Part 16 (2/2)

'It's not so bad,' Megan said. 'He doesn't know anything about all this stuff Cliff keeps in his b.l.o.o.d.y head.'

Hank grinned, glad of her implied support, before he grabbed his mobile, dialled, waited.

'Turned off,' he said.

I said, 'Leave a message as if things are normal.'

Hank cleared his throat, 'Hey, Ross, waiting on that report. Check in soon, please.'

'What's on your mind, Cliff?' he said.

'Which company seems most likely to spend money getting at your employee and enlisting Phil Fitzwilliam?'

'Lachlan.' Hank and Megan said the word simultaneously.

'But,' Megan said, 'a couple of things trouble me. Why was Terry Dart killed and why didn't the Lachlan heavies search the Myall cottage?'

'I'm guessing,' I said, 'but they probably didn't intend to kill Dart. Probably just wanted to s.n.a.t.c.h him as they did McKinley and find out what he knew. It just went wrong. And whoever took McKinley probably had the brief to do that and nothing more. All up, you'd have to say they aren't very good at this sort of thing.'

'That's encouraging,' Hank said.

'The only way we're going to be able to flush them out is to let them think that we have the answer to the big questions-where the aquifer tapping sites are and the details of the technique. Also, just as important from their point of view, we know who killed McKinley.'

Hank nodded. 'Information we don't actually have.'

'I get it,' Megan said. 'Just suppose Crimond believes we do have that information, after he next digs into my files.'

'Trying not to be smug,' I said. 'But I have to say I see this as an opportunity.

20.

The three of us put our heads together and concocted a story made up of fict.i.tious interviews, the receipt of fict.i.tious doc.u.ments and aircraft flight plans. The upshot was that we were reporting to our client that we were in possession of information regarding police corruption and McKinley's discoveries. Megan entered all this into her files on the McKinley case.

Hank left Crimond another telephone message, delivered in a rushed manner, saying that the office would be closed for the afternoon and evening because he and Megan were going to take a joyride flight and then go to an important meeting. He said he hoped to see Crimond's report and expense sheet when he got in next morning.

We reviewed the material, revised it, criticised it.

'How bright is this guy?' I asked.

'Bright enough,' Hank said. 'I mean, efficient.'

Megan looked up from the keyboard. 'How bright is someone who believes the world was created six thousand years ago?'

'He's a creationist?' I said.

'Yup.'

'When does he think the world's going to end?'

'Dunno,' Megan said, 'but I'm sure he's got a view.'

'I still can't see why he'd cross the line,' Hank said, 'unless this bad cop of yours has him by the b.a.l.l.s.'

'Could be that,' I said. 'Or money. Creationists aren't against money. Think of Oral Roberts.'

'The Hillsong Church,' Megan said.

Hank laughed. 'OK, you Darwinians. So we stake the place out and see if he takes the bait, right?'

We took turns watching from a cafe across the street at an angle to the office. Two-hour s.h.i.+fts, about as long as the waiters would tolerate someone sitting over two cups of coffee. Crimond arrived late in the afternoon on Hank's watch. Megan and I were nearby in her flat when Hank's call came. Meagan answered and handed me the phone.

'He's in,' Hank said. 'Been there a few minutes already. Wouldn't take that long to drop his stuff off.'

'Where's he parked?'

'He doesn't drive,' Megan said. 'He's an environmentalist. A green Christian.'

's.h.i.+t. If he's doing what we think he's doing, it'll seem urgent to him. How does he feel about taxis?'

'OK,' Hank said, 'judging from his expense sheets.'

Things in inner-west Sydney aren't the way they are in the movies. There are no taxis sitting, ready to follow other taxis. No spots for a car to idle, waiting to tail another car or a cab. It's a traffic jungle. We did the best we could while contributing to the pollution and the greenhouse effect: Megan and I got in our cars with our mobile phones and cruised around the area, trying to cover the multiple directions our quarry might take if he caught a taxi.

Twenty minutes later Hank called my mobile. 'He's on the move in a cab, heading towards the city. I'm f.u.c.ked. Had to sprint to my car but now I'm heading the other way on King. He's stuck at the lights, but I'm just inching along, no way to get round.'

I was out of it, too, going down Enmore Road. I phoned Megan with the information. 'Where're you?'

'Yee-hah, I'm in King Street at the Missenden Road lights and I see a taxi coming towards me in a little bunch of other vehicles. Has to be him.'

Fine, I thought, plan working, but why did it have to be her? A protective part of me wanted to ditch it, and part of me didn't. I turned left, trying to snake my way back in the right direction. I dived through a small gap, probably causing road rage before I answered her.

'Follow him. We'll fall in behind and catch you as soon as we can. Be careful, love. Be very careful.'

Megan and Hank had hands free communication in their cars; I didn't, so I broke the law by staying in touch with them on the mobile. Megan kept the taxi in sight and kept up a running commentary as Hank and I tried to catch up-difficult in the thick, late afternoon traffic. Megan was enjoying herself. That worried me.

I was reminded of the John Cleese commercial for golf b.a.l.l.s where he said in mock Scots: 'It's a Scottish game-it was no meant to be fun.' This business wasn't meant to be fun, but I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. The thing is, it isn't always fun, and Megan had yet to find that out. She'd kicked a would-be arsonist downstairs and now she was following a taxi like Bogart in The Maltese Falcon. High points; the low points would come. I didn't want them to. I didn't want her in the business. I didn't want the responsibility.

I wrestled with these thoughts as I tracked Megan over the Harbour Bridge. Hank pa.s.sed me, let me know he was doing it, and I had conflicting thoughts about him, too: Hiring a creationist? Critical of us sceptics?

Hank called me. 'Got her in sight, looks to be headed towards Manly.'

He hung up and Megan called. 'Manly,' she said, 'and guess whose headquarters are in Manly? Lachlan Enterprises. The cab's heading that way-see you there, and don't even say it, Cliff-I won't let him spot me.'

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