Deep Water by Peter Corris Page B

persuaded him that his behaviour was unacceptable. I believe he protested but he didn’t persist.’
    â€˜Do you know his name?’
    â€˜Oh, no. No names. No real names.’
    I looked around the flat. ‘Easy enough to find out who you were.’
    â€˜You don’t imagine we had … meetings here or at Henry’s place when there were others involved?’
    â€˜Where then?’
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I need to know everything I can about Dr McKinley’s movements.’
    â€˜Yes, I see. Well, at Myall on the lower north coast. A house there—leased in a false name. We were careful. What do you have in mind?’
    â€˜I have to take a look at any place McKinley spent time at. He might have left things …’
    â€˜I suppose it’s possible. He went up there on his own from time to time. I’ll give you the address. You already have the key.’
    I’d wondered about that extra key. ‘How long has the lease got to run?’
    She shrugged. ‘About a year. We … it was renewed recently. We never thought …’
    â€˜Are you planning to go there?’
    She looked at me as if I’d uttered an obscenity. ‘No, never again!’
    She gave me the address and saw me to the door.
    â€˜So you’re going to keep working. Do you need money?’
    I told her that Margaret McKinley was in Sydney andwould finance the investigation. Her tiny hand flew to her mouth.
    â€˜You’ll tell her about … us?’
    â€˜I’m not sure. If I have to.’
    â€˜We did nothing wrong,’ she said defiantly. ‘We hurt no one.’
    â€˜I hope that’s true,’ I said.
    I sat in the car and thought about it. Wife-swapping seemed like an eighties thing, but this wasn’t exactly that. More bizarre, or more under control? It was difficult to say. But the information opened up new lines of enquiry. What if Henry McKinley’s extracurricular activities had opened him up to blackmail from some quarter—a colleague, a rival? What if Terry Dart had nursed a grudge, a jealousy, unknown to his wife—wanting exclusive possession of her or McKinley—and had eliminated his lover by accident or design?
    And what of the man who hadn’t played the game, whoever he was? Josephine Dart had a special, fragile allure. It was easy to imagine someone becoming obsessed with her, particularly in the context of a sexual free-for-all. Could he have killed McKinley and Dart and be biding his time?
    I had the problem of whether or how to tell Margaret. There was a chance she wouldn’t believe it—see it as a fantasy dreamed up by a grieving woman. I didn’t think it was that. The Myall address gave the story solidity and had to be checked out. I had a memory flash of Lily sitting at her computer, working on a story and looking up at me as I brought her a drink.
    â€˜This thing opens up like a fucking fan,’ she’d said one time.
    I knew what she meant. I decided to wait until I knew what Margaret’s moves were. She had to consult the lawyer; there was the release of her father’s body to be negotiated and a funeral to arrange. She had enough on her plate. The Myall expedition could wait.
    Margaret sailed into the arrangements with tremendous efficiency. Horace Greenacre had shown her the will naming him and Margaret as executors. McKinley, a firm atheist, had insisted on a secular send-off with a minimum of fuss and cremation. Margaret put one of those no flowers/donations to the Fred Hollows Foundation notices in the paper.
    Greenacre, several members of the cycling club and Ashley Guy from Tarelton attended the Rookwood chapel. A couple of suits I didn’t know were there. Cops? Josephine Dart didn’t show. A tallish, thin woman in a dark dress and jacket arrived late and didn’t stay long. Margaret and the leader of the club spoke briefly and some of Henry’s favourite music was