Deep Water Read Online Free PDF Page A

the rail on the last few steps.
    The gallery was a large expanse, painted white with big windows letting in the last of the daylight and lights strategically placed to take over and flatter the exhibits. The crowd was a mixture of the affluent and the scruffy, possibly the scruffy trying to look affluent and the affluent trying to look scruffy. The paintings were abstracts that my eye skated over as though they weren’t there; the sculptures were well-wrought wooden pieces—skeletons of boats, boldly carved figurines reminiscent of Nolan’s Ned Kelly work and others difficult to interpret but interesting to look at. As the room filled, most attention focused on the sculptures and gave me the feeling that the red stickers would be coming out soon.
    I made my way to the bar where a couple of kids barely old enough to drink were serving red and white wine. I accepted a glass of red for my heart’s sake and asked if Marion Montifiore was present. One of the youngsters pointed to a fortyish woman with silver hair and dressed stylishly in black. She was talking animatedly about one of the paintings to a fat man in a suit who seemed more interested in her than the art work. That wasn’t surprising. She was strikingly good looking with olive skin, dark eyes and features bordering on perfection. A matronly, overdressed woman led the fatty away and I approached before anyone else could nab her.
    â€˜Ms Montifiore? Cliff Hardy. We spoke on the phone this afternoon.’
    It was one of those occasions when you like to present a card to obviate some explanations. It crossed my mind that I should get one—reading
Cliff Hardy
… and then what?
    She turned her Tuscan eyes on me. ‘Oh yes, about dear Henry McKinley.’
    Her voice sounded as if it had been tuned to perfect pitch.
    â€˜I didn’t realise it was an opening night. I’d have come at another time.’
    â€˜No, no, at these things you need all the bodies you can get. I saw you taking an interest in the sculptures. They’re good, aren’t they?’
    â€˜You saw …?’
    She touched my non-drinking arm. ‘I have eyes in the back of my head and at the sides. This is going quite well, I think. I can spare a few minutes. Come with me.’
    I followed her through a door off to one side near the bar. The office was small, plain and furnished and equipped in impeccable taste. She sat on the corner of the teak desk; I stood. The chair on offer looked so comfortable I’d have been reluctant to leave it.
    â€˜I’m hoping you can tell me something about Henry McKinley,’ I said.
    That brought a frown. ‘I don’t understand. I thought you were going to be able to tell me …’
    I shook my head. ‘I’m sort of acting for his daughter who I met in America. She said she’d contacted you.’
    â€˜She did, but I told her I hadn’t heard from Henry since his exhibition. I said I’d get in touch if I heard anything, but …’ Her shrug was eloquent.
    â€˜Tell me about the exhibition.’
    â€˜Oh, it was a very small thing—four pen and ink artists with ten pieces each. I’d have to say that Henry’s weren’t the very best but someone obviously thought they were.’
    â€˜How’s that?’
    â€˜Someone bought all ten. No, nine. One was slightly damaged and withdrawn at the last minute.’
    â€˜Who bought them?’
    â€˜I’m not sure I should—’
    â€˜Look, the man is missing. His daughter is worried sick and she’s commissioned a private detective to investigate his disappearance. I’m working with that detective. I can give you a number to check on what I’m saying.’
    I must have projected intensity, sincerity, something, because she suddenly looked concerned. The serene, beautiful mask cracked. ‘He … he paid in cash. It wasn’t a lot. Three hundred and fifty dollars for each. A little