The Washington Club (15 page)

I poured a second cup of coffee and rang the number.

‘Hello. Yes?'

‘Is this 337 4343?'

‘Yeah, who's this?'

‘Telecom, sir. Checking on a crossed-line problem with another subscriber. You are Mr . . .?'

The line went dead abruptly. Long shot, no luck. The voice was standard Australian with a hard edge, confident, aggressive. I had a feeling that I recognised it and then decided I was wrong. I replaced the phone thinking about white shirt-sleeves and Judith Daniels with her scarf and shades and her load on, risking life and limb to get to Watsons Bay. Why? I looked at the key again. It was well worn, polished smooth by handling and use. The C20 cut into it had almost been obliterated. Maybe if I took it to a clairvoyant she could place it between her palms and visualise the bank of lockers and the owner.

The phone rang again and I snatched at it, hoping for Claudia. The sexual reawakening had left me edgy and anxious on that score; I wanted more scenes, not a slow dissolve. Instead I got Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton. I realised as I heard his voice that I was edgy and anxious about him as well. I waited for
him to suggest that they'd found some connection between me and a dead man at Rooty Hill and that I'd better come out with my hands up.

‘I wondered if you were still working on Mrs Fleischman's behalf?' Bolton said.

‘I am, yes. One of Cy Sackville's people has confirmed that.'

‘I see. Have you learned anything . . . useful?'

Trying to pick my brains. Fuck him!
‘No. Can you release my pistol to me?'

That surprised him. ‘D'you think you need it?'

‘Did you see my car?'

‘I take your point. Yeah, you can collect the gun. I hope we can count on your cooperation in all this, Mr Hardy?'

‘Of course, sergeant. Where's the gun?'

‘I'm on my way to Liverpool on another matter. I've got about ten other matters, you see. I'll drop it off at Glebe, okay? Be there within the hour.'

I thanked him. Shrewd. I'd have to check in at Glebe and Bolton would get a report on my appearance, behaviour, method of transportation. But I'd have the pistol and hadn't told him a bloody thing. I'd call it even.

So far the Fleischman case involved three deaths and I was no closer to knowing what was going on. A priority was to make sure Claudia and myself didn't make four and five.
I had no solutions but at least I had options. For my next move, I had two choices—Watsons Bay, or to act on the information Frank Parker had reluctantly and dangerously given me on the whereabouts of Anton Van Kep. I was intrigued by the voice over the phone, Judith Daniels' behaviour and the white shirt sleeve. Besides, I needed to make a few preparations before going after Van Kep. Give me a choice and I'll opt for the beach every time. Watsons Bay it was, after a phone call to Daphne Rowley.

Some time ago I struck up a drinking acquaintance with Daphne, who plays a mean game of pool at the Toxteth Hotel and likes a beer and a chat. She runs a small printing business in Glebe Point Road. Very high tech, very leading edge. I used to be a fair snooker player and I have my moments at pub pool but Daphne can always beat me. As a consequence, she's well disposed towards me and will do little jobs if time permits. I rang her and placed an order. She chuckled and said the stuff would be ready by late afternoon. She said I'd need a four-wheel drive to complete the picture.

At the Glebe station, just around the corner from Daphne's, they treated me with polite disdain. I showed ID, signed forms and they gave me back my gun. I couldn't miss the plain clothes detective pretending to check something at a table behind the desk. He looked
me over well and truly and would be telling Bolton how I looked and acted. I played it friendly. When I left the station a female officer picked me up, tracked me to my car and I could almost hear the brain cells clicking as she sauntered past on the other side of the road mentally registering the registration of the Camry. I took off my jacket, a white denim number cut like a sports coat, and put on the holster. I'd bought the jacket when I was with Glen, happy and contented, eating well and somewhat heavier than I was now. It was loose, plenty of room for the gun without creating a bulge. In general, you don't need a jacket in Sydney in December, but when you've got a gun to hide you do—one of the irritations of the profession.

