Deep Water Read Online Free PDF Page B

been happy to smooth it out, shove the thing under glass and hope for the best. But then, I’m content with prints of the few pictures I like—a bit of Vincent, a bit of Brett,
Blue Poles
.
    I thought it through as I finished the wine and set about making one of my three or four standard dishes—shepherd’s pie. Obviously, the drawings meant something to the man who’d paid a fair amount of money for them. And he didn’t buy them for their artistic merit because if he’d had an expert eye for the work he’d have noticed that the other artists had ten pieces on display and Henry only nine.
Where’s the other one?
I’d have said.
And here’s another two-fifty and bugger the damage.
    I needed access to Henry’s house to see whether he’d left any information about the drawings. To be legitimate, that meant getting Hank to follow up the missing persons report and have the police enter the house. Legitimate, but not much use. There was no way the police would allow me to go in and, much as I trusted Hank’s instincts in general, I needed to do the investigation myself. I needed to know whether my impressions of the drawing bore any relation to reality. I might come across drafts or notes. And if I stumbled across other things to do with Henry’s employment, well, so much the better. There were ways to get into locked houses and I knew quite a few of them.
    I put the drawing back into the cylinder and locked itin a strongbox where I keep things like my passport, my birth certificate, divorce papers and the acknowledgement that I’d paid out the mortgage. I took the medication to control my cholesterol and thin my blood and went to bed. I thought I’d sleep well after the long walks but I didn’t. The disappearance of Henry McKinley, the purchase of his drawings, the reticence shown by his employers had worked their way into me and I couldn’t stop thinking about the usual questions—who, when, why, how? Those sorts of questions, with no answers coming through, can keep you awake.
    I got up and settled into an armchair to read Julian Barnes’s novel
Arthur and George
, and let the questions slip away as the old, empty house creaked and hummed around me.
    I slept late. Went out for the paper and saw that the opposition was holding its lead over the government a week into the election campaign. I was absorbing this in satisfying detail and drinking coffee with more pills lined up, when the phone rang.
    â€˜Mr Hardy? This is Josephine Dart. You telephoned yesterday.’
    â€˜Yes, Mrs Dart. Thanks for calling. It’s about Henry McKinley. I take it Terry Dart is your husband. I’m told he and McKinley are friends.’
    I heard her draw in a breath and a change come over her voice. ‘They
were
friends, very close friends. My husband was run down and killed by a hit and run driver when he was out cycling.’
    â€˜I’m very sorry. When did this happen?’
    â€˜A few weeks ago. Not long after Henry’s daughter telephoned from America. Terry was very worried about Henry. I’ve heard of you, Mr Hardy. You were in the news earlier in the year, weren’t you?’
    â€˜That’s right.’
    â€˜You’re a private investigator. Are you investigating Henry’s disappearance?’
    â€˜Not officially, no. I’m … just looking into it for his daughter who I met in California. She gave me your number.’
    â€˜I want you to investigate Terry’s death. It was murder, I’m sure of it.’
    â€˜I think we should talk,’ I said.
    Josephine Dart lived in Dover Heights in an apartment complex one block back from where the land drops abruptly down to the water. I had to check for the street in the directory, and I noticed that the Dart address was more or less directly in line with McKinley’s address across the peninsula. Dover Heights isn’t a busy part of Sydney. There are