Cliff Hardy: Deep Water Part 19

Hank put his hands on the desk. They were big, powerful hands, but the way he placed them indicated his professional impotence. 'I guess we'll have to do some rethinking,' he said.

I hadn't mentioned Phil Fitzwilliam's second coming to Hank or Megan, out of a long habit of keeping tricky things to myself. That made it loom as even more tricky. To reveal it at this point would surely increase DS Roberts's doubts. She'd been taking notes as we spoke. Now she tapped her pen against her big white teeth.

'And where and when is this b.l.o.o.d.y gunfight at the OK corral going to take place?'

Hank and I exchanged glances before Hank shook his head. 'I'm afraid we're not at liberty to reveal that.'

'I said I could arrest you.'

'The meeting'd still go ahead,' I said. 'Just that our side would be undermanned.'

'You're bluffing.'

I shrugged. 'If you say so. Why don't you put it to Ian d.i.c.kersen that he's got a chance to close out a high profile murder case and drop some corporate creeps in the s.h.i.t.'

'Ian's not a big noter.'

'You don't get to his level without making a name for yourself,' I said. 'And there're always more steps to take.'

She chewed that over, and she wouldn't have been human if she hadn't been thinking about her own part in the scheme of things. She closed her notebook and tucked it into a smart black leather bag that had a discreet Aboriginal flag medallion attached.

'I'll report to him and we'll be in touch.'

'Make it soon,' I said.

'You know what your great talent is, Mr Hardy?'

'I'd like to know,' Hank said.

She stood, ready to go. 'Almost, but not quite, p.i.s.sing people off.'

Good exit line and she took it.

Hank was grinning and I gave him the bird. 'What she means is, my style leaves s.p.a.ce for charm.'

So it was a waiting game-us waiting for d.i.c.kersen; Crimond waiting for us; Lachlan waiting for Crimond; Patrick Fox-James waiting for Megan; Phil Fitzwilliam waiting for me. In all this I'd almost forgotten about Margaret and I wasn't ready for her call at home that night.

'Cliff, this is Margaret. Please pick up if you're there.'

I hesitated and I wasn't sure why. I didn't know anymore whether the relationship was professional or personal or a mixture of both. Confusing. While I hesitated, I had a flash of us making love in the motel. Over the years, so many motels, and a few of them, with similar scenes playing out. Mostly signifying nothing. I grabbed the phone.

'Margaret.'

'Cliff.'

There was a pause and then she laughed. 'What is this, a scene from Nol Coward?'

I laughed, too. 'I was deep in thought.'

'About me?'

'And other matters.'

'You know that old joke about the girl who falls in love with the gorilla, but he doesn't call, he doesn't write. These days you could add-he doesn't email, he doesn't text.'

'I'm sorry. A lot has been happening, some of it good, some not so good. I was holding off until we had a result.'

'Are you close to that?'

'We could be, but it might all still go wrong.'

'Well, I'll leave that to you and Hank and Megan, but I was really calling about ... us. I miss you.'

A statement like that should warm the heart, but it caught me on the hop. With a string of failed relationships behind me I was never confident the next time at bat. My wife Cyn had provided the diagnosis long ago. 'You live in your head, Cliff,' she said, 'with your clients and victims and perps. Everyone else just flits in and out.' It hadn't been a problem with Lily, possibly because we both did the same thing, but it had brought things unstuck in the past. It was time to snap out of it, if I could.

'Margaret,' I said, 'don't give up on me.'

'Give me something not to give up on.'

I tried. I talked. I gave her a version of where things stood with the investigation, but I could tell that wasn't what she was asking. I knew I was deliberately misinterpreting what she said. I suspect she knew it as well. I had a sense that she was involved in some kind of decision process, involving me, perhaps, but without telling me the terms. It all made for a very unsatisfactory phone conversation.

24.

DS Roberts rang the next morning to say that d.i.c.kersen had agreed to go along with our plan with several non-negotiable provisos: Roberts herself and another officer were to be given several hours' notice of the venue and time of the meeting. They were empowered to inspect the meeting place and to cancel the event if they thought it unsatisfactory. They were empowered to intervene at any point they chose.

'What if we don't agree?' Hank said.

'Then you and Mr Hardy will be proceeded against on various charges relating to violation of the Private Enquiry Agents Act and withholding information from the police in respect of several serious crimes.'

'Several?' Hank said.

'The shooting at Double Bay and the death of Henry McKinley.'

'We don't have any hard evidence on the shooting.'

'Hard or soft, you haven't told us everything you know.'

'The same might go for you.'

'We're the authorities, you're not.'

'You win,' Hank said. 'We should know where and when by early afternoon. Who do we contact?'

'Who d'you think?' she said.

We waited a few hours and then started phoning. I told DS Roberts the meeting was set for seven thirty and that I'd meet her and her colleague at my house at five. Hank phoned Ross Crimond and told him the time and place-giving him a few hours to contact the Lachlan people. I phoned Megan with the information and arranged for her and Fox-James to meet us in the office for a briefing.

That left me with the problem of Phil Fitzwilliam and n.o.body to consult with on the matter. Well, that wasn't unusual. I went for a walk to Australia Park, sat under a tree and thought, but nothing inspirational came. Trees and gra.s.s and fresh air are overrated. No other course but the standard Hardy one-the direct approach. I phoned him.

