The Washington Club (20 page)

The Nissan was undisturbed and the mobile phone worked. I made a series of calls, including one to Pete Marinos advising Gatellari of where Claudia would be later in the day. She looked as if she'd like to protest but didn't. The other calls seemed to amuse her.

The final call was to Cy's office. Leon
Stratton would see us as soon as we got to the city. We didn't talk much on the drive. Claudia was mildly interested in the fact that she'd been followed and reported on, but no more than that.

‘I'm getting used to it,' she said. ‘I've just realised that there's a lot of it going on. As soon as you do or say anything that lifts your head out of the shell, antennae pop up everywhere.'

‘I suppose so. Trouble is they're watching the wrong people a lot of the time.'

‘You're thinking about Wilson Katz.'

‘I am. Did he ever make a pass at you, anything like that?'

‘Hard to say.'

I was negotiating the bends south of Avalon and couldn't look at her. ‘How's that?'

‘He's on the make all the time. There was so much happening back there I couldn't think straight, but I remember now. His nickname was Tom—“Tom Cat”. He had a reputation for screwing every willing female he met. I wasn't willing but he held up the sign just the same. I think it was just a matter of habit with him.'

The Sackville chambers weren't exactly gloomy, too busy for that, but you got the sense that something was missing and that the place was waiting for a new style to evolve or impose itself. Leon Stratton was a tall, fair-headed character with blue eyes and white teeth. He seemed to be smart and energetic,
which is what you want in a lawyer. He was very well up on the Fleischman case but this came out in his responses to what Claudia and I had to say rather than as something he advertised. Impressive. I told him about my interview with Van Kep. He listened closely, then shook his head.

‘Quite unusable, of course, Duress, intimidation, all that. Not that I'm saying you didn't handle it well, but I can't see any way for us to apply pressure for him to change his story.'

‘Right,' I said. ‘And Van Kep would know that. He's flaky, won't be a good witness for the other side, but he's more scared of whoever threatened him than of a perjury charge and he'll hold up, more or less. Still, what I've said should help to convince you that Mrs Fleischman had nothing to do with her husband's death.'

He didn't respond to that and Claudia and I exchanged looks. Of course it was more complicated than I was prepared to let Stratton know at this point. Even if Van Kep learned that the actual threatener was dead he was still likely to stick to his story just in case and to avoid a perjury charge. All I had were indications of a conspiracy to frame Claudia and not a shred of solid proof. I told Stratton about my meeting with Judith Daniels.

‘Not so good,' he said. ‘How will she go in court?'

I thought about the woman's impressive profile and figure, her style. ‘Just fine, if she's
sober, and there's no reason to think she won't be.'

‘Quite. Well, there may be a way to discredit her—if she's had treatment and so on. But the first thing to do is get the trial date put off and an extension of Mrs Fleischman's bail. Shouldn't be any problem about that, given the circumstances. Then I suppose I can open talks with the other side, see if they're willing to give a little . . .'

‘No,' Claudia snapped. ‘No deals. I didn't do this and I won't be punished for it.'

Stratton pursed his lips and suddenly looked less boyish and handsome. I could see him some years down the track with jowls from too many business lunches and thinning hair. He was a deal-maker, no doubt a shrewd and advantage-seizing one, but not a fighter. Claudia had a head of steam up. I sensed that she'd taken a dislike to Stratton. The strategy he'd proposed for dealing with Judith hadn't gone down well. But this was dangerous. At this point, we needed his level-keel approach.

‘I'm pursuing some lines of enquiry,' I said quickly. ‘I think they're promising and may . . . open this whole matter out. Do I have your authority to proceed?'

That put the ball right on the service line in Stratton's court. He was smart enough to see that he could lose the brief if he followed the line of least resistance, and he'd have known that Cy would've backed me all, or almost all, of the way. Was he about to break ranks with
the revered boss not yet buried? Not his style. He smiled, showing the great teeth and made a note on a pad, showing his keen mind. Although there wasn't an ashtray in sight, Claudia flicked out a Salem and lit it. A look of annoyance crossed Stratton's face before he smoothed it away. He was discomforted though—he didn't have an ashtray, possibly about the only client comforter he didn't have, and he had no idea of what to do about it.

