The Washington Club (10 page)

There didn't seem to be much point in pretending that I was a celibate teetotaller, so I poured myself some Scotch and sat down in the living room while the detective prowled a bit—into the kitchen out onto the balcony. He came back in and combined the sceptical look with a frown. He still looked young and green to me, but he probably wasn't.

‘You couldn't see the gate from there. How did you know what had happened?'

I pointed to the TV monitor mounted on the wall.

‘That's linked to the gate. I saw what happened on that fucking screen.'

‘Take it easy.' He walked over to the security control box, studied the mechanism for a few seconds and activated the TV. I got up and joined him in time to see Cy lifted onto a stretcher and taken away.

‘I'm going to get the bastard who did this,' I said.

‘No you're not. You told the uniformed officer you were a private detective, that right?'

‘Yes.'

‘Licensed for a firearm?'

‘Yes.'

‘Where is it?'

I had to think. It seemed so long ago. I recalled putting the .38 back in the holster in the street and then hanging it over a chair in the bedroom. The Scotch hadn't calmed me and I was starting to feel the anger building again.

‘Listen,' I said. ‘I don't want to get nasty here. That man had been my friend for more than twenty years. If you'd been there when they turned him over you'd have seen how little of his chest was left. Didn't you see the blood and the tissue, for fuck's sake? He was shot with a rifle, low calibre, high velocity. Don't ask me to go into that bedroom and retrieve my fucking .38 pistol. I just might punch your head in.'

Bolton was no fool. He studied me for a full minute, then he walked away, picked up my glass and handed it to me. The TV monitor went blank and he clicked it on again and studied the image carefully. ‘You wouldn't get any sight of where the shots came from on this.'

I sipped the drink and fought for control. ‘That's right. I heard the impact over the intercom and I saw the results on his shirt. But I'm no ballistics expert. The shooter could have been anywhere out there—left or right, high or fucking low. I don't know.'

‘Finish your drink. We'll have to go down to North Sydney.'

I put my glass down on the low table. ‘I
don't want it. Just a second and I'll get the pistol for you.'

I went into the bedroom. Claudia was still asleep and she looked very comfortable, also highly desirable. The sheet had ridden down on one side and she'd kicked one leg free of it. I could see the whole length of the inside of one long, perfectly shaped thigh. The skin was smooth and tight and, despite everything that had happened, I could feel myself getting aroused. I adjusted the sheet and she didn't move. I picked up the holster harness and my watch and left the room.

Bolton was standing near the doorway that led to the kitchen—good ducking away spot. I held out the holster to him. ‘Cleaned last night, but not fired this year or last.' He took the harness and handled it as if he'd seen such things before. ‘Okay. You say the lady's your client?'

‘Actually,' I said, ‘she was Cy's client. He's the . . . victim and I'm . . . I was his client. It's all very complicated.'

‘I can see that. You're cooperating and I won't push you. I'd like the lady's name.'

‘Claudia Fleischman. She's awaiting trial for the murder of her husband.'

‘Jesus Christ,' Bolton said, ‘Okay, I'll get a policewoman in here to keep an eye on her. We'd better get going. The bloodhounds can't be far off.'

Bolton said he'd need to talk to Claudia at some point but for now he let her sleep. He allowed me to write her a note. How do you tell someone her lawyer's just been murdered and her new lover's off to the police station and will be back sometime, all in a note? I did the best I could, told her not to be alarmed if a policewoman was there, propped the note up on the bedside table centimetres from her head and left a card in case she'd lost the first one with my home address and phone number on it as well as the office and mobile numbers. I said I'd phone her as soon as I was clear and that I wanted her to stay where she was or come to me and go nowhere else. There was no way for her to feel safe or act as if she was. I hoped she'd remember my advice about her personal security. If I'd known her better I could have suggested the name of someone to come over and keep her company. Maybe, but my snooping tended to make me think that there wasn't any such person. That didn't make leaving the flat any easier.

