‘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.
‘I still think that drawing is a quarry,’ she said, ‘and now that we’ve heard what Dad said it makes more sense, doesn’t it? A quarry’s a big, deep hole, right? That would make a good start at getting down to the water, wouldn’t it?’
‘Could be.’
‘I want to see the quarry around here. I want to see all the fucking quarries. If we find one that fits the drawing, that’s a start on what he was on about. Grab the disc and let’s go, Cliff. I want to get out of this place.’
‘Is there anything of your dad’s here-books or CDs- that you might want to keep, d’you think?’
She shook her head and held up the scotch bottle. ‘Just this.’
Margaret used the toilet. I went outside and scouted around the house. The grass was getting out of control, leaves were building up here and there and some rubbish- plastic bottles and fast food containers-had been trapped in the bushes. Bending to examine a yellowed copy of the local newspaper, I found a pair of spectacles in the grass. Expensive, and exactly like those worn by Henry McKinley. I wrapped them in a tissue and shoved them into my jacket pocket.
Being thorough, Megan had ranged far and wide in her researches. Larson’s quarry was about sixty kilometres south-west of Myall and the drive took us along the river for a stretch, crossing it and heading into the drier country away from the coast. The road got rougher as we entered the stony uplands around Barkley’s Ridge. The air got cooler and the Falcon coughed a bit on the climb. We passed through the town of Barkley that had once had a rail link to the coast, long since closed. We threaded through some hills on a road that had in the past been wide and well maintained but had degenerated to little more than a track.
‘I hope your tyres are good,’ Margaret said. It was almost the first time she’d spoken since leaving Myall.
‘Brand new,’ I said.
The land flattened out into sparse grazing country and we crossed a couple of streams on bridges originally built to handle much greater water volumes and now looking too large for the sluggish, weed-choked creeks. We passed through a township only a little bigger than Myall named Howard’s Bend. Further on the road sloped down suddenly and stopped beside a body of water about the size of ten Olympic swimming pools. The water shimmered a deep cobalt blue under the clear sky.
‘Larson’s quarry,’ I said.
‘It’s nothing like Dad’s drawing,’ she said, ‘but it’s pretty, isn’t it?’
She was right-the rectangular, water-filled hole, with trees growing high around three of its sides, didn’t resemble Henry McKinley’s drawing in the least. Although his creation was more or less an abstract, surely he would’ve suggested the trees and the water. But it
We got out of the car and walked down to the edge. The quarry had steep slopes on three sides, but here the gravel slope was gradual to water that looked no more than waist-deep. There were reeds sprouting at the edge and pelicans and ducks moved sedately on the surface. Looking at the quarry, I was suddenly aware of how rare it is these days to see a body of water unfenced, apart from the ocean and the rivers. Margaret must have had a parallel thought.
‘I wonder if it’d be OK to swim?’
‘Can’t see why not. If it’s on private property there’s no sign against trespassing and the water’s clean. Looks to have a firm bottom.’
Margaret took her clothes off, folded them neatly, and waded out into the water. She dived, surfaced and struck out in a strong, practised crawl for the deeper water. I did the same and joined her, treading water while the birds moved cautiously away.
‘Bloody freezing,’ I said.
‘But beautifully clean, just what I needed. Let’s have a look at your scar. Didn’t get a chance the other night.’
She examined the line running down the centre of my chest, kissed it and then put her hands on my shoulders and ducked me. When I surfaced she was halfway back to the edge. We left the water, both shivering, and I scooted to the car to get my gym towel. We shared it, sweat-smell and all.
She pointed to the scar as I pulled on my shirt.
‘Dr Pierce did a great job. Pity he’s so pompous.’
‘Pompous is OK with me in his case.’
‘Let’s find a motel,’ Margaret said. ‘I want to fuck you.’
We booked into a motel in Barkley and began making love as soon as the door closed behind us. We didn’t pretend not to be stimulated by the erotica in the Myall cottage. The refreshing swim gave us energy to go with heightened feelings. We tried different positions and prolonged the pleasure.
