Tom Cruise in Rain Man was wrong about Qantas as he no doubt found out later when he was with Nicole-you didn't have to go to 'Mel-born' to catch it. You could pick it up in LA and fly to Sydney. I gave myself plenty of time to cope with the absurd security screening, tougher in my case because I had a couple of minor criminal convictions to my name. I'd pulled strings to get the entry visa, but the men and women, black and white, in the starched uniforms with the epaulettes checked and rechecked before conceding that Guantanomo wasn't an option. I travelled first cla.s.s, stretching my legs, walking about to avoid DVT and enjoying the Australian accents, the beer and the barramundi.

'Been away long, Mr Hardy?' a steward named Frank asked, as he poured a Crownie.

'Felt longer than it really was,' I said.

'Right. Home in time to vote.'

'You bet.' I raised my gla.s.s. 'To better times and better people.'

A man sitting opposite heard me and did the same, repeating the toast a touch more loudly. I glanced around the section-more smiles than frowns. Encouraging.

At Mascot, I was met by Hank Bachelor and Megan. I shook hands with Hank, and resisted his attempt to take my cabin bag and my single suitcase. I hugged Megan.

She stepped back. 'We're an item,' she said. 'We think.'

I laughed. 'Since when?'

Hank said, 'We sort of got together when we heard about what happened to you in San Diego.'

Their happiness communicated itself directly to me and cut through the jet lag. 'I should be able to come up with something about the heart and growing fonder and all that,' I said, 'but I'm too knackered. Good luck to you. Let's have a drink.'

A few days later, installed back in my house and with outstanding correspondence and obligations, mostly financial but also social and medical, dealt with, I called on Hank in his Newtown office to talk over the Henry McKinley matter. I climbed the familiar stairs from King Street but now a fluorescent light made them more negotiable. As I was making my way up a man coming down fast b.u.mped into me and almost knocked me off balance. He steadied me with a strong hand.

'Terribly sorry,' he said. 'Are you all right, sir?'

I was until you called me sir, I thought. I nodded and he went down, turning at the bottom of the stairs to look back. I signalled to him and went on.

Formerly mine, the office had been carpeted and painted and the windows cleaned. Hank had rented two adjoining rooms and put in part.i.tions and doors so that he now had a small suite.

'You must be doing OK,' I said as I settled into a chair about three times more comfortable than the one I'd provided for my clients.

Hank shrugged. 'There's work about. The politicians and spin-doctors are worried about bugging, so I'm doing regular sweeps. Quick and easy and well paid.'

'Politicians on which side?'

'Hey, I'm a resident alien. I'm neutral. Both sides.'

'And you're finding what?'

'Paranoia and zilch, but who's complaining?'

'Any serious work?'

'Some insurance fraud-autos, personal accident. I cleaned up a couple of those cases you left me. Gave me a kick start.'

I'd seen another desk in one of the other rooms and one in a cubicle. 'You've got some help?'

He nodded. 'A casual. He just left. Must've pa.s.sed you on the stairs. And ... Megan.'

'How's that?'

'Cliff, she was keen. She's enrolled in the TAFE course. I got her a.s.sociate status-provisionally.'

'What happened to acting?'

'She got tired of it, and it was going no place.'

My relationship with Megan was complex. Because I hadn't known her as a child, I didn't feel the full weight of a father's responsibility and attachment. I felt a lot of those emotions but not the full serve and, of course, I felt guilty about that. Complex. My warring feelings must have shown in my face and body language.

'She's basically a clerk,' Hank said.

'Stick around. She won't be for long. OK, we're all adults here. I'm not laying down any laws. How's the McKinley thing looking?'

Hank eased himself out of his chair the way a fit thirty year old can, took two steps and opened a filing cabinet. Forget the paperless office. Never happened. You can have anything you like on hard disk and flash drive but nothing beats a printed sheet when you want a quick grasp. Hank had several sheets in the standard manila folder and he spread them on the desk.

