's not all,' d.i.c.kersen said. 'I understand you and McKinley's daughter are close, Mr Hardy.'

'In a way,' I said.

'We'll leave it up to you then whether to tell her the rest or not.'

'That is?'

'Seems he was held for some time-ligature marks.'

'Tortured?'

'Possibly, hard to say.'

8.

Henry McKinley's body had been found near a fire trail in the Royal National Park. An attempt had been made to torch his car but it had been only partly successful, and the condition of the body allowed the pathologist to make several conclusions. McKinley had died of cardiac arrest. There were ligature marks on his wrists and ankles and bruises to his chest and legs.

'The ... injuries were extensive,' d.i.c.kersen said, 'but the pathologist said his heart was dodgy-a couple of blockages. It's possible the beating, or a number of beatings, could have triggered the heart attack. Or just stress from the ... circ.u.mstances he was in. He'd been gagged. I'd be stressed, from the sound of it.'

There was an eerie quiet in the room as d.i.c.kersen went into the details. When you hear of a thing like that you can't help mentally putting yourself in the victim's place and feeling the chill of fear-me particularly, after my recent experience. You don't say anything; you just wait for the feeling to pa.s.s.

Gunnarson broke the silence. 'Some firemen found the car and got straight onto the police. Luckily, no media came to hear of it and we kept it that way.'

I said, 'You're sure it was McKinley?'

'Everything the pathologist doc.u.mented about the body fitted the description the daughter gave us and the more detailed one that Mr Bachelor provided.'

Hank said, 'I didn't tell you, Cliff. Our client said that her father had broken his right arm and his left shoulder in different falls from his bike.'

'That checked out,' Gunnarson said. 'We found that McKinley was a blood donor. His DNA's on record and that's being matched, but I don't think there's any doubt.'

Hank took a notebook from his pocket. 'When was the body found?'

Gunnarson looked at his watch. 'Close to seventy-two hours ago.'

'And how long since he was killed?'

'Not long. That rainstorm we had last Friday probably contributed to dousing the fire.'