The Washington Club (14 page)

It all happened very quickly. I heard what he said and for a split second I thought it might be true. I
knew
he had the guts to shoot me and when he swung the shotgun up that ended all thinking. I shot him twice in the chest. Impossible to miss at the range and I was braced for the kick of the pistol. The two shots sounded like one and anyway were drowned out by the shotgun blast. He'd squeezed one off with the last movement he'd
ever make. The shotgun flew out of his hands and into the long grass. Haitch almost left the ground himself; the impact blew him back, flicked him around, and he melted down into the crumbling concrete path with his back towards me.

‘Jesus,' I gasped, ‘why did you do that?'

I lowered the pistol, went forward and checked him the way I had Cy Sackville, with the same result. The two bullets had punched through him and his life was over. It wasn't much of a life but I was sickened by taking it. I squatted down and felt the sweat that had broken out on me at some point cool and dry. I realised I was muttering to myself, though what I was saying made no sense. I sucked in deep breaths of the air that smelled of wood
smoke and cordite and looked around me. That feeling of fine-tuned senses that had been with me throughout was still there. I felt I could hear every sound for miles around and somehow it registered that there were no sirens, there was no noise at all. The faint light glinted on the casings from my shots, lying on the concrete just below the steps. Crucial evidence, vital signs. I got to my feet, moved forward, bent, picked up the bits of metal and dropped them into my pocket.

I must have realised what I was going to do when I tampered with the evidence like that, but I wasn't conscious of any thought-out procedure. It just seemed to flow naturally. I went into the building and saw what Noel had
meant. The facade was exactly that. The inside had been lined, rewired, painted, redesigned. There was a large slab floored workshop where three motor bodies sat up on blocks. They were covered with tarpaulins but the shape was distinctive. Being careful not to touch anything, I moved past the cars and a big roller door to an area at the back of the place that had been wired and plumbed and fitted out as living quarters.

This was more Haitch Henderson's style. There was a mid-size bed, an easy chair and TV with built-in VCR. No greasy gas ring for Haitch; the room had a microwave oven, bar fridge, pop-up toaster and electric snack-maker. There was Scotch, vodka and gin on a tray on top of the fridge. A man can only take so much. I tore a paper towel from the roll in a wall rack and used it to hold and open the bottle of Haig. I took one long swig and swallow and then a shorter one, tasting the liquor this time. I realised when I set the bottle down that I'd been shaking slightly the whole time. The whisky helped, but I resisted the temptation to have some more.

I started to investigate the place in earnest. In cupboards and the fridge Haitch had enough provisions for at least a week of comfortable living. In an annexe I found a washing machine and drier and a well-stocked freezer that added several weeks on. Henderson's personal possessions were arranged neatly and systematically on a clothes rack
beside the bed, in a suitcase and overnight bag under it and in a small chest of drawers. His wallet was on the bed. I used a blade on my Swiss army knife to lift and turn the various items. His whole life in its current phase was laid out for me to look at and it wouldn't take very long. For a better person than Haitch, this would have seemed sad. The box of shotgun shells reminded me that it wasn't sad at all.

From a few receipts and other papers I pieced together Henderson's life over the past few months. He'd been living in Melbourne until very recently. As an old hand, he had no cheque-book stubs or bank passbooks, but I found an autobank slip he'd evidently neglected to destroy. Careless. A week back he'd withdrawn four hundred dollars from an account that had a balance of just over thirty thousand. Twelve hundred and twenty dollars were in his wallet along with a keycard in the name of A.J. Saunders. Haitch was in the chips and it could only be for services rendered. Services to whom was the question and I focused my search on answering that question. I pocketed the card. There was no little black book or microfilm hidden in the heel of any of his three pairs of shoes, but two things invited explanation—a key and a phonecard with a number written on it.

The keys to the Honda and to the building were on a ring beside the beer can that Henderson had been drinking from when I disturbed him. This single key was in a
compartment of his wallet. The phonecard had the look of the autobank slip—something intended to be thrown away and overlooked. I sat on the bed (if the forensic people had a way to identify a bum print on a bed they were welcome to take me) and thought over my options. To go to the police would involve me in a complex and time-consuming process that might end with me spending time in gaol. I rejected that. It was a sure bet that Noel kept more than his spare Citroens here. There had to be drugs around the place somewhere and I considered searching for them, leaving a trace and arranging things to look as if Haitch had died defending his son's stash. Cute, but I didn't have the time for it.