'Waiting for your input,' he said, shuffling the pages. 'I can tell you that there's something funny about this Tarelton company. Their website says they're a minerals and natural resources exploration company. You know that. But just where and what they're exploring and developing is kind of hard to pin down. It's a private company, so there's only so much it has to reveal about its personnel and operations and, in its case, that's virtually zero.'

'Margaret McKinley had the idea that it was paying her father well.'

'Oh, it's got a.s.sets-an impressive building in Surry Hills, staff, a fleet of cars. But what the h.e.l.l does it do?'

'Who or what is Tarelton?'

Hank tapped one of the sheets. 'Edward Tarelton-South African or maybe Canadian. Fifty-one or forty-nine. Mystery man.'

'What happens when you make enquiries?'

'What the client said-the run-around. When I made a big enough a.s.shole of myself that someone actually talked to me I asked about McKinley. Here's what I got.'

Hank flipped a switch on a console on his desk.

'We have personnel all over the world and do not discuss their whereabouts or a.s.signments.'

'That's an illegal recording,' I said.

Hank shrugged. 'The machine was on, like, accidentally.'

'Who was that?'

'What's that expression you have? No names, no pack drill. What's that mean, anyway?'

'Take too long to explain. Well, we need to get busy-file a missing persons report with the police-'

'Did that.' Hank held up a card. 'Got a file reference.'

'-and a letter of authorisation from Margaret. I'll see to that.'

'Cliff, you're not a private eye any longer.'

'No, I'm a concerned friend, and I know a couple of cops who'll vouch for me.'

'And a couple of dozen who won't.'

'It's who you know, mate. It always has been.'

There's no law against talking to people or accessing public records. There were people who'd do me favours in return for things I'd done for them in the past, and others who'd have been pleased to hear that I'd dropped dead on Ocean Beach pier. The thing to do was make use of the former and avoid the latter. It's not even against the law to use a false name and claim to be something you're not, unless your intention is to defraud.

Margaret had given me a list of McKinley's friends with home and business telephone numbers-the secretary of the cycling club, Terry Dart, and the owner of a gallery where McKinley had exhibited some drawings, Marion Montifiore.

I had the names on a slip from the notepad that had come with the San Diego apartment. I got it out and was about to reach for the phone on Hank's desk when I remembered who and what I was. I covered the action by scribbling a meaningless note on the slip of paper before standing up.

'I'm going to follow a few things up, Hank,' I said. 'Thanks for what you've done. I'll make some copies of what you have in the file if that's okay, but I probably won't be bothering you with this.'

'I'm bothered already.'

'Come on-a geologist, cyclist, pen and ink man ...'

'Working for a dodgy company.'

'Anything dodgy, you'll hear from me.'

I went home and phoned a supplier to get a new up-to-the-minute Mac computer with all the tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs delivered by someone who could install it and teach me to fly it. That done, I had a light lunch, a rest as prescribed by the doctors, and then took a long walk around Glebe. My wind was good and I picked up the pace until I sweated.

I phoned the Montifiore Gallery, got the proprietor, and made an appointment to see her early in the evening. I drew a blank at both the home and business numbers for Terry Dart. I left voicemail messages at both numbers.

The gallery was in Harris Street, Ultimo, a walk away. I arrived at six pm as people were turning up for the opening of a new exhibition. The artists were a sculptor and painter whose names were unknown to me, which didn't mean anything-I couldn't name a single Australian sculptor alive or dead and very few live painters. The first challenge was the stairs-steep, concrete, two long flights. The other first-nighters were mostly young and handling the stairs easily. Come on, Hardy, I thought, you can do it. I did, at a respectable pace, with only a little help from the rail on the last few steps.

