some stuff about the spectacles that helped to convince
him. I mentioned the village. As I say, I think he went for it.’
‘Good. Sounds as if you handled it just right.’
‘So now we set up a meeting with the imaginary witness, with Ross invited along, and he tells Lachlan and they send someone. We grab that someone and pressure him and Ross and. . what can go wrong?’
‘Everything,’ I said.
‘You’re mad,’ Megan said when we outlined the plan. ‘You mean you intend to trot along to some dodgy meeting and confront the person, or persons, who killed Henry McKinley and torched his body?’
‘Not without back-up,’ I said.
‘The police?’
‘Not yet.’
Megan was right; it was time to stop going it alone. I was about to explain the next part of the plan when my mobile rang.
‘Mr Hardy, this is Susan O’Neil.’
‘Yes, Dr O’Neil.’
‘I handed in my notice at Tarelton. They reacted furiously and threatened to sue me for breaking my contract, which isn’t true, strictly speaking. I was wrestling with that when I got a call from Lachlan Enterprises offering me a job at a higher salary with better conditions. I mentioned the difficulty I was having with Tarelton and they offered to meet any legal costs I might incur. What’s going on? It’s all about Henry, isn’t it? I feel I’m caught in the middle of something I don’t understand, and my professional reputation is a sort of football.’
‘You’re exactly right,’ I said, ‘but we think things are coming together. My advice is to keep your head down for a time. Say, a week. Can you do that?’
She said she could and I told her I’d keep her in touch with developments.
‘You’re juggling a few balls, you two,’ Megan said.
I nodded. ‘Quite a few and more to come.’
Hank and I had discussed the next move. He called Dimarco at Global Resources and gave him an outline of how things stood-our belief that Lachlan Enterprises was behind McKinley’s death and our confidence that Global wasn’t involved.
The conversation was on broadcast: ‘Thanks for the vote of confidence,’ Dimarco said. ‘And what about the results of Dr McKinley’s research?’
‘That’s still uncertain.’
Megan raised an eyebrow.
Dimarco said, ‘Well, that’s very interesting but why’re you talking to me?’
‘Your rivals,’ Hank said, ‘in this and I’d guess other things, are Tarelton and Lachlan. Tarelton’s in financial trouble, borrowing money, losing staff. Lachlan lent them money and are worried about getting it back, let alone a return. They’re trying to poach Tarelton’s people. We have a scheme to prove their involvement in McKinley’s death. That’d be devastating for them, good for you.’
‘I can see that,’ Dimarco said. ‘But I still don’t see-’
‘We need your help.’
Hank told Dimarco in very general terms about our entrapment plans. He said that when the meeting took place we’d need him present as a witness and the help of some of Global’s security people. You can’t go wrong appealing to the ego of corporations and their executives. There was a distinctly eager note in Dimarco’s voice when he said he’d discuss the proposition with CEO Holland.
‘How’s he doing?’ Hank asked.
‘He’s healing, but he’s angry. I think we can do business.’
Hank told him he’d be in touch about the meeting and they could make strategic plans.
When he’d finished the call, Megan turned to her computer and began scrolling through files.
‘Hah,’ she said, ‘according to these notes, Hank, you reckoned that Dimarco and this copper Wells were seeing eye to eye. Dimarco’ll tell him all about this.’
‘He will,’ I said, ‘when we’re ready for him to do just that.’
We agreed to set up the meeting for two nights ahead at my house. There were plenty of places for our back-up team to hide themselves-upstairs, in the jungle of vine and creeper at the side of the place and at the back of the block where it dipped down sharply and there were neglected and overgrown bushes.
‘A homey atmosphere,’ I said, ‘makes for confidence.’
‘It’ll take careful orchestrating-choreographing, really,’ Megan said. ‘The Lachlan people’ll want to see a real witness.’
‘Any suggestions?’
‘Ross knows all of us,’ Hank said. ‘We need a cleanskin.’
‘Patrick,’ Megan said. ‘He’d be perfect, and he’d jump at the chance.’
‘I bet he would,’ Hank said.
Patrick Fox-James was an actor and musician. He and Megan had been on together for a few years; they’d performed in plays and done a two-hander comedy act on a Pacific cruise boat. The relationship had fizzled out. I never knew why. Hank’s jealousy was understandable. Actors-you could never tell about them. But Megan was right; Fox-James could play the part and the danger involved wouldn’t deter him. He’d done his own stunts in some television work. He looked like an aesthete, but was physically tough and courageous. We persuaded Hank.
We left it there for the time being. As Megan said, it was going to be tricky: we had to draw Crimond in and give him time to contact the players at Lachlan; we had to work on Dimarco, anticipate his moves, and eventually agree to allow a police presence. Choreography.
I left Hank and Megan not on the very best of terms. As Bob Dylan says, ‘How much do we have to pay for going through these things twice?’ Or more than twice. Relationships have their own dynamic and agendas and you intervene at your peril.
I walked home. King Street was buzzing and would buzz until the early hours. The evening was cool and I kept up a brisk pace going through Victoria Park to the Glebe Point Road intersection. Glebe at night used to be more like Newtown, busier than it was now. Gentrification had quietened it down. I bought some Lebanese takeaway and cleanskin white wine and prepared for another lonely night. I was in a strange mood as I made my way down towards the water: I missed Lily but my thoughts turned quite often to Margaret McKinley; I was working again, but not really working, not in the old way.
I reached my gate and juggled the food and wine as I scrabbled for my keys. I heard a sound, caught a smell, then felt a stabbing pain in the small of my back.
22
When I came to, I found myself in my own living room, with a plastic restraint anchoring my right wrist to the arm of the sofa. A damp towel hit me in the face.
‘Fix yourself up a bit, Hardy. You’re a mess.’
The voice was familiar, but my vision was still fuzzy. I used the wet towel to clear my eyes and then pressed it against the aching places on my head. A lighter clicked and I smelled tobacco and smoke. Phil Fitzwilliam lounged against the wall near where I sat. He drew on his cigarette and flicked ash on the carpet.
‘I warned you, Hardy.’
The cool towel felt good against the throbbing spots. I blinked several times and began to feel as if I might be able to talk and function. I’d been wrong about Fitz: a direct approach; not one of his sideways jobs as in the past. What did that mean? Confidence? Desperation?
‘You’re out on a long, thin limb here, Phil.’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
