‘That’s right.’
‘You’re a private investigator. Are you investigating Henry’s disappearance?’
‘Not officially, no. I’m. . just looking into it for his daughter who I met in California. She gave me your number.’
‘I want you to investigate Terry’s death. It was murder, I’m sure of it.’
‘I think we should talk,’ I said.
Josephine Dart lived in Dover Heights in an apartment complex one block back from where the land drops abruptly down to the water. I had to check for the street in the directory, and I noticed that the Dart address was more or less directly in line with McKinley’s address across the peninsula. Dover Heights isn’t a busy part of Sydney. There are more apartments than houses, mostly with garages, so the streets aren’t cluttered. No shops to speak of and no beach. The suburb gives the impression of having nothing to be busy about.
Apartments command high prices though, given the proximity to more exciting places, especially if a view is part of the deal. Good security. I was buzzed in and instructed to take the lift or the stairs. I’d chosen to walk from where I’d parked, mostly uphill, and I took the stairs to support my fitness regime. Standing outside the security door, I could see that the Darts had the whole package. The unit was three flights up and on the side of a building that was at the right angle to command a view south to Bondi, north towards Watson’s Bay and east to New Zealand.
Josephine Dart was tiny, barely 150 centimetres in her high heels. She was perfectly groomed with a helmet of black hair, a pearl necklace and a blue silk dress. Her makeup was discreet, emphasising her large eyes and high cheekbones. She looked like a former ballerina, not that I’d ever met a ballerina, former or otherwise. Her voice was surprisingly strong, coming from such a small frame.
‘Please come in, Mr Hardy. I’ve made coffee. I hope you drink coffee. So many people don’t these days.’
The short passage gave onto a living room set up to be lived in. There was a leather couch, a couple of matching chairs, a coffee table, a magazine holder, TV and a sound system and bookshelves. None of it was excessively tidy: a few magazines drooped from the holder; there were loose CDs and DVDs sitting beside their racks; some of the books had been shelved flat. The room was dominated by two ceiling to floor windows leading out to a wide balcony. Some cloud had drifted over, muting the light, but the view could only be described as an eyeful.
‘Sit down. I’ll get the coffee.’
I prowled the bookshelves-an eclectic lot, in no particular order, ranging from sport to philosophy. Lance Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike sat next to A Brief History of Time. There was a strong showing of battered green and orange Penguins.
Mrs Dart returned with the coffee things on a tray. She pushed the morning paper aside on the coffee table and put the tray down.
She saw me inspecting the bookshelves.
‘Terry was a great reader, from utter rubbish to quantum physics. I’m middlebrow, I’m afraid-biographies, memoirs and well-written thrillers. How do you take your coffee?’
I told her I took it black without sugar. She kept making inconsequential remarks as she poured and I judged that she was holding various emotions in-grief, anger, frustration. The coffee was excellent and I said so.
She sipped and nodded. ‘Somebody killed my husband. I don’t know why. We were childless. He was my life and I can’t just let it go as if. .’
She shook her head and drank some more coffee.
‘I understand,’ I said. ‘You said your husband and Henry McKinley were close?’
‘They were very close, like brothers. They shared. .’ She broke off and stared out of the window. The cloud had cleared and the view was stunning, but she wasn’t seeing it. She was looking at something else, something inner. It was almost embarrassing to be present and I drank some coffee for protection.
‘They shared almost everything-the same interests- geology, the outdoors, drawing, photography, cycling. I once said they ought to get a tandem bicycle and go riding on the one machine because they rode together so much. A sort of private joke. .’
Geology, drawing, photography-was that a fatal connection?
I said, ‘You’ll have to tell me everything that happened.’
She left the room and came back with a folder containing a number of newspaper clippings. The tabloid and the broadsheet had reported on the death of Terence Dart, fifty-seven, of Dover Heights in a hit and run accident. Dart’s body had been discovered at 6.05 am by a jogger on New South Head Road. He’d been thrown violently from his bike, which was a crushed ruin, and had died from massive injuries. Police called for anyone who might have been in the area when it happened to come forward. No one did, although there must have been light traffic at the time.
‘I had Charles Morgan, my solicitor, press the police for details which they were very reluctant to reveal, but he did manage to learn that there were no skid marks, no signs of the vehicle swerving or losing control, even momentarily. Terry was deliberately killed.’
I sifted through the clippings. ‘I think you’re right. Did your husband wear a helmet?’
‘He did, of course, always. But the autopsy showed that his injuries were to the neck and the upper part of the spine where the helmet offers no protection.’
She selected one of the clippings and pointed to a paragraph. ‘The jogger said the bike was a ruin. Doesn’t that suggest a terrific impact at a great speed?’
I nodded. It was clear what she was doing. Focusing on the forensic detail was helping her to keep grief at bay and herself together. She was going to make me part of that process and I was willing. I asked her about her husband’s profession and the friendship with McKinley.
‘Terry was a seismologist on a contract with the CSIRO. So of course he was interested in rock formations and the like. This wretched government had cut back on research funds so he was frustrated at being unable to pursue things as far as he would’ve liked. He said he was being phased out and had nothing to do but fill in forms and shuffle them. He and Henry argued about whether the private sector or the government sector held out the most promise. I couldn’t follow the details, but I think they came to the conclusion that. .’
‘What?’
‘That it really didn’t matter. Government was in bed with business, business was in bed with government and science didn’t matter a hang. Terry had some hopes that things might change, but. .’
‘Were they working together on anything? Informally maybe?’
She shrugged. ‘Who can say? They rode their bikes for miles in all directions, further than I’d care to drive. They certainly. . looked at things, took photos.’
‘And Henry made drawings.’
‘I suppose so. What are you getting at?’
I told her about the drawings and the mysterious buyer and the one that had slipped through the net. I said I’d show it to her to see if it gave her any ideas. That reassured her about my interest. I asked if I could look at her husband’s workroom-his files, his photographs. She agreed. Then I popped the real question.
‘And I need to do the same with Henry McKinley. Do you know who his lawyer is?’
‘No. But that’s not a problem, Mr Hardy. Not if you agree to follow this up for me.’
I nodded. ‘As I said, I’m not officially engaged. I can look into whatever seems relevant.’
‘I can pay you.’
‘It’s not an issue at this point, Mrs Dart.’
She looked up at me but it wasn’t me she was seeing- it was something or someone else. I caught a flash of a sexual signal, quickly suppressed.
‘Terry had a key to Henry’s house. I have it right here.’
One of the rooms in the three-bedroom apartment served as Terry Dart’s study. It was orderly, with a filing cabinet, bookcases, a laptop computer and printer and the usual jars with pencils and pens sticking out. I opened the filing cabinet, which was only sparsely filled with folders bearing names I didn’t understand. Seismological terms. The books were mostly about that subject and related ones-vulcanicity, glaciation. He’d evidently read up a bit on global warming and alternative energy as well as the water crisis in Australia and elsewhere. The only personal touches were a set of trophies sitting on top of the bookcase.