Deep Water by Peter Corris

trouble,
Courage in your own.
    Bit banal maybe, but his bust is in Westminster Abbey. Les Murray’d never make that.

11
    If Margaret had a disturbed night I didn’t know about it. I woke up from a sound sleep to the smell of coffee. I found her in the kitchen in white silk pyjamas and a kimono-style dressing gown, pressing the plunger.
    â€˜Morning, Cliff. That bed’s okay. I slept just fine. Coffee?’
    â€˜You bet.’
    â€˜Toast?’
    â€˜No, thanks. Orange juice with my bloody pills and coffee and that’s it.’
    â€˜I’m ravenous.’
    She put two slices of bread into the toaster and poured the coffee.
    â€˜I could do you scrambled eggs,’ I said. ‘I remember how from my cholesterol days.’
    She laughed. ‘Maybe another time. Who’s the woman in the photo, if you don’t mind me asking?’
    I didn’t. ‘Lily Truscott. We were together for nearly five years. She was murdered. That’s one of the reasons I took off for the US.’
    She studied me for a moment, then nodded and dealtwith her toast. We were sitting across from each other in the breakfast nook.
    â€˜You wear a preoccupied look now and then. Would that be about her?’
    â€˜Sometimes it would. Sometimes about Megan; sometimes, quite often, about myself. And about your father … and you.’
    â€˜Tell me now what you haven’t told me.’
    I gave it to her straight—the dumped and burnt car, the signs of her father having been held over time, the possibility of torture of some kind, maybe triggering the fatal heart attack. She took it well. Probably the nurse training helped, but there was something else working in her, holding her together. When I finished she reached across the table and touched my hand.
    â€˜Thanks for telling it like it is, Cliff. I hate being patronised … protected. I’ll see Dad’s lawyer and find out exactly what’s coming my way. Probably a lot, and you know what? My first priority is to find out who killed him. Mr Bachelor and you … you’ll stay on it, won’t you?’
    â€˜We will, but …’
    â€˜I know, no guarantees.’
    I told her about the attack on Hank’s office and how, thematically, that tied in with the burning of her father’s car but otherwise didn’t point solidly in any direction. Likewise, the securing of the drawings. I didn’t mention the approach from Phil Fitzwilliam—given Fitz’s corrupt history that could tie in almost anywhere.
    â€˜Is Megan okay?’ she said.
    â€˜Swimming laps the very next day.’
    â€˜I’m looking forward to meeting her again.’
    * * *
    Margaret showered, dressed pretty much as she had the day before with a fresh blouse, and I drove her to Newtown. She sent her daughter another text message on the way. She’d seen the house, now she saw the office in all its austerity. She could have no illusions about the size of the operation. Didn’t faze her. The carpet had been replaced and the petrol smell was faint. The door to the office, previously always kept open, was closed and a peephole had been installed.
    â€˜How do the others feel about what happened?’ I asked.
    Megan smiled. ‘I’m the heroine of the hour. They’re just glad the whole joint didn’t go up in flames.’
    Margaret was businesslike with Hank, friendly with Megan. She used the phone to arrange a hire car and called for a taxi to take her to the depot. I’d given her a key to the house.
    â€˜See you back there,’ she said, and was off.
    â€˜Staying with you, is she?’ Megan asked.
    â€˜For now. I don’t know what her plans are. She makes her own moves as you see. How’re you going with the quarries?’
    â€˜Okay. I think I’ve got them all and I’m plotting them on a map. I’m most of the way to tracking down who actually owns