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Heights in a hit and run accident. Dart’sbody 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.
    â€˜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?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 mostpromise. I couldn’t follow the details, but I think they came to the conclusion that …’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜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 …’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜And Henry made drawings.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜And I need to do the same with Henry McKinley. Do you know who his lawyer is?’
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜I can pay you.’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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