‘Of course, Mr Hardy. You have carte-blanche, subject to the usual restrictions.'

‘Good. I can get a cheque from Janine?'

‘Have you submitted a progress report?'

‘Cy just wanted a final report.'

He nodded. He was itching to say something like ‘Things are going to change around here,' but he didn't. All three of us exchanged nods and we left the office, Claudia nursing the long ash on her cigarette. She dropped it in a pot-plant immediately outside the door and turned to me, smiling that great, toothy smile.

‘What a prick,' she said.

‘Yes. But we need him for the time being.'

‘He thinks I did it!'

I shook my head and took hold of her arm. She was wearing a collarless white cotton shirt, loose black trousers and medium heels. I wasn't trying to steer her in any direction, I just wanted to touch her and a hand on the arm is about as much as you can do in legal chambers. ‘Worse than that. I don't think he
cares who did it. He just wants to win, but a win for him, as he sees it, could mean five years or so in gaol for you.'

‘No!'

‘Fucking right, no.'

We moved away from Stratton's door down a corridor, past the rooms of Cy's other associates and partners to the general office area where three or four people worked at telephones, word-processors and photocopy machines. Miss Mudlark saw us and I steered Claudia over to her.

‘The funeral's tomorrow, Mr Hardy,' she said.

‘I know. I'll be there.'

Miss Mudlark looked somewhat drowned. Her brown hair was lifeless and lying flat on her round skull and the shine had gone out of the brown eyes. She looked at Claudia briefly then looked away. I could read her thoughts:
It's because of you he's dead.
But I still didn't know whether or not that was true.

We went to the lifts and waited.

‘I thought you were going to get a cheque from her?' Claudia said.

‘I was just needling him, the way you did with the cigarette.'

She smiled. ‘I like you.'

‘I like it that you do.'

I pointed the 4WD towards Vaucluse where it would have lots of mates—Land Cruisers and Pajeros with unscratched duco. Claudia was tense beside me. ‘Are you sure you want to do this?'

‘I'm sure. Yes. I don't care if the staff think I killed Julius. Bugger them. The place is mine until someone takes it off me. Bugger them!' I could feel her whipping herself up and I didn't discourage it. Wandering around in a joint like that where the gardener and the housekeeper thought you were a murderer and where the only memories were bad ones would take some nerve.

She laughed. ‘Think I'll have a swim. The pool was the only really good thing about the horrible place. I'm a good swimmer, came third in the state under-18 breast stroke. How about you?'

‘I'm not much of a breast stroker.'

‘I wouldn't say that.'

‘I used to surf a bit when I was young. Should have joined the life-savers and all that
but I wasn't public-spirited enough. And I didn't like marching. Funny thing is, I went into the army for a few years a bit later.'

We talked background until I drew up at the gates to the Fleischman residence. The sun was high and hot and a swim sounded like a good idea, but not for me here, not today. Claudia reached across and squeezed my arm.

‘I'll be all right, Cliff. I'll stay here for a while. Might even stay the night or I might go to Kirribilli. I've got your numbers. I'll let you know.'

‘What's the number here?'

She told me and I wrote it down. ‘If you stay, I'd like you to let a man named Gatellari come in. You heard me talk about him earlier. He's good and he wouldn't get in your way. There must be about a dozen guest rooms in that place.'

From where we were you couldn't get much of an idea of the size of the house and she looked at me curiously.

‘How d'you know that?'

‘I scouted around here a few days ago.'

She squeezed again. ‘My very own detective. Talk to you later.'

She climbed down, opened the back door, pulled out her overnight bag and walked towards the gate. I watched her easy, graceful stride and the way she stood. Straight back. Swimmer's shoulders. She spoke into the intercom and waited before pushing the gate open. A quick wave and she was through and
tramping up the drive. Despite myself I couldn't help thinking that she still had her old passport with her. For detective read suspicious and mistrustful, also bloody near exhausted. Driving, love-making, talking to lawyers and getting very little sleep as a combination isn't recommended for the almost-fifty brigade. My days in the Maroubra surf, when I could stay on a board for hours waiting for a wave and ride in one after another, paddling straight back out for more, were long behind me. Besides, I had to save my strength for a funeral and tennis.