I decided to leave things as they were. On a bench in the workshop I found a dismantled and possibly defective US-made blast grenade along with a magnetic clip, some wire and a couple of low-tension springs. I threw back the tarpaulins and searched the workshop and the cars thoroughly but there was no sign of the sort of weapon that had been used to kill Cy and, possibly, Julius Fleischman.
Someone else involved
or
a hiding place?
The questions were stacking up fast. I scooped the parts of the grenade and other material into a plastic shopping bag and set it by the door to take with me. I didn't want any connections between myself and this place. I replaced the tarps, went back to the living area and took the twelve hundred dollars from the wallet. Someone
was spending money to kill me and I was going to spend some of the same money to find out who.

In for a penny, in for a pound. I took the car keys from the ring and went out to the Honda. A soft, warm rain was falling; cloud had drifted over and made everything much darker and cooler than it had been before. I scarcely glanced at the body in the grass and felt nothing about it. The car started easily; the petrol tank was almost full and the windscreen-wipers worked smoothly. I drove away from the place mentally checking off a list of my illegal acts that night—assault, abduction, arson, possession and use of an illegal firearm, theft of money, theft of motor vehicle, some degree of homicide. Not a bad score, and my PEA licence was forever forfeit if the police found out.

The Honda handled well, the rain stopped and I made good time driving back to the city. I was thinking clearly enough, making decisions, plotting courses. I was tired and very hungry because I hadn't eaten anything since that solid breakfast. The warmth of the Scotch in my almost empty stomach was fading but I didn't want to risk any more alcohol in the keyed-up state I was in. I drove to Marrickville and left the Honda in the car park of the RSL club with the doors unlocked and the key in the ignition. I wiped down everything I'd touched and then wiped it all again and checked that I hadn't
left any trace of my presence. With any luck the car would take a long trip and never be seen again.

It was getting on for eleven o'clock and things were quiet in Marrickville. Some arrivals and departures at the club, a few strollers, light traffic. I walked down Illawarra Road and across the bridge over the Cooks River. At the midpoint I dropped the Colt over the side and heard it splash. I'd had it a long while, had only used it a few times and now I'd killed a man with it. I was glad to see it go and it was a sure bet that it wouldn't be lonely in the toxic mud at the bottom of the Cooks River. It was a firearm graveyard. A politician, when queried as to whether he favoured cleaning up the river, said it was ‘a big ask', and, as far as I knew, that's as far as the proposition ever got.

The Camry was sitting quietly on the edge of the pool of light. I stopped a hundred metres away, stood in the shadows for ten minutes and tried to register and monitor every shape and sound in the vicinity. When I was satisfied no one was taking any interest in the car I approached, zapped it with the remote-controller, got in and drove off—signalling, seat-belted, keeping to the left. The model driver and citizen and car-phone user. I dialled clumsily.

‘Yes?'

‘This is Hardy. I spotted you in the garden in Kirribilli the other day. Pete gave me your
mobile number. Where are you? What can you tell me?'

‘Mrs Fleischman's at Bluefin Bay, Mr Hardy. She's in a house near the water. She got a taxi to Palm Beach and came over by water taxi. I'm glad you called. I don't know what to do. I'm stuck here until morning, sleeping under a fucking tree, unless I phone a water taxi to get me back.'

I turned left out of Addison Road. The pub on the corner was like a beckoning finger but I resisted and drove up towards Enmore. ‘I don't know much about that part of the world. What's your name?'

‘Vinnie Gatellari.'

‘You say she's alone, Vinnie?'

‘Looks that way. Nice house. They go for about half a million up here.'

‘You'd say she's safe?'

‘Who is?'

‘Yeah. I reckon you can leave, Vinnie. Thanks. Tomorrow, could you try to find out whose house it is and a phone number? Pete'll okay the expense. And hang around if that's okay. I don't want her getting away.' I gave him the number of the car phone.

