by Peter Corris
Her body was warm and yielding against mine and I wanted to tell her that she had nothing to worry about, that I’d solve all her problems and . . . I jerked back from this nonsense and forced myself to put a sensible question to her, one that would anchor us in harsh reality.
‘How long before he was shot was this?’
She tensed a bit and then relaxed. ‘It must have been a couple of days. A week at most. He went to Adelaide. The next bit’s hard to tell you. Do you want to hear it?’
‘I have to hear it.’
‘I seduced him, Van Kep. I fucked him four times in one night and I gave him five thousand dollars to protect me from my husband.’
9
‘What’re you thinking?’ Claudia said. ‘Tell me the truth.’
‘There’s so many questions. What did Fleischman have on your parents? Why was he so worried about you getting hold of the journal? And the big one—if Van Kep killed him, for whom?’
‘Are they your only questions, Cliff?’
I knew from the tone of her voice what she meant, but I was concentrating now, focused, as the sports commentators say much too often. ‘Christ, no. Who was watching you and who tried to blow me apart? But those are the primary ones, the ones that need to be answered to get a grip on this. Did you look for the journal after Fleischman was killed?’
She nodded, but she was frowning. ‘Everywhere. No sign of it. I’ve assumed whoever killed him took it.’
‘You’ve got no idea who this other man might be?’
She went rigid and the gentle rubbing of her head against my shoulder stopped. ‘How could I? I didn’t have anything to do with . . .’
‘I know. I know. I just thought Van Kep might have mentioned needing help. Something like that.’
‘No! No! All I asked him to do was to keep an eye on Julius, make sure he didn’t hurt me or try to take me away or anything while I got things together to leave him. That’s all! He said he’d do it. He said he hated Julius, he . . .’
She didn’t cry much and she didn’t actually collapse, but letting all this loose drained her. She’d been holding it in for a considerable time, telling no one, rehashing it over and over until it was like a permanent thread through her every thought and action. She’d called on her wits and reserves of nervous energy to see her through the police investigation and the charging procedure and the meeting with Cy Sackville and the first encounter with me. She told me she’d devised little mental games and pretences to keep her courage up, and now it was as if the props and supports had fallen away. Her hard drinking days must have been well behind her because, together with the emotional turmoil, the laced coffee on top of what we’d had before seemed to slow her down and bring her to a stop.
I put her to bed in her kimono. Before she went to sleep she told me where to find a spare security card. I sat on the side of the bed in my pants and shirt and bare feet and smoothed some damp strands of hair away from her face. The slanted dark eyes looked up at me and I could sense all the same emotions that were affecting me flowing and cross-currenting in her. Doubts, suspicions, sexual strings, a need to believe and trust. Her eyes closed and she went to sleep with her mouth falling slightly open, exposing the extraordinary teeth and making her look young and vulnerable.
When I was sure she was under I got up and left the room, leaving on a bedside lamp turned towards the wall so that it created a pale pool of light. I prowled and snooped, taking care not to wake her. Few people welcome being probed the way a professional like me can do it. From long experience, I know the subterfuges, the strategies, hiding places, the ways the secrets are coded. Within an hour, I knew more about Claudia Fleischman, I suspected, than any other person living or dead had ever known about her apart from herself. What I found confirmed what I had from the sources and what I’d learned from her. She’d been a brilliant student and had got first-class honours for her combined degree. The sky seemed to be the limit for her as an academic or a legal practitioner. Then, with her parents’ death, the bottom fell out. She had several photographic albums and I was able to observe Claus and Julia Rosen over time, almost as if I had known them. Both were strikingly handsome, with regular features and alert, intelligent expressions. He had a full head of dark curly hair well into middle age and his wife’s looks seemed to improve with the years. It was hard to tell which of the two Claudia most favoured.
She kept no diary as such, but had fallen years ago into making diary-type entries in an appointment book and keeping the books. I skimmed through a few and noted the names of three or four men (presumably the found-wanting lovers), but very few people who appeared as friends or even close acquaintances. As she’d said, she was very rarely unwell and when she was a couple of times over a long stretch, it clearly annoyed her. After her parents were killed the entries stopped.
