Deep Water by Peter Corris Page A

the point of destruction, his close friend, possibly murdered, whose briefcase was stolen. Coincidence? I don’t think so. You’ve got an anonymous person buying up the missing man’s drawings and an employer not cooperating. Plus …’
    â€˜Plus what?’
    I told him about my interview with Josephine Dart and my feeling that there was more to her connection with McKinley, and maybe more to McKinley himself, than met the eye. I said I’d talked to McKinley’s lawyer, who would play along for a certain distance.
    â€˜This is a workable case,’ I said.
    â€˜Sure it is. But throw in an ex-private eye working the street and financing the investigation himself, that puts a spin on it.’
    There was no point in trying to put one over Hank. Helooked like a jock and often talked like a jock, but he was smart and a good reader of people. I finished the coffee and put the cup on the desk.
    â€˜OK, you’ve nailed me. I’m attracted to the woman and I need something to do. Is that good enough for you?’
    I surprised myself with the first part of the statement and the sincerity I’d expressed. That did the job for Hank. He clapped his big hands together. ‘You lay it on the line, man. What d’you suggest?’
    â€˜A direct approach to the Tarelton people.’
    â€˜Tried it once, remember. Got fobbed off by some dude in personnel.’
    â€˜Do it again, mate. But this time get across that you’ve learned McKinley’s home has been broken into and searched, that his closest friend has had a fatal accident and that a possibly significant McKinley drawing is in your possession. Tell the personnel bloke to get that message through to the higher-ups.’
    â€˜Will do,’ Hank said.

6
    I went to the gym in the morning—treadmill at a moderate speed and gradient, free weights and the machines. What I’d told Megan was true; I was almost back to what I’d been doing before. I told myself I’d reach precisely that level next session. Something had been holding me back and I wasn’t sure what. I didn’t like the feeling of unconscious caution, if that’s what it was.
    I had a massage from Wesley Scott, the manager of the gym and a longstanding friend.
    â€˜You healed good,’ Wes said, looking at my scar which was now just a slightly discoloured line running down the middle of my chest. The hair that had been shaved off was growing back. Pretty soon the scar would be all but invisible.
    â€˜Purity of mind and body.’
    Wes snorted. ‘Lost some muscle tone along the way. Getting it back, I’d say. Not quite there. Take it easy, Cliff. Don’t push it. Remember, man, you were dead but for a computer and a little old electric machine.’
    â€˜Thank you so much, Wesley,’ I said. ‘Just rub, will you?’
    * * *
    Hank rang to say that he had an appointment with the head of personnel at Tarelton for that afternoon.
    â€˜I want to come along,’ I said. ‘You can do all the talking. I just want to look and listen.’
    Hank’s hesitation was momentary. ‘OK. Make a copy of that drawing and bring it along. Might help.’
    â€˜That’s a very good idea.’
    The Tarelton building was on Elizabeth Street, a few blocks from Prince Alfred Park—named after a royal back in Victorian times. I don’t remember that he ever did anything useful. Not many of them did from that day to this. Tarelton Explorations was housed in a three-storey building painted a becoming shade of grey and renovated to within an inch of its life. It had probably been a red brick factory or warehouse, but now it featured tinted windows, big sliding glass doors and a marble-floored lobby with glass cases displaying models of some of the projects the company claimed to have participated in—a dam, a bridge over a river, a tunnel under a river and a lake that doubled as a decoration for a beach