‘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?’ 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. ‘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.
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 nobs to