She wasn’t short of money but there was none to spare. The sale of her parents’ house had yielded only thirteen thousand dollars after the mortgage had been paid out and, although she’d saved money when she was working, the savings had been eaten into by several trips—to Vanuatu and New Caledonia—and by payments to a psychologist. She hadn’t told me about that. I browsed through her credit card statements and cheque book stubs. The statements are hard to interpret because a place that deals in fantasy underwear and marital aids can trade as ‘Products Incorporated’, but my snap judgement was that she hadn’t spent much money on having fun. The Pacific Islands trips seemed to have incurred expenses for sightseeing tours. I found only one example of concealment. The bank had sent her a new cheque book before she’d used all the forms in the previous book. Ten days before her husband died, Claudia had written a cash cheque for five thousand dollars in this new book and hidden the book inside a pair of knee-high boots. You don’t have to be a fetishist to take an interest in knee-high boots—funnel-web spiders and private enquiry agents are very aware of their potential.
I finished my search, checked on Claudia—still sleeping—and went into the living room. It was after midnight but I phoned Cy Sackville at home. The answering machine picked up but I cut the call without leaving a message and did it again and again until Cy came on the line.
‘Jesus. What is it?’
‘Who, mate. This is Hardy.’
‘Cliff, it’s very, very late. I’m due in court tomorrow morning.’
‘We never sleep. I have to tell you things. This has all got very strange. Claudia’s telling me a different story from what she’s said up till now, and I believe her.’
‘Where are you?’
‘At her place.’
‘Cliff, you haven’t?’
‘Not important. The thing is, she . . .’
Have to hand it to Sackville, he was lightning fast in recovery. I could see him taking a sip from the water he kept by the bed, looking at his Rolex, blinking, tapping into his stockpile of energy. ‘You shouldn’t talk on the phone. The police might be bugging her.’
‘Or someone else.’
‘Ah. Right. I’m not far away. I’ll come over.’
‘No, not necessary. I just wanted to let you know that we’ve got problems and possibilities.’
‘Just what I love at one o’clock in the bloody morning. I’m awake now. I’m on my way.’
Cy lived in Neutral Bay, only a five-minute run at that time of night if you knew the directional lurks. I poured some coffee, still hot in the machine, and added a judicious shot of the Scotch. The speaker and camera for the security gate were activated by switches on the wall near the door. I wandered over there and began pushing buttons. The area in front of the gate came into slightly grainy, black and white view. Idly, I wondered what Sackville would be wearing for such an impromptu call. I bet on a tracksuit, sneakers.
It took closer to ten minutes before he arrived and I was all wrong on the dress code. Cy wore rumpled jeans, a white business shirt and espadrilles—you can never tell. His face was dark with stubble and I realised that I’d never seen him other than very clos
ely shaven. With his dark, receding hair sticking up and his slight gut bulging at the waist of the too-tight jeans, he looked nothing like the sleek barrister feared by prosecutors and uncertain witnesses. He took off his distance glasses, put on his specs for close work and peered at the name tags. I grinned as I watched, took a sip of the coffee.
The buzzer was louder than I’d expected and I worried that it would wake Claudia.
‘You’re in, night owl,’ I responded. ‘Push the gate.’
He did. The gate opened and I’d half-turned away when I heard the three popping sounds, close together. At first I thought it was some kind of audio bleep. I swung back to look at the screen and saw Cy sliding down with his hands clutching at the gate. His head jerked and his glasses came off. Dark splashes appeared on the back of his shirt as he hit the ground. He twitched a couple of times and then lay very still.
I shouted his name, ran across the deep pile carpet and threw myself at the telephone.
10
I rang 000 and raced down the stairs and out to the gate. Cy was lying face down; his head was holding the gate open. I crouched beside him and felt for his pulse but I knew it was no use. The shooter had put three bullets in a tight pattern through his back and into his heart. The entry wounds were small but I could tell from the blood and the tissue spattered around the gate that his chest had been blown open.
