Deep Water by Peter Corris Page A

Megan said. ‘Bit like you and Lily did. We divide our time between the two places.’
    â€˜It can work. How’re you feeling?’
    â€˜Okay. I’m going to have a drink and take a couple of these pills and then I’ll feel better until I bomb out. What’ll you have?’
    â€˜Same as you.’
    We sat on the balcony—minimal traffic, nice breeze over the park, gins and tonic.
    Megan touched her forehead. ‘Honourable wound, professional hazard. Bet you took a few.’
    â€˜I still might, the way things are going. Any regrets about … getting involved?’
    Megan washed pills down with a solid slug of her drink. ‘Thinking about it.’
    â€˜Good. Tell me, love, does Hank have anything on his plate that’d bring this on—an attempt to wipe out his whole operation?’
    She was fading fast but she made an effort to concentrate. ‘There
is
another arson matter involved—torching Dr McKinley’s car—but this isn’t the same style. I can’t think of anything else. It looks like the McKinley case.’
    â€˜Hank’s not exactly going to thank me for bringing it to him.’
    She smiled. ‘He thanks you for
me
. That’ll cover it.’
    Hank phoned and said he’d be with her in an hour. He was going to lock the office up and pay a couple of localkids he’d used in the past to run messages, to keep an eye on the building overnight.
    â€˜Reckon we should tell the cops?’ he asked.
    â€˜Let’s not,’ I said. ‘Let’s think about it. See if there’s some way we can make it work for us. I’m tired of stumbling around in the dark on this thing.’
    I left Megan lying on her bed with her eyes closed. The G & T had been solid and the analgesics had kicked in. Hank wasn’t likely to get any conversation from her until breakfast time.
    I was halfway down Australia Street heading back to Glebe, a bit tired but walking briskly, when a car pulled up beside me. Two men got out. I recognised one of them—Detective Senior Sergeant Phil Fitzwilliam of the City Command Unit. An old enemy, Fitz had avoided corruption charges by the skin of his teeth several times. As a young copper he’d been decorated for bravery and in his early years as a detective he’d made some significant arrests and secured some notable convictions. That reputation had sustained him in later years when he sailed close to the wind. We’d run up against each other several times, never pleasantly.
    â€˜Hello, Fitz. How’s tricks?’
    Fitzwilliam had been a lean six-footer in his prime, but beer and big dinners had inflated him and he’d lost centimetres as if he’d had to stoop to carry the weight. His pale blue eyes were sunk in creased, sagging fat.
    â€˜You were always a smartarse, Hardy. That’s what they’ll say at your funeral. I heard you nearly booked in for one. Pity it didn’t happen.’
    â€˜From the look of you, I’d bet on me going to yours rather than the other way around. Not that I would.’
    Fitz turned to the other man. ‘See what I mean, Detective Constable? Always with a comeback. Never at a loss for words, but an arsehole just the same.’
    His colleague nodded sycophantically. At a guess he was thirty, twenty years younger than Fitz, and with a lot to learn.
    Fitz turned his bulk slowly and pointed to their car. ‘Come on, Hardy. We’ve got things to talk about.’
    I wasn’t really worried. The old days, when cops like the famous ‘Bumper’ Farrell, and imitators like Phil Fitzwilliam, would take you somewhere quiet and beat you so the marks didn’t show, were gone. Physical intimidation was out of fashion, but there were plenty of other methods. Also, Fitzwilliam had a very uncertain temper—provoke him too much and he just might react violently. I felt fit and strong, but a broken sternum is a broken sternum