‘We did nothing wrong,’ she said defiantly. ‘We hurt no one.’
‘I hope that’s true,’ I said.
I sat in the car and thought about it. Wife-swapping seemed like an eighties thing, but this wasn’t exactly that. More bizarre, or more under control? It was difficult to say. But the information opened up new lines of enquiry. What if Henry McKinley’s extracurricular activities had opened him up to blackmail from some quarter-a colleague, a rival? What if Terry Dart had nursed a grudge, a jealousy, unknown to his wife-wanting exclusive possession of her or McKinley- and had eliminated his lover by accident or design?
And what of the man who hadn’t played the game, whoever he was? Josephine Dart had a special, fragile allure. It was easy to imagine someone becoming obsessed with her, particularly in the context of a sexual free-for-all. Could he have killed McKinley and Dart and be biding his time?
I had the problem of whether or how to tell Margaret. There was a chance she wouldn’t believe it-see it as a fantasy dreamed up by a grieving woman. I didn’t think it was that. The Myall address gave the story solidity and had to be checked out. I had a memory flash of Lily sitting at her computer, working on a story and looking up at me as I brought her a drink.
‘This thing opens up like a fucking fan,’ she’d said one time.
I knew what she meant. I decided to wait until I knew what Margaret’s moves were. She had to consult the lawyer; there was the release of her father’s body to be negotiated and a funeral to arrange. She had enough on her plate. The Myall expedition could wait.
Margaret sailed into the arrangements with tremendous efficiency. Horace Greenacre had shown her the will naming him and Margaret as executors. McKinley, a firm atheist, had insisted on a secular send-off with a minimum of fuss and cremation. Margaret put one of those no flowers/ donations to the Fred Hollows Foundation notices in the paper.
Greenacre, several members of the cycling club and Ashley Guy from Tarelton attended the Rookwood chapel. A couple of suits I didn’t know were there. Cops? Josephine Dart didn’t show. A tallish, thin woman in a dark dress and jacket arrived late and didn’t stay long. Margaret and the leader of the club spoke briefly and some of Henry’s favourite music was played-Mozart, Vivaldi, Bach.
Not enough bodies for a wake or a proper party. Margaret thanked each person individually. They took off, leaving just Margaret and me.
‘Well,’ she said. ‘That was a fizzer. I couldn’t even cry.’
‘Pretty cold,’ I agreed, ‘but it doesn’t really matter. You’ve got strong memories, haven’t you?’
We crunched across the gravel to my car. I was too hot in my suit, the only dark one I have. I peeled off the jacket; my shirt was sticking to my back. Margaret was cool in a blue dress. The only black thing about her was her handbag.
‘Memories, yes,’ she said, ‘good ones but not that strong. He was away so much, always working. I’m not sure that I really knew him.’
We got into the car and she leaned across and gave me another of her low-octane kisses.
‘Tell you what, Cliff, Dad’s favourite tipple was single malt scotch on one block of ice. I vote we buy a bottle and have a few. I feel like getting pissed.’
I overruled that. We went back to Glebe and I shed the suit. We got a taxi to the Rocks and had the scotches in one of the new, trendy licensed cafes. We walked around for a while and then had a seafood meal with a lot of wine. Then Irish coffee. She insisted on paying.
‘I’m coming into quite a lot of money,’ she said, spearing a chunk of swordfish.
‘Good.’
‘Puts college for Lucinda beyond doubt.’
We discussed Lucinda; we discussed Megan; we discussed Lily and Margaret’s ex-husband. We talked politics and books until it got quite late and the emotion, such as it was, of the day and the alcohol got to her and we caught a taxi to Glebe. She leaned against me and I put my arm around her on the way.
At home she asked for more coffee. She said goodnight and I heard the shower running long and hard, first cold then hot-different sounds. I showered in the downstairs bathroom and went up to bed, thinking I might manage a chapter of McGrath. It was a sleep-between-the-sheets night with a fan on and I’d just got settled when the door opened and Margaret came in.
She was wearing just the top of her silk pyjamas and the buttons weren’t fastened.
‘This is silly,’ she said. ‘I like you and you like me, don’t you?’
‘Very much.’
‘Move over.’
She slid into bed and we made love slowly and carefully, each learning what the other liked and needed. When we finished we lay close together with only a film of sweat between us.
‘Was that your first time since the heart attack?’
‘Yes. I’m behind schedule. The hospital pamphlet said you could resume after six weeks.’
She laughed. ‘I think most men start solo.’
‘I thought about it but decided it was immature.’
We were drowsily quiet for a while; then she took my hand and said, ‘You know I’m going back to the States, don’t you? This is just. .’
‘It’s what it is. I know. Nothing to say I can’t visit though. Tony’ll be fighting for the title soon. What d’you think about boxing?’
‘I don’t. What do you think about basketball?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Right, I’ll come and watch Tony if you’ll come and watch the Lakers.’
We rolled apart and drifted off to sleep. I woke first and enjoyed the sight of her sleeping. She had her hand held up near her head, making her look oddly young and vulnerable. I eased out of the bed, showered and put on an old cotton dressing gown. She was still asleep and I put her kimono on the bed and went downstairs to make coffee and listen to the news, get the paper in, start the day.
She came down in her pyjama top and kimono. She kissed me. ‘How’s that Cold Chisel song go?’
I recited:
The coffee’s hot
And the toast is brown.
‘That’s it. I loved that group. Is “Sweethearts” still there?’
I poured her coffee and put the bread in the toaster. ‘I don’t know. We’d better find out.’
She pointed to the paper. ‘What’s the news?’
I showed her the headline: GOVERNMENT IN DEEP TROUBLE!
‘That’s weeks away,’ she said. ‘Things change.’
The toaster popped and I put the slices on a plate and pushed them towards her with the margarine and the honey.
‘The government’s shot to bits in the polls,’ I said. ‘They figure they need time to turn it around.’
‘Reckon they can?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Why’re we talking about this and not about finding out who killed my dad? I know it’s important, politics, but. .’
I got orange juice from the fridge and detached my pills from their foils. I swilled a couple down and then dropped the aspirin tablet into a glass of water, watched it dissolve and drank it. The taste was sweetish and unpleasant. I followed it with a mouthful of coffee.
‘It’s not all that important,’ I said. ‘Be good to see the last of the present lot, but things’ll change only at the margins.’
‘Cliff, come on. You’re stalling.’
‘Right,’ I said. ‘Things to tell you.’
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13
I told her what Josephine Dart had told me. She listened without interrupting, but she left her toast practically untouched. When I’d finished she drank her coffee which must have been tepid.
‘And you believed her?’ she said.
‘I think so.’
‘You think.’
I’d made copies of the three keys that had got me into McKinley’s townhouse and the one to the shed padlock. I’d given the copies to the police who’d made a search after the discovery of McKinley’s body. The fifth key had puzzled me, as I’d told Mrs Dart. I got the original set from my jacket and singled out the fifth key.
‘She had keys to your father’s house,’ I said. ‘This one is allegedly the key to the place at Myall. She says the house hasn’t been used since her husband’s death, not by her anyway. If what she says is true there should be signs of their. . activities, and it’s possible your father might have left something there that could make sense of what happened to him. Just possible.’