The gallery was a large expanse, painted white with big windows letting in the last of the daylight and lights strategically placed to take over and flatter the exhibits. The crowd was a mixture of the affluent and the scruffy, possibly the scruffy trying to look affluent and the affluent trying to look scruffy. The paintings were abstracts that my eye skated over as though they weren't there; the sculptures were well-wrought wooden pieces-skeletons of boats, boldly carved figurines reminiscent of Nolan's Ned Kelly work and others difficult to interpret but interesting to look at. As the room filled, most attention focused on the sculptures and gave me the feeling that the red stickers would be coming out soon.

I made my way to the bar where a couple of kids barely old enough to drink were serving red and white wine. I accepted a gla.s.s of red for my heart's sake and asked if Marion Montifiore was present. One of the youngsters pointed to a fortyish woman with silver hair and dressed stylishly in black. She was talking animatedly about one of the paintings to a fat man in a suit who seemed more interested in her than the art work. That wasn't surprising. She was strikingly good looking with olive skin, dark eyes and features bordering on perfection. A matronly, overdressed woman led the fatty away and I approached before anyone else could nab her.

'Ms Montifiore? Cliff Hardy. We spoke on the phone this afternoon.'

It was one of those occasions when you like to present a card to obviate some explanations. It crossed my mind that I should get one-reading Cliff Hardy ... and then what?

She turned her Tuscan eyes on me. 'Oh yes, about dear Henry McKinley.'

Her voice sounded as if it had been tuned to perfect pitch.

'I didn't realise it was an opening night. I'd have come at another time.'

'No, no, at these things you need all the bodies you can get. I saw you taking an interest in the sculptures. They're good, aren't they?'

'You saw ...?'

She touched my non-drinking arm. 'I have eyes in the back of my head and at the sides. This is going quite well, I think. I can spare a few minutes. Come with me.'

I followed her through a door off to one side near the bar. The office was small, plain and furnished and equipped in impeccable taste. She sat on the corner of the teak desk; I stood. The chair on offer looked so comfortable I'd have been reluctant to leave it.

'I'm hoping you can tell me something about Henry McKinley,' I said.

That brought a frown. 'I don't understand. I thought you were going to be able to tell me ...'

I shook my head. 'I'm sort of acting for his daughter who I met in America. She said she'd contacted you.'

'She did, but I told her I hadn't heard from Henry since his exhibition. I said I'd get in touch if I heard anything, but ...' Her shrug was eloquent.

'Tell me about the exhibition.'

'Oh, it was a very small thing-four pen and ink artists with ten pieces each. I'd have to say that Henry's weren't the very best but someone obviously thought they were.'

'How's that?'

'Someone bought all ten. No, nine. One was slightly damaged and withdrawn at the last minute.'

'Who bought them?'

'I'm not sure I should-'

'Look, the man is missing. His daughter is worried sick and she's commissioned a private detective to investigate his disappearance. I'm working with that detective. I can give you a number to check on what I'm saying.'

I must have projected intensity, sincerity, something, because she suddenly looked concerned. The serene, beautiful mask cracked. 'He ... he paid in cash. It wasn't a lot. Three hundred and fifty dollars for each. A little over three thousand dollars in all.'

'Carried them away under his arm?'

'Of course not. I tagged them and they stayed for the rest of the exhibition period. It was only ten days.'

'Then what?'

'Someone came to collect them, showing the receipt.'

'Is all that legal? What about GST, commissions, certificates?'

'It wasn't a lot of money and I knew Henry would be thrilled. Any artist would.'

'But he didn't get to see the red stickers.'

'No. I have to get back.'

'In a minute. I a.s.sume you took your commission. What is it-twenty per cent?'

'Forty.'

'Jesus. I'm in the wrong game. Describe the man and tell me about the drawings.'

I'd heard that people in the art business were tough and Marion Montifiore bore that out now. She moved off the desk and towards a cupboard. 'I haven't the least recollection of what he looked like. He was unremarkable. As for the drawings I don't have to describe them. I have the damaged one here. They were all much the same.'