Deep Water Read Free

few days of walking the pier I had people to nod to—the guy from the bait shop, the professional photographer, other walkers. Then I met, or re-met, Margaret McKinley.

2
    I was sitting on a bench near the end of the pier reading. Megan had left a pile of paperbacks she’d picked up and one was
The Power of the Dog
by Don Winslow. I was keen to read it because, in a way, Winslow had brought me to San Diego. His book,
The Winter of Frankie Machine
, was one of the best crime novels I’d ever read, and the description of the San Diego waterfront was so graphic and compelling I’d taken it into my head to go there as I slowly wended my way back up the west coast towards a flight to Australia. In the book, Frankie Machine ran the bait shop on the pier. The area had lived up to the description and it was lucky for me I’d been there when I had the heart attack. If I’d been driving around LA, as I was a few days before, things could have been very different.
    â€˜Hello, Mr Hardy.’
    I looked up from the book. The woman standing in front of me was familiar, but I couldn’t place her.’
    â€˜Nurse Margaret McKinley,’ she said.
    I half rose in the polite, meaningless way my generation was taught to do, but she put a hand on my shoulder to interrupt the movement.
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognise you out of uniform.’
    â€˜Understandable, a uniform’s the best disguise there is, they say. May I sit down?’
    I shuffled along, although there was plenty of room. ‘Of course.’
    â€˜You look very well,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen you here before.’
    â€˜I walk the line,’ I said.
    She smiled, took the book and examined it. ‘Ah, that explains it.’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜What you said to Dr Pierce when you were coming to the surface. You said you were looking for Frankie Machine. We were puzzled. I see it’s another title by this writer. I gather the book’s set here.’
    She was in her mid-thirties at a guess—medium sized with strong, squarish features and dark-brown hair in a no-nonsense style. She carried a sun hat and wore a white sleeveless blouse and denim pants that came to just below the knee; a light tan. Sandals. No ring.
Ah, Hardy, stripped of your licence, but still sizing up the citizens.
    â€˜I don’t think you were around when I left,’ I said. ‘I thanked everyone in sight.’
    â€˜I know. Everyone was very grateful. Your daughter came back and made a donation.’
    â€˜I didn’t know that.’
    â€˜You’re lucky to have her. I take it she’s gone home?’
    The way she said it made me pay attention to her voice. It was basically Californian but with an underlying tingle of something else. ‘You’re Australian,’ I said.
    â€˜I was, still am at heart, but I’m a US citizen now by marriage. No hubby any longer, but a kid and a good job.’
    I looked up at the clear blue sky and nodded. ‘Living in climate heaven.’
    She shook her head. Her face had the sort of lines that come from experiences good and bad but mostly good.
    â€˜Not really,’ she said. ‘Sometimes I yearn for Sydney’s seasons. Even a bloody hailstorm.’
    The Australian accent became slightly more pronounced with every word, the way it can when the other person is a genuine speaker.
    â€˜I suppose it might get you down over time,’ I said, ‘but just now it’s perfect for my purposes.’
    â€˜I heard you say you were a private detective.’
    â€˜I was. I’m … retired.’
    â€˜You might still be able to help me. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?’
    It was close to midday. ‘What about a beer?’ I said.
    She had a nice smile. ‘Why not, although it’d horrify my colleagues.’
    We walked back towards the bar where Megan and I had sat and I told her about Megan’s