Deep Water Read Online Free Page B

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    â€˜Who or what is Tarelton?’
    Hank tapped one of the sheets. ‘Edward Tarelton—South African or maybe Canadian. Fifty-one or forty-nine. Mystery man.’
    â€˜What happens when you make enquiries?’
    â€˜What the client said—the run-around. When I made a big enough asshole of myself that someone actually talked to me I asked about McKinley. Here’s what I got.’
    Hank flipped a switch on a console on his desk.
    â€˜We have personnel all over the world and do not discuss their whereabouts or assignments.’
    â€˜That’s an illegal recording,’ I said.
    Hank shrugged. ‘The machine was on, like, accidentally.’
    â€˜Who was that?’
    â€˜What’s that expression you have? No names, no pack drill. What’s that mean, anyway?’
    â€˜Take too long to explain. Well, we need to get busy—file a missing persons report with the police—’
    â€˜Did that.’ Hank held up a card. ‘Got a file reference.’
    â€˜â€”and a letter of authorisation from Margaret. I’ll see to that.’
    â€˜Cliff, you’re not a private eye any longer.’
    â€˜No, I’m a concerned friend, and I know a couple of cops who’ll vouch for me.’
    â€˜And a couple of dozen who won’t.’
    â€˜It’s who you know, mate. It always has been.’
    There’s no law against talking to people or accessing public records. There were people who’d do me favours in return for things I’d done for them in the past, and others who’d have been pleased to hear that I’d dropped dead on Ocean Beach pier. The thing to do was make use of the former and avoid the latter. It’s not even against the law to use a false name and claim to be something you’re not, unless your intention is to defraud.
    Margaret had given me a list of McKinley’s friends with home and business telephone numbers—the secretary of the cycling club, Terry Dart, and the owner of a gallery where McKinley had exhibited some drawings, Marion Montifiore.
    I had the names on a slip from the notepad that had come with the San Diego apartment. I got it out and was about to reach for the phone on Hank’s desk when I remembered who and what I was. I covered the action byscribbling a meaningless note on the slip of paper before standing up.
    â€˜I’m going to follow a few things up, Hank,’ I said. ‘Thanks for what you’ve done. I’ll make some copies of what you have in the file if that’s okay, but I probably won’t be bothering you with this.’
    â€˜I’m bothered already.’
    â€˜Come on—a geologist, cyclist, pen and ink man …’
    â€˜Working for a dodgy company.’
    â€˜Anything dodgy, you’ll hear from me.’
    I went home and phoned a supplier to get a new up-to-the-minute Mac computer with all the trimmings delivered by someone who could install it and teach me to fly it. That done, I had a light lunch, a rest as prescribed by the doctors, and then took a long walk around Glebe. My wind was good and I picked up the pace until I sweated.
    I phoned the Montifiore Gallery, got the proprietor, and made an appointment to see her early in the evening. I drew a blank at both the home and business numbers for Terry Dart. I left voicemail messages at both numbers.
    The gallery was in Harris Street, Ultimo, a walk away. I arrived at six pm as people were turning up for the opening of a new exhibition. The artists were a sculptor and painter whose names were unknown to me, which didn’t mean anything—I couldn’t name a single Australian sculptor alive or dead and very few live painters. The first challenge was the stairs—steep, concrete, two long flights. The other first-nighters were mostly young and handling the stairs easily.
Come on, Hardy
, I thought,
you can do it
.I did, at a respectable pace, with only a little help from