Free Deep Water by Peter Corris

companies, all that at arm’s length now, of course.’
    â€˜Of course.’
    â€˜The word is that he’s still actively involved in some of those companies and that he’s a busy share trader.’
    â€˜How does he get away with that?’
    â€˜There’s a theory, and I got this from your mate Harry Tickener, that he’s got something on the bosses in his party and maybe on one or two in the government.’
    â€˜Great. Just what we need, a political angle.’
    Nothing happened for almost a week as Megan kept googling. I went to the gym, took my meds, checked that a flyer about McKinley was posted on the web and in the usual places, and that reports about his disappearance appeared in the press. Nothing on TV. Then Hank got a call.
    â€˜From Chief Superintendent Ian Dickersen of Serious Crimes,’ Hank said. ‘He wants me and you and any materials we have on McKinley to come in to Surry Hills this afternoon. I guess I’m free. You?’
    â€˜Yes. Any more information?’
    â€˜About zip, except that I think he mentioned the word conference, and I gather your pal Gunnarson’s going to be there.’
    â€˜I wonder if we should take a lawyer with us?’
    Hank tapped his mobile. ‘I’ve got my guy briefed and ready to spring into action.’
    We rolled up at the appropriate time and were escorted to a conference room with a large table and comfortable chairs—for a police station, that is.
    Dickersen was forty-plus, polished, part of the new breed. Not scruffy, not flash, not fat, not thin—a man for all occasions. He introduced himself, introduced Gunnarson to Hank and introduced the woman present, Detective Sergeant Angela Roberts, to both of us. She was black, part of an even newer breed.
    When we were seated Dickersen said, ‘DS Roberts interviewed a person named Guy at Tarelton Explorations. I thought it might be useful for you to compare notes with her.’
    Hank and I nodded in her direction. They’d have to be mental notes—neither of us had brought a single sheet of paper. If Dickersen noticed he didn’t comment.
    â€˜Well, to business,’ he said. ‘We’ve found Henry McKinley. I’m sorry to have to tell you that he’s dead. He appears to have died violently.’
    It wasn’t unexpected, but you always hold out hope. It’d hit Margaret hard.
    â€˜That’s not all,’ Dickersen said. ‘I understand you and McKinley’s daughter are close, Mr Hardy.’
    â€˜In a way,’ I said.
    â€˜We’ll leave it up to you then whether to tell her the rest or not.’
    â€˜That is?’
    â€˜Seems he was held for some time—ligature marks.’
    â€˜Tortured?’
    â€˜Possibly, hard to say.’

8
    Henry McKinley’s body had been found near a fire trail in the Royal National Park. An attempt had been made to torch his car but it had been only partly successful, and the condition of the body allowed the pathologist to make several conclusions. McKinley had died of cardiac arrest. There were ligature marks on his wrists and ankles and bruises to his chest and legs.
    â€˜The … injuries were extensive,’ Dickersen said, ‘but the pathologist said his heart was dodgy—a couple of blockages. It’s possible the beating, or a number of beatings, could have triggered the heart attack. Or just stress from the … circumstances he was in. He’d been gagged. I’d be stressed, from the sound of it.’
    There was an eerie quiet in the room as Dickersen went into the details. When you hear of a thing like that you can’t help mentally putting yourself in the victim’s place and feeling the chill of fear—me particularly, after my recent experience. You don’t say anything; you just wait for the feeling to pass.
    Gunnarson broke the silence. ‘Some firemen found the car and got straight onto the police. Luckily, no