The noises I’d heard had been the impact of the bullets. The shots themselves had been silenced and had attracted no attention. The sirens brought out the first onlookers. Lights came on in the house behind the garden where Pete Marinos’ man had been placed and in other houses on that side of the street. Behind me I could hear windows opening onto the balconies in the apartment block. I ignored it all and stayed close to my ambitious, achieving friend of more than twenty years who’d gone out on many limbs for me and never once let me down. His hair was thinning slightly on top and his scalp showed through palely in the light above the gate; I knew Cy had had a horror of going bald. Wouldn’t matter now.
The paramedics arrived and they moved me aside from the body gently, talked to me in calm voices and confirmed what I already knew. They knew their business. People had started to appear on the footpath and from the apartments. The ambulance men waved torches at them and held them back until the police showed up with flashing lights, staticky radio signals, guns on hips and that authority most citizens respect, especially in high-priced places like Kirribilli.
I must have given them Cy’s name and profession and address and done the same for myself but I was barely aware of what I was saying. I was thinking, with no particular logic or orderliness, of Cy’s wife and his kids and even of Miss Mudlark. Who could say who would miss and grieve over him the most? Kids recover; wives re-marry. I was light-on for friends and always had been. I was missing him—the sporting challenges and bullshit that structured our relationship—already. I remembered that my ex-wife Cyn had liked Cy and she had detested almost everyone else I knew. That mattered. I felt the anger building inside me and a determination to find the person who’d done this and make him pay.
A youngish plainclothes policeman was talking to me as more men turned up to whom the death of Cyrus Sackville was a job to be processed and filed—a man from the Coroner’s office, presumably, scientific police types, a photographer. The detective had to grip my arm to get my attention. I realised then that I was barefooted and my feet were cold.
‘Mr Hardy. Mr Hardy! Are you all right? I need to see some ID.’
I jerked my thumb back over my shoulder. ‘It’s all up there in her flat.’
‘Her?’
‘My client.’
‘I thought you said Mr Sackville was your client?’
‘Did I? Fuck. I don’t know what I’m saying.’
‘Have you been drinking, sir?’
‘Yes. All my fucking adult life and a bit before.’ For no reason I pointed across the road to where the rented Camry was parked. ‘That’s my car.’
The detective made a gesture and I saw a uniformed man walk towards the Camry. They were bound to take it away for testing. Two fucking cars gone in the space of one day, I thought. A record.
‘We’d better go up to this flat, Mr Hardy. You can get some more clothes on and we can talk.’
His face was a lean, pale smear, way off in the distance. I was experiencing the sort of perspective-altering vision you get as a kid in the classroom and grow out of. He’d been with me for at least fifteen minutes and I felt as if I was seeing him for the first time and not clearly. I shook my head, trying to pull myself together. ‘Have you got a cigarette? I’m sorry, your name didn’t register.’
‘Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton. I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Neither do I. Someone has to tell his wife.’
‘His wallet was in his pocket. We’ve got all the information we need. An officer will go there now.’
I was getting it all straightened out now, making the connections, but craziness still wasn’t very far away. ‘You’re going to want a statement, aren’t you? And I shouldn’t say anything without having my lawyer present. And he was my fucking lawyer! For more than twenty years. What do you say about that?’
I was a nearing fifty years of age mess and Bolton was a much younger diplomat, psychologist and total professional. He took my arm and steered me back along the path towards the apartment block. ‘I say we go inside and have some coffee or you finish your drink,’ he said. ‘And we sort a few things out.’
It didn’t look good when Bolton and I entered the apartment. Some of Claudia’s and my clothes were strewn around; there were signs of drinking and expert examiners would probably be able to tell that the place had been searched. And, I was barefooted with my half-open shirt hanging out of my pants. Not a scene to inspire confidence in a suspicious policeman. I put my shoes and socks on and tucked in my shirt. I showed Bolton where Claudia was sleeping and it didn’t take much imagination to see what else had gone on in there.
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.’
&nb
sp; 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.’