'About f.u.c.kin' time,' he said.

'Don't be like that, Phil. I'm trying to do you a favour.'

'Trying to save your a.r.s.e, more like.'

'That, too. Sorry, but there've been developments.'

I told him about Roberts and d.i.c.kersen and the way things stood.

'Jesus, Hardy, you're a lying, sneaky c.u.n.t.'

'Takes one to know one. You can still get something out of this. All you have to do is be there, behave like a policeman, and share in the glory.'

'With Ian f.u.c.kin' d.i.c.kersen and everyone's pet boong?'

'He's going up. Play your part and you might get him onside for your upcoming trouble.'

'I'll tell you this. If it doesn't work out in my f.u.c.kin' favour you and everyone connected with you is going to wish they'd never been born. That's a promise.'

So now I had threats from the police in two directions-not a record, but up there with some of my better efforts. I told him where to go and when.

I got back to the office just as Megan and Fox-James arrived. He was a slim, fair individual, something like the old movie actor Leslie Howard in appearance. When Megan had suggested him she'd told me in private why the affair hadn't lasted long.

'Too tortured,' she said.

Whatever that meant. I reflected that it was good news for Hank. No way could anyone brand Hank Bachelor as tortured.

'Gidday, Cliff,' Fox-James said. 'I hear you had heart trouble.'

'Thing of the past, Paddy. Ready to go into your act? I see you've dressed for the part.'

He was wearing brown polyester slacks, black shoes and a fawn polo shirt b.u.t.toned up to the neck. He looked like a grown-up little boy dressed by his mother.

'Great threads, eh? What does the good book say? "Let not thy raiment speak too loud".'

'Don't overdo it,' I said.

'You made that up,' Megan hissed. 'This is serious.'

'You were always telling me I was too serious.'

'There's a time and a place, Patrick. We have to talk to Hank.'

Our meeting was anything but easy. Hank was jealous of Fox-James, Fox-James resented Hank, Megan hated being the meat in the sandwich, and I was still worrying about Phil Fitzwilliam. But then, they say Clay was almost hysterical with anxiety before the first Liston fight and look what happened there.

I got to my place at four thirty and found Roberts and her colleague parked in the street more or less as I expected, and Fitz parked a few cars back. All three police officers, Roberts's colleague as dark as herself, followed me into the house. Roberts was fuming.

'What's he doing here?' she said, barely acknowledging Fitz.

'We have a history,' I said. 'As I explained to DS Fitz-william, this is a complicated matter. He has a piece of it, as the sports managers say.'

Fitz grinned at that; Roberts didn't. 'Don't come the smarta.r.s.e sporting chat with me, Hardy. This farce is over.'

I had nothing to lose. I got right in her face, elbowing the other cop aside. 'No, it isn't. Let me tell you what's going to happen here, with a bit of luck. A couple of heavies from Lachlan Enterprises-courtesy of Ross Crimond, who's a deluded, ambitious hypocrite along the lines of the late, unlamented Joh Bjelke-Petersen-are going to show up with a company executive. A person claiming to be a witness to the abduction of Henry McKinley will be present. He'll represent himself as someone willing to overlook what he saw in return for a reward that will further the work of the Lord. The executive will haggle with the price. The witness will turn bolshie and the heavies will threaten and attempt to a.s.sault him. All this will be captured on videotape.'

Roberts rolled her eyes. 'Then what?'

'Then you and your mate and DS Fitzwilliam step in and arrest the heavies and the executive, take them away and work on them until someone cracks and drops the other, or others, in the s.h.i.t.'

'I like it,' Fitz said.

'You would,' Roberts snarled. 'It's just your bulls.h.i.t style.'

'f.u.c.k you,' Fitz said.

'You wish.'

'Stop it,' I said. 'We haven't got much time. I admit it's as speculative and shaky as things get. But is there any other way to get at Henry McKinley's killers? Fitz needs the brownie points and you and your boss d.i.c.kersen want to climb the greasy pole. It's just a sting. You people have done them before.'

The other cop spoke for the first time. 'Detective Constable John Mahoud, Mr Hardy,' he said. 'What if it all goes wrong?'

Good question, I thought. 'I'll take the blame,' I said.

The police went upstairs while I set up the camcorder. Megan arrived with Hank and Fox-James and I installed them in the living room. The doorbell rang.

'Crimond,' Hank said. 'If he's on his own we're f.u.c.ked.'

I let him in. He wasn't on his own. He had two men with him, both wearing suits and serious expressions. The older one was fleshy with a high colour; the other man was lean and hard looking. His glance swept the room and the people in it like a searchlight.

Ex-military, I thought. Dangerous.

Crimond was all smarm. 'This is Deacon Jones and Pastor Sorenson from my church,' he said. 'Deacon Jones is also ...'

'An executive at Lachlan Enterprises,' I said.

Crimond didn't miss a beat. 'Why, yes.' He held out two hands to Fox-James. 'Ross Crimond.'

Fox-James was up to it. He gripped both hands and beamed. 'Piers Beaumont.'

Megan patted Fox-James on the head and moved away. I used a foot switch under the rug to activate the silent camcorder. Jones settled himself in a chair; Sorenson leaned against the cupboard under the stairs.