As police stations go, North Sydney was better than average. The lighting was muted rather than the harsh brain-searing stuff which used to be standard and you still get sometimes, and the room they put me in had been softened down by a couple of bright prints on the walls and a pot plant or two. If you really want to intimidate someone, you interrogate them under a light in the middle of a dark room, where they come to feel danger and threat in the space around them, especially behind. Here, the desk with the chairs on either side of it was tucked in a corner, almost cosily. The video equipment looked to be state of the art. There was no sign that anyone had ever smoked in the room since it had undergone its last revamp. That'd be a problem for some people, but perhaps they interviewed the really tough guys who smoked cigarettes somewhere else.

‘Your car's been searched and sniffed at, Mr Hardy,' Bolton said, before he activated the recording. ‘Seems no reason to impound it. It's here for when you need it.'

I took the electronic alarm and locking device out of my jacket pocket and showed it to him. ‘You mean your people by-passed everything? I'm impressed.'

Bolton smiled and flicked a switch. Machinery hummed.

‘What about my gun?' I said.

Bolton frowned and turned the hum off. ‘When this is over we can talk about that, okay?'

I shrugged. Flick. Hum.

‘North Sydney police station. Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton OIC. Interview with Mr Cliff Hardy of . . .'

Bolton recorded the date and time of the interview, my address, PEA licence number and other formal details. As he was running through the circumstances that had led to the interview I realised how tired I was. I felt my head growing heavy and my body started to cry out for a level surface to stretch out on. Bolton switched off the machine.

‘Are you all right?'

‘I'm sorry,' I said. ‘I'm tired. It's been a bastard of a day and a hell of a night. I'm whacked.'

He pressed a button on the desk and a voice came over the intercom. ‘Yes, Craig?'

‘Two coffees in here, please. Strong. Sugar and milk on the side. Quick as you can.'

‘Coming up.'

‘The departing chief here installed the machine as a gift to the station,' he said. ‘Makes good coffee.'

I grunted my thanks.

Bolton grinned at me. The frown line stayed, even though he was almost smiling. It gave him an ambiguous, hard-to-read look. ‘
I never knew a murderer who felt like a kip afterwards, unless he was all bombed out on drugs. Relax, Hardy, I've checked you on our computer and spoken to Frank Parker who
vouches for you. You've got nothing to worry about.'

Frank, now a Deputy Commissioner in the New South Wales Police Force, was an old friend. ‘Just a dead mate and a lady in very serious trouble.'

‘Maybe you'd like to tell me something about that.'

A uniformed constable knocked and brought in a tray with two mugs of coffee on it along with some mini-cartons of long-life milk and sugar cubes wrapped in paper. I took mine with everything—three milks and three sugars. By the time I'd stirred the milk and sugar in the drink was warm rather than hot but I drank it anyway. Whoever had prepared it had taken Bolton at his word—the coffee was very strong and I could feel the caffeine and sugar kicking in as Bolton flipped the switch again . . .

It was 2.30 a.m. when I left North Sydney. The Camry was in the station car park and the electronic gadget and everything else worked just fine. The ignition key was in my pocket but the car had a few more kilometres on the clock than when I'd left it. Made you wonder how good these security gizmos really were. I sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, mulling over what I'd told Bolton and wondering what to do about Claudia. Bolton had been easy, almost friendly. I worried about that. In the old days there'd have been shouts, threats,
cigarettes offered and denied, shoes against chair legs. I felt as if I was getting late-'90s treatment and didn't know how to cope with it.

In keeping with the times, I'd played it selective but pretty straight. I'd begun by pointing out that Cy was a high-profile criminal lawyer of longstanding. Matters he'd worked on in the past or other matters on hand could have explained the attack and I had no knowledge of such things. His death didn't necessarily have anything to do with my current case. Bolton gave that short shrift and pressed for details. I'd mentioned the grenades in my car (I knew he'd find out about them easily anyway) and the surveillance I'd mounted outside Claudia's flat which had been all at the wrong time and to no effect. I'd told him about the car I'd seen speeding away after my first visit, but not that I'd identified Haitch Henderson as the driver. I said I'd paid calls on various people connected with the case but declined to name them or provide any details. Getting back at me for that, Bolton had hung on to my gun for testing—minor sparring.

