Deep Water by Peter Corris

drawing.’
    â€˜Yeah, but Dickersen’s right—no real leads to follow.’
    â€˜We’ve got the quarries and they’re bound to have something. It’s interesting.’
    We were in the train we’d caught at Museum—the best way to get around the city and our part of the inner west. There were only three other people in the compartment, all Asian and, as it turned out, all bound for Central and then Newtown. Two looked like students and the other, middle-aged, groomed, in a thousand-dollar suit, looked as if he might own a sizeable chunk of King Street. He spoke in alow voice on his mobile the whole time, switching easily from an Asian language to English and French.
    We were walking south along King Street when my mobile rang. I listened and broke into a run.
    â€˜What?’ Hank said as he loped along beside me.
    I stumbled, fought for balance. ‘Megan. She’s been attacked.’

9
    It was the first time I’d broken into a full run since the heart business. Hank, with youth and a longer stride on his side, passed me easily but I more or less kept up with him except on the stairs, which he took three at a time. We found Megan sitting on a chair in her office with her feet on a stool being fussed over by Grant, the gay podiatrist who occupies rooms on the same level. Simultaneously, I saw the blood on the towel she was holding to her head and smelt the powerful fumes of petrol.
    Hank rushed up to her, almost pushing Grant aside. She let him take the towel away to reveal a long cut on her forehead that had obviously gushed blood and was now still flowing. Hank put the towel back. Megan’s expression was alert. She showed no signs of shock, plenty of anger. She didn’t exactly shoo Hank away but she clearly didn’t want to be comforted. I stood where I was.
    â€˜What happened?’ I said.
    â€˜Megan …’ Grant began, but she waved at him to be quiet.
    â€˜I got back from buying coffee to find this fucker backing out of our space, sloshing petrol around. I threwthe coffees at him and tried to kick him in the balls. He hit me with the petrol can. I got in one kick before I dropped. He fell down the stairs. I hope he broke his bloody neck.’
    â€˜He didn’t, love,’ I said, ‘but you did pretty good.’
    Grant said, ‘You macho types. Time to call the police.’
    Hank had picked up on Megan’s attitude and abandoned the solicitude. He eased Grant towards the passage.
    â€˜We’ll take it from here,’ he said. ‘Might need a statement. Did you see this guy?’
    Grant shook his head. ‘What’re you going to do about the petrol?’
    â€˜Be careful with matches,’ Hank said.
    â€˜Petrol and blood,’ Megan said, ‘an exciting combination.’
    â€˜Oh, God,’ Grant said, ‘quotations.’
    I took a closer look at Megan’s wound. ‘It needs stitches. Better get you up to RPA. I’ll do it, Hank, and then take her home.’
    Hank hesitated, but Megan reached for his hand, gave it a squeeze, and nodded.
    I heard Grant say, ‘Someone has to get on to cleaners, carpet people and the insurance company.’
    I helped Megan down the stairs and we got a taxi to the hospital. An open, bleeding wound gets quick treatment and she was cleaned up and stitched and given a tetanus shot and some painkillers all inside an hour. She insisted she could walk back to her flat.
    â€˜You helped me buy it,’ she said. ‘Time you took a look at it.’
    The flat was in a narrow street two blocks south and one or two west from King Street, part of an old warehouse thathad been gutted and done over. It was on the second level, had two bedrooms and a balcony looking out onto Camperdown Memorial Rest Park. The décor, furniture and everything else displayed Megan’s taste—plain, functional, unfussy.
    â€˜Hank keeps his own flat by mutual agreement,’