I went first to the office in Darlinghurst to check the mail, faxes and telephone messages. Various small things I'd neglected since taking on the Fleischman case were threatening to get away from me and I spent a little time trying to get on top of them. This involved a few calls and faxes from me, nothing too strenuous. I was operating on about half physical and mental strength and not capable of doing any more. There was a message to call Frank Parker. I deliberated, decided, got myself a glass of wine and made the call.

‘Ah, Cliff. Thanks for calling. Have you acted on the information?'

‘I have, yes.'

Relief entered his voice. ‘Well, there haven't been any waves so you must have been discreet.'

‘Always.'

‘Making any progress?'

‘I don't know. Maybe.'

‘Still being discreet. Something you might be interested in—your old mate Haitch Henderson's dead.'

Is this a trap? Have they found some connection?
I forced myself to sound only mildly interested, tiredness helped. ‘Yeh, natural causes?'

‘You could say that. He was shot through the chest out at Rooty Hill where his son Noel keeps his spare Citroens and some of his stash. Looks as if Haitch got in the way of something.'

‘He's no great loss. I've been chasing all over the countryside, Frank. I'm bushed. Gotta go.'

‘Okay. We'll get in some tennis when you recover.'

‘Right.' I hung up. Usually Frank and I were pretty even. The way I felt now, I'd be lucky to take a game off him.

I drove on automatic pilot until I reached Glebe. Work had just about finished on the apartment block where Glebe Point Road meets Broadway. They'd torn down the old building that had elegantly wrapped itself in a curve around the corner, leaving only the facade, and had dug a deep hole and thrown up the usual concrete interior. The work had disrupted traffic and created a lot of dust and I'd been sceptical about the result, but I had to admit to being impressed. University Hall looked like a pretty good place to live, with
views across Victoria Park and the amenities of Glebe Point Road right outside. That's provided the flats were double-glazed. I wondered about the price and the wisdom of living in a flat rather than a house, especially as I didn't have a cat anymore. Off-street parking would be a plus.

At home, I collected the newspaper from the front step and spared the front garden a glance. A disgrace. What had happened to the bob-a-job Boy Scouts who used to take care of these things for a busy man? Come to think of it, I haven't seen a Boy Scout of any description in a long time. The bob-a-job types were probably washing windscreens at intersections.

The Nissan looked good. A little dusty which suited it. When I thought about how much it was costing me I regretted not getting some more money out of Miss Mudlark. I stripped off my clothes, showered and wandered around the house with a towel around my waist and a glass of white in my hand. I was tired but still a bit wound up from all the activity and I needed to come down before I could sleep. No messages of significance on the answering machine, nothing important in the mail. I looked at the threadbare carpet, scuffed lino tiles and battered fridge and tried to imagine Claudia here. Tried to imagine her in one of her silk blouses and slinky pants with Gucci shoes and Fabergé wristwatch. Impossible. The thought depressed me and I
took myself and another glass of wine up to the bedroom where the decor wasn't any better but the room could at least be made dark. I pulled the curtains across, cunningly arranging them so a shaft of light fell at the head of the bed.

I got into bed, pulled up the sheet and selected
Letters from Jack London
from the pile of books. I'd bought it sight unseen from Nicholas Pounder's catalogue because London's
White Fang
and
The Jacket
were among my favourite books as a kid. I took a big drink in honour of Jack, who took a few big ones himself, and opened the book. Eighteen-year-old Jack's first letter was to the editor of a magazine offering him an article he'd written on his small boat trip in the Yukon. The editor sent London's letter back to him with the annotation: ‘Interest in Alaska has subsided to an amazing degree. Then, again, so much has been written that I do not think it would pay us to buy your story.' I hoped he remembered that later when Jack was getting paid a dollar a word. I read a few more letters, mostly London complaining about not being understood. That matters when you're eighteen. I finished the wine, dropped the book and the shutters came down hard.