I looked at my watch. ‘It’s one thirty. Let’s say he calls Holland straight off-said he will. I said an hour. Let’s see how keen the CEO of Global Resources really is. I’m slipping out for a drink. What d’you think?’
‘Cute,’ Hank said.
Megan said, ‘Try not to sound as smug as you look.’
16
At two thirty-three the phone rang.
‘On the dot,’ I said to Megan.
I answered. ‘Hardy.’
‘Mr Hardy, this is William Holland, I’m-’
‘I know who you are, Mr Holland. What can I do for you?’
‘I’d like for us to meet.’
‘Why?’
‘To discuss matters arising from the work the late Henry McKinley was engaged on.’
‘What work would that be?’
‘I think that’s commercially confidential.’
‘You mean you don’t know.’
‘I mean I only know a certain amount.’
‘Here’s something else you might not know. Margaret McKinley, Dr McKinley’s daughter and heir, has enlisted the services of Bachelor Private Enquiry Incorporated to investigate her father’s death. I’m an associate of Bachelor’s.’
There was a pause before Holland said, ‘No, I didn’t know that.’
So Greenacre was only giving out selective information.
That was good. I’d talked the thing over with Hank and Megan in what was left of the hour after my brief visit to the pub. We’d agreed it was unlikely that the actual kidnappers and probable torturers of Henry McKinley would make the approach Holland had: unlikely, but not impossible. Also, McKinley, on the DVD, said Global Resources had tried a soft approach-a bribe. Didn’t acquit them of responsibility, but it suggested they might be the ones to deal with. We had that one card to play-the bribe allegation. The trick would be to use it to find out more. Holland might know more about the focus of McKinley’s work than we did.
It was a juggling act and a chess game. We needed to talk to Dr O’Neil before we talked to Holland.
‘I’ll call Ms McKinley in the States,’ I said to Holland, ‘and get back to you if you give me your number. I gather it’s urgent?’
‘Fairly urgent. I’ll expect your call when?’
‘Within forty-eight hours.’
He gave me the number and cut the call.
We grouped in Hank’s office.
‘What does he sound like?’ Megan asked.
‘Smooth. What have you found out about the company?’
‘It’s biggish. International. Mining interests mostly, particularly in South Africa. Your Mr Holland is the CEO of the Australian division rather than the whole show.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Hank said. ‘Always good to deal with someone who’s answerable to someone else. Can give you an edge.’
‘We’re going to need it, unless we can learn something useful from Dr O’Neil. Megan and I can try to contact her tomorrow morning, but I think all three of us should go to
the meeting with Holland. My guess is he’ll have others
along.’
‘That’s better,’ Megan said. ‘I want to go.’
‘It’s going to be a chess game,’ I said.
Hank groaned. ‘I’m lousy at chess.’
‘Me, too,’ I said.
‘I’m pretty good,’ Megan said.
I gave her one of my winning grins. ‘Thought you might be. Your mother was.’
The Four Bays Cycling Club clubhouse turned out to be a garage, one of a set cut into a cliff on a street a block back from New South Head Road in Rose Bay. A roller door had the club name, only partly disfigured by graffiti, stencilled on it. Megan and I gathered there at seven twenty on a brisk morning with a sharp wind coming off the water.
‘They ride for an hour,’ Megan said, ‘rain, hail or shine, and they cover a bloody lot of clicks.’
‘Admirable. I wouldn’t fancy the hills.’
‘They thrive on them. Think of the Tour de France.’
‘That’s for money. More understandable. Here they come.’
A group of riders swept around a bend and headed towards us, pedalling fast on the flat stretch. At about a hundred metres out, they slowed and coasted the rest of the way. We could hear their voices carrying clearly on the morning air above the sounds of traffic and the stiff breeze. There were ten people in the group, including two women.
‘She’s the thin one with the red helmet,’ Megan said.
‘I recognise her. She put in a brief appearance at the funeral.’
The riders bunched up, shook hands, chatted and inspected their bikes. We walked over to where the woman Megan had singled out was making an adjustment to the strap on one of her pedals.
‘Excuse me,’ Megan said, ‘Dr O’Neil?’
The woman pulled off her helmet and shook out her long, dark hair. She was good looking-thin-faced with large dark eyes. In her lycra outfit, she displayed a body without a gram of extra fat.
‘Yes, I’m Susan O’Neil. Who-?’
Megan spoke quickly but quietly. ‘Sorry to grab hold of you like this, but it’s important that we talk with you. We’ve been hired by Margaret McKinley, Dr Henry McKinley’s daughter, to investigate his death.’
She was still half occupied by the strap, still probably considering how she’d done on the ride, but now she stopped what she was doing and studied us closely. The other riders were filing into the garage and I could see the racks waiting for their bikes. They must have showers and changing rooms inside. Nice set-up.
‘How do I know that’s true?’
Greenacre had faxed a copy of the power of attorney document Margaret had signed. I produced it and my long-cancelled PEA licence. Megan had a Bachelor Enquiries card with her name on it.
I said, ‘We know something of Dr McKinley’s concern about the integrity or otherwise of Tarelton Explorations and other interested parties. We thought it safer to approach you away from your place of work.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Her dark, evaluating eyes shifted between us. ‘You’re father and daughter.’
‘We are,’ Megan said.
‘I don’t know why, but that helps me to believe you. Please wait until I rack the bike and get changed and then I’ll be willing to talk to you.’
‘Thank you,’ Megan said.
‘I should say I’ll expect you to talk to me before I talk to you.’
She wheeled the bike away and was the last rider into the garage. The roller door came down.
‘Game of chess,’ Megan said.
Dr O’Neil came down a set of steps above the garage. She was wearing a dark blue pants suit like the one she’d worn at Rookwood, heels, grey blouse, carrying a smart leather drawstring bag. She used the remote to unlock a silver-grey Subaru parked in the street, and gestured for us to follow. The car had a device for securing a bicycle on the roof.
‘Probably goes on hundred kilometre rides up and down mountains somewhere out bush,’ I said as Megan started the engine. We were in her old VW 1500, a car she refused to part with-like me with my Falcon.
‘I thought you liked athletic women.’
‘I did, now I feel a bit outclassed.’
We followed the Subaru to Double Bay where it swung into a parking spot outside a coffee shop. Megan had to drive further to find a space. We walked back and Dr O’Neil was waiting for us at an outside table. She was nervous, fiddling with the packets of sugar, as we sat down.
‘I’m betting you’d have a long black,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘You lose-super-strength cap and I sugar it. Those rides burn up the calories.’
‘Would you go in and order, Cliff?’ Megan said. ‘We’re on expenses, Dr O’Neil. Mine’s a flat white.’
I did as directed. Bringing Megan was the right move. When I got back the two women were on first name terms and the earlier tension had dissipated.
‘I’ve told Susan about Dr McKinley’s DVD and his suspicions,’ Megan said. ‘And that you saw her at Dr McKinley’s funeral.’
She smiled. ‘Come to think of it, I saw you, too.’
‘We’ve got a meeting lined up with a representative of Global Resources,’ I said. ‘Not sure what he’s going to say, but. .’