Mindful of what Daphne had said, I drove to Darlinghurst and swapped the Camry for a 4WD Nissan Patrol with all the trimmings. It had a tape deck rather than a CD player, with no tapes provided.
Adieu,
Edith Piaf. I kept the same mobile, though. I didn't want to lose touch with Claudia or Vinnie Gatellari. I tried Gatellari on the drive to Watsons Bay and got the no-go signal. Worrying.

I'd had some very good times at Watsons Bay with Frank Parker and Hilde, Glen Withers and other people. Fish feeds at Doyles or the pub, swims at Camp Cove, taking in the fishing village feel of the place that modern developments haven't quite managed to eliminate. Not a bad spot to hide either—lots of high-rent
transients and visitors, a law-abiding, own-business-minding population. Good fishing. Bus, ferry and two road routes to the city. A status-quo inclined police force so I'd been told. The sort of place Haitch Henderson might have used as a bolthole or base. He didn't, but he had the phone number of someone who might have. Bolthole from what? Base for what? It would help to know.

I drove slowly down Sandhill Street and cruised past number seven. Judith Daniels' sports car was parked outside. Since I'd last seen it, the car had acquired a long, deep scrape on the driver's side. No surprise, given the way she drove. I parked more or less outside the house on the other side of the street. Clearly, there was no back access. The houses were built closely here, front to back on the steeply sloping land. The house behind the one I was watching would face the street above. No lanes or right-of-ways. That wouldn't stop a bit of fence-jumping of course, but a fence-jumper has to come out somewhere and the person with the vehicle has the advantage.

Still, I wondered how to tackle the situation. Marching up to the door and knocking didn't seem like such a good idea and this was no place for my Rooty Hill fire trick. I resorted to the technology again and dialled the number. Plenty of rings and then that almost-familiar voice.

‘Yes?'

‘Could I speak with Ms Daniels, please?'

‘Who the hell is this?'

‘Tell me who you are and I'll tell you who I am. I'm right outside.'

Silly thing to say, but I couldn't think of anything else. I hung on to the phone and waited for a response. He shouted something but he wasn't talking to me. Then the front door opened. I half-expected to see Judith Daniels come trotting out. Instead a man in a white shirt, with the long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, rushed out and took the steps down to the street three at a time. He was big, he moved fast and fluently and he was carrying something in his hand that wasn't a mobile phone. He vaulted over the gate and headed straight for me.

I scrambled out of the car, pulling the .38 from its holster and straining to see what sort of a weapon he had. He was halfway across the road before I recognised it as a taser, a stun-gun. I raised the pistol.

‘Stop right there. Drop the taser or I'll put a bullet in you.'

He stopped, flicked long straight black hair out of his eyes and stared at me. ‘Fuck me dead! Cliff fucking Hardy.'

Rhino Jackson had been in the PEA game about the same length of time as me. Our paths had crossed more than once and the encounters had never been friendly. He was something of a drunk, something of a thug, but reasonably honest. One thing was for sure, he was ruthlessly, professionally, violent, a better man to have on your side than against you, which was why bodyguarding was his main line of work. For him, a stun gun was a mild instrument of control. As I looked at him I remembered hearing that he'd been burnt in a factory fire some time back when he tried to carry a whole filing cabinet out of the blaze by himself. Jackson was good-looking in a craggy sort of way and vain. The long sleeves were probably to cover scars.

I lowered the .38. ‘Hello, Rhino. I thought I knew the voice on the phone.'

‘That was you the other day, too, wasn't it? What the fuck are you playing at, Hardy?'

I felt silly standing in the middle of a sunny suburban street with a gun in my hand. I
holstered it. ‘Like I say, you tell me and I'll tell you. Or was it the other way around?'

‘You always were a clown. I'm providing security for Miss Daniels.'

‘Sure. You're in Watsons Bay and she's in Woollahra. Great security.'

‘She's here at my joint some of the time and I'm there some of the time. Shit, I don't know what fucking business it is of yours.'

‘It is, believe me. Let's go inside. I won't touch her, I won't even look at her. I just want to talk to her.' I grinned at him, sensing that he was as relieved as me that there was no real trouble here. ‘Got anything to drink in there?'

‘Every fucking drink you can think of. The lady's a lush. How about you put the gun in the car as a sign of good faith?'