‘Thanks, Mr Hardy. I'll get back to the peninsula and work on it first thing tomorrow. You'll hear from me.'

I believed him. He was coming across as a good man and I could see why Pete valued him. A company man, though, a facilitator, maybe not a doer. I'd many times been offered
jobs in big agencies with more money than I'd ever make on my own and turned them down because facilitating wasn't my game and I had the scars to prove it. Cy had mocked me but understood. Not many people did.

That seemed like enough for now: leads to follow and Claudia located. I headed for Glebe, some food and drink, and, provided I could keep blocking out the shotgun and the Colt and the way Henderson jerked and fell and died, sleep.

I woke up worrying about who had hired Haitch Henderson. Just because one killer was out of the picture didn't mean there couldn't be another to take his place. And Haitch's sponsor obviously had resources. Enough to get someone better perhaps. I was also worried about Noel. If he managed to identify me somehow and he was in touch with whoever hired Haitch or worked with him, I would be in trouble. That was a possibility. On the upside was the extreme unlikelihood of Noel giving his information to the cops.

I was mulling this over, having flicked through the paper and found nothing about a dead man being discovered at Rooty Hill. I had my ear cocked to the radio for the same reason and had to turn it down when the phone rang.

‘Mr Hardy, my name is Leon Stratton, I'm an associate at Sackville and Sackville. I think we met once, briefly.' Cy had gone into his father's firm as a partner and kept the two names, although his dad had been dead for many years.

‘I believe we did, Mr Stratton. Cy's fiftieth birthday, was it?'

‘Yes. As you can imagine we're all in a state of shock here, but things have to be carried forward. I'm sure you understand.'

‘Yes. I was planning to contact someone in the office today. Mrs Fleischman . . .'

‘Can be assured of our continued support if she wishes. I'd be happy to take the matter on if she is agreeable. I've been trying to reach her by telephone but with no success. I don't suppose you happen to know where she is?'

I tried to get Stratton up on the mental screen. A tall, pale individual. Youngish, which for me means less than forty-five. Nothing else. He'd be bright, Cy didn't hire duds. He'd do, the question was how to play him. The best way to deal with someone like a lawyer is to tell them something they don't know. I told him about the reporter who implied that Claudia would benefit from Cy's death.

‘That's absurd!' Stratton said.

‘Yeah, but it upset Mrs Fleischman and she left Sydney for a time. I know where she is in a general sort of way. Not the specific place. I'm hoping to get a phone number today.'

‘I see. Well, I know the faith Cy had in you and if Mrs Fleischman wants to retain our services, I can tell you that I want you to continue as Cy instructed. Of course, we'll have to get the hearing date set back so I can prepare properly.'

Couldn't be better. I thanked him. Told him
I'd be in touch with a number for Claudia as soon as I had it. Then the hard bit. ‘How's Naomi?'

‘Distraught, but she's got a lot of family support and she's bearing up well—for the children . . . I talked to the police but they don't seem to know very much. Are you . . .?'

‘I don't know who did it, Mr Stratton, or why, but I'm sort of getting closer to it, I think. I'll do everything I can to get him.'

He tried to cancel the emotion from his voice with a forced cough. ‘I'm sure you will. I'll be glad to hear from you. In case you haven't seen the notice, the service at the
Chevra Kadisha
's the day after tomorrow. Then Rookwood.'

He rang off and any brief satisfaction I'd got from having his confidence and still being on the job ebbed away as I put the phone down. I hate funerals.

I examined the three items, not counting the grenade and associated bits and pieces, I'd taken from the Rooty Hill workshop. The autobank slip told me nothing—Commonwealth Bank in George Street, used by thousands of people daily. The key was a kind I'd seen all my life—grey, flat, with a minimum of notches. Number C20. It was a locker key of some kind, could be a workplace locker or one at a gymnasium or a swimming pool or even a school. No way to tell. The phone number promised more. I looked up the prefix
in the dictionary and felt that small thrill that comes with some degree of enlightenment. The numbers indicated that the subscriber lived in Watsons Bay.