In days gone by he'd have held me overnight, just on principle, but times had changed and Bolton appeared to be working to the spirit as well as the letter of the law. The record of interview had been fed into a computer and I signed the printout. He said he'd see me again and expressed the hope that I'd cooperate in every way, including securing
him an interview with Mrs Fleischman. No leer, no wink.

It had been a big night for technology and I decided to stick with it. I used the car phone to ring Claudia. Fittingly, I got her answering machine message: ‘
This is Claudia. I'm not taking calls just now. Leave a message after the tone if you wish.'

Not welcoming.

‘Claudia, this is Cliff. I'm on the car phone. Just out of the police station. I'm assuming you're still asleep . . .' I waited. No response. ‘Okay. Please do as I say in the note. I'm going home to get some sleep, but I'll be in touch later today. We've got lots to do. Stay strong.' If the policewoman was there and heard the message, so what?

I drove out of the car park, getting a curt nod from the tired-looking constable on duty. We had that in common—tiredness, if not youth. Not a lot of traffic at that time of the morning, which was just as well. My reflexes were slow and I drove automatically, scarcely registering the stops and turns. I had trouble finding the bridge toll and almost missed the bin as I tossed it in. The action reminded me of basketball games I'd played in the Police Citizens' Boys Clubs when I was a kid. They're called something else now. The old name smacks of biases and prejudices that are supposed to have been swept away. Good to think so, but the changes could be cosmetic. I wondered if
average-sized kids could still play the game. It used to be a lot of fun and that basket was a high, tough target for sub-six foot adolescents.

As I drove towards Glebe I was aware that although lots of things had apparently changed, I was still the same as far as women were concerned. I'd never been a casual screwer and had often wished I was—less involvement, fewer complications. Claudia Fleischman had got to me in some deep, connecting way. It was more than just her physical attractiveness and personality. I was drawn to her strengths and weaknesses. I had the old feeling that lay behind several of my relationships—that I could help this woman and be helped by her She needed a supporter and I needed connections to other worlds—to higher education, to Europe, to Jewishness. I'd felt this kind of attraction, and been right, and horribly wrong, in pursuing it before.

Two TV crew vans were parked in the street near my house along with sundry other reporters' vehicles. I could image what the more antagonistic of my neighbours were thinking. By necessity, journalists have little respect for privacy, traffic laws or noise pollution regulations. I'd turned into the street and committed myself to going on before I spotted them. No time or space for a three-point
turn
and a hasty retreat even if I'd been in the mood for it. I nudged the Camry up against a Tarago van that was parked where I'd left the unfortunate Falcon the night before. I wound
the window down as they came at me, males and females, like seagulls swooping on a crust.

‘Mr Hardy, you've been attacked twice today . . .'

‘Who was killed tonight in Kirribilli . . .?'

‘Are you involved in . . .?'

I reached through the window and grabbed the nearest of them by the collar. I jerked his head in, forward and up so that it was banging against the roof of the car.

‘You tell the driver of that Tarago to move it or I'm going to ram the fucking thing! Now!'

I shoved him off and the others fell back as he reeled away. I backed off a metre, put the gear in neutral and revved the motor. A man jumped into the Tarago and swung it away from the kerb. I slid into the space, got out of the car and locked it before turning to the reporters. The cameras were running, the mikes were thrusting forward and several held their mini-recorders out in front of them like divining rods. I picked out one of these, a tall, spindly guy in a white denim jacket and wearing shoulder-length hair, and beckoned him forward. When he was within reach I grabbed his arm and used him as a battering ram through the mob. The element of surprise got me passage to the gate.

I'd been in these situations before and knew how threatening I could look if I got the body language and facial expressions wrong. I tried to stay loose and to keep something like a tolerant grin on my dial.