‘Okay.' Jackson wasn't a killer and although, like all of us, he sometimes walked a narrow line, he wasn't a crook's hireling either. I opened the Nissan and put the .38 under the driver's seat. We walked across the street; he opened the gate and went up the steps into the house. I followed him. He was bigger than me and stronger but he seemed to have lost something of his old bounce. He rubbed at his right forearm with his left hand. The burns.

We went into the house and into a strong smell of cigarette smoke, which is getting to be a rare thing. There was a short passage and Judith Daniels stood in the opening to a door on the left. She wore black slacks and a red
silk blouse, high heels. She was smoking and she held a glass in her other hand—one of those two-fisted drinking smokers, right, left, right, left. Jackson was right; she was good-looking, arresting even, but the booze was beginning to soften her features and move her towards her first facelift.

‘Who's this?' Her voice was Eastern Suburbs polished and clipped, with only the slight suggestion of a slur. She was a biggish woman, five foot eight or nine, solidly built. She could probably hold quite a few of whatever she was drinking before it showed.

‘Name's Hardy. He's a private detective, Judith. Says he has to talk to you.'

Judith? Well, well. But who was I to comment?

She disappeared into the room. I looked at Jackson; he shrugged and rubbed his forearm. We followed her into a small room that seemed to be set up for watching TV, drinking and, just possibly, fucking on the big couch. Judith Daniels was behind a portable bar pouring orange juice into a big tumbler. When she had the bottom well and truly covered she added champagne until the glass was almost full. She took a sip and added some more champagne until it was absolutely full. She raised it to her lips without spilling a drop. A good trick after three or four of them. She picked her cigarette up from the edge of the bar and took a drag.

‘You'd better give the man a drink, Reg,' she said.

Reg. You learn something new every day.

Jackson looked embarrassed. ‘What'll you have, Hardy?'

It was just past eleven o'clock. ‘Beer,' I said. ‘Light, if you've got it.'

Judith Daniels sneered. ‘Another pleb. A pleb and a wimp.'

‘Shut up,' Jackson said. ‘
The man's working.'

The look she shot him showed that she liked it. Rhino had a reputation of being rough with the women, nothing far-out, just a bit physical as required. He took a can of Toohey'
s Light and one of draught from the bar fridge. Handed me mine, popped his own and leaned back against the wall. She moved slightly closer to him, blowing smoke well away from him.

‘So, he's sussed us out, has he?' she said to me.

Puzzling. Not what I expected. To conceal the reaction, I opened the can, drank and felt the welcome bite of the alcohol. The sexual lines between them were open and I felt like a voyeur, also deprived. ‘You'll have to explain that to me, Ms Daniels,' I said. ‘Who would he be?'

She had a deep drink of the pale orange mixture and took smoke into her lungs. She looked relieved at my response and expelled the smoke towards the ceiling in a thin, expert stream. ‘I don't have to explain a bloody thing
to you. You wanted to talk to me. I didn't want to talk to you. Still don't.'

She looked hard and composed, almost amused, ready to send me on my way. Jackson was curious but he wouldn't do anything to influence her. The only tack I could think of was the one I'd tried before.

‘I think you should. I'm working for Claudia Fleischman.'

The high colour left her face and she looked urgently, pleadingly, at Jackson. The hand carrying the drink shook and drops splashed onto the carpet. I'd seen her type before. Her chief prop was alcohol; when she didn't have enough of that on board her fall-back position was anger. She sucked in smoke and it came out in spurts as she spat words at Jackson. ‘Don't you know
anything.
How could you let him come in here? My life's in danger from that woman. Get him out! I want him out!'

Rhino may have wanted to know what was going on but the customer was always right with him. He moved forward obediently and fished in his pocket for the taser. What the woman had said was too important for me to back away from. I'd barely tasted the beer; the can was heavy in my hand I threw it at Jackson and it hit him squarely on the nose. Judith Daniels screamed, Jackson swore. I moved in close and punched at his Adam's apple with a loosely closed fist. He gasped as the breath left him and I kicked his feet out
from under him. He fell heavily on his left forearm and let out a deep grunt of pain. I reached into his jacket pocket and removed the stun gun.