by Peter Corris
I U-turned illegally but sedately over double lines and followed at a safe distance and speed. The sports car had to stop at a set of lights only a couple of blocks away, and it was child’s play to hang back and move through the left-hand turn behind her. Her driving settled down after a while. An experienced drunk driver can put on a pretty good show of being sober but I was hoping like hell that she didn’t hit anything or attract cop interest. I wanted to know where she was going. The direction was north-east and in that direction there isn’t all that far to go.
Judith kept up the pace along New South Head Road through Rose Bay and I wondered if she was headed back to where I’d just come from—Vaucluse. But she pushed on and my next thought was that she might circle back at the top and end up at The Gap. Nasty thought, morbid nature. Wrong. She swung off into one of the streets that creep down towards the water at Watsons Bay. I followed, just keeping her in sight around the bends. She stopped outside a tall, narrow white house that commanded a view across Port Jackson towards Middle Head. I crawled past and saw her run up a flight of stone steps. The door opened and Judith was pulled roughly inside the house by a hand at the end of an arm in a white sleeved shirt. I couldn’t see the man’s face or any other part of him, but his body language was distinctive. Rough, very rough.
I continued on until the road ran out at the military reserve. I three-point turned and came back, checking that I’d got the number of the house right, seven, and the street name, Sandhill. The house was nothing special, two-storeyed but cramped on its skinny site. The elevation and the view would put a rental and price ticket on the property that would make its original owner mumble in his grave. Not for the first time, I wondered why moneyed people were so obsessed with expansive water views. I can see a bit of Blackwattle Bay from the back of my place when I hoist myself up a bit on the fence and that’s enough for me.
I drove on, stopped and wrote down the address. All this wasn’t brilliant detecting but at least I’d established that the formerly married Wilson Katz and Judith Daniels were, quite separately, edgy about something or somebody. Nice to be a catalyst at least. It would be something to talk over with Claudia. Two more things: the Toyota Camry had to be a candidate to replace the Falcon if I couldn’t get another of the same vintage; and Judith Daniels must have phoned ahead, either from her apartment or from the car—the owner of the white-sleeved arm had clearly been expecting her.
I drove down Old South Head Road towards Dover Heights and Bondi—much more my speed. The traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult to sneak a few looks to the left and see the ocean rolling in. I’d thought about moving to Bondi some years back but the idea had never really taken root. I wasn’t sure why. I suspected I’d feel reproached by all that sky and sea and fresh air every time I took a drink or ate a hamburger. For me, exercise and nutrition are an option; in Bondi they feel like an obligation.
It was getting on towards the alcohol hour but not quite. I parked in Campbell Parade and went into the closest coffee shop. Over two long blacks I thought about the slim pickings my source had given me on Claudia Fleischman, née Rosen. She was born in Sydney in 1963, the only child of Claus Rosen and his wife Julia Levy, both Holocaust survivors—both shipped, parentless, out of Germany in the thirties to relatives in Australia. Claus and Julia both became doctors. They met, married, prospered and had Claudia. The Rosens died in a car accident in 1990.
Claudia had done a BA and LLB at Sydney University. She enrolled for a PhD in Law while working part-time as a solicitor for an Eastern Suburbs firm and part-time as a tutor at UNSW, but she’d never submitted a thesis. She married Julius Fleischman nine months after her parents’ death. The file had included a graduation photo of Claudia. Three strikingly handsome people on top of the world—Claudia and her Mum and Dad. There was also a wedding photograph. Fleischman, tall and distinguished-looking but, to my eye, pushing sixty, was standing with a woman in a long white lace dress that didn’t quite suit her full, flowing figure. She’d lifted her veil, but for all the expression on her face she might as well have left it down. The very picture of a mystery woman, and the information I had only deepened the mystery.
I’d only glanced at what the databases had turned up on Van Kep. Perhaps unfairly, I’d bracketed him with Haitch Henderson as tomorrow’s problem. Now I had a third person to slot in there—white-sleeve of Watsons Bay. I could visualise the arrow on my diagram connecting him to Judith and her to Wilson Katz. Katz was connected to Fleischman and who else? Over the years I’d managed to convince myself that plotting these links ultimately provided explanations, motives and reasons. Sometimes they did; other times you found out what was really going on when someone hit you with a brick. The idea is to anticipate what might happen next and be prepared for it, to avoid the brick. Sometimes it works.
I paid for the coffee and killed some time by strolling on the concourse. The whole area has been beautified since the old days and they’ve done a pretty good job of it. But the sea and wind will fight back and some of the shrubs won’t flourish and some of the grass will die and some of the paint will flake off. Bondi wants to be a bit shabby and there are quite a few of us who like it that way.
I arrived early at Kirribilli to see if I could spot the man Marinos had put on Claudia. It wasn’t easy. The cars parked along the street were either empty or occupied by people going about their ordinary business—a man was listening to a stock market report on the radio in an Audi; a woman was behind the wheel of a Corona station wagon waiting impatiently for someone to come out of a house, probably her husband; a man was working on the engine of a Hiace van and the sweat on his face and anger in his movements couldn’t have been anything but genuine.
Eventually, I located the watcher and I had to give him high marks for ingenuity and agility. He’d climbed a fence opposite the apartment block and taken up a position, well-concealed behind shrubbery. One long step up would put him on the brick pillar where the dividing fence between two properties ended and a manageable jump would leave him on the footpath just across the street from the security gate. I had to assume that one of the cars parked nearby was his. I only spotted him when he swatted at an insect. I’ve done a fair bit of shrubbery sitting in my time and my guess was a fly somewhere near the ear—no man alive can withstand that.
I strolled up and leaned against the post. ‘My name’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘I asked Pete to put you on. You can knock off now. I’m going to be spending the next few hours with the lady myself.’
A voice came from the foliage. ‘Right. I’ll just wait until you’re in there and then I’ll disappear.’
‘Been having fun?’
‘I’ve got a Walkman. Been listening to the races.’
‘Good luck. Many callers over there?’
‘I’ll report to Pete, Mr Hardy. Check with him.’
‘You’re a pro.’ I went across the street and pressed the button for the Fleischman apartment.
‘Yes?’ The almost-lisp.
‘It’s Hardy.’
‘So it is. Come on in.’
I hadn’t realised, but should have known, that Julius would have good security—closed-circuit television giving the resident a good look at the caller. Essential. I went through the garden and pressed another button to gain admission to the building. Halfway up the stairs I realised that I’d come empty-handed—no flowers, no wine. Living without a woman had eroded my sense of gallantry. Just have to rely on the good old Hardy charm. I rang the bell beside the door and there was a pause after I heard the approaching footsteps. I guessed she was looking at me through the spyglass. That made three levels of security Julius had installed between them and the street and I wondered how she felt about that.
The door opened wide and welcoming. Claudia stood there in a tight black dress with a short skirt. She wore high heels and dark stockings and her hair was piled up with some wisps free and hanging down. At that moment I thought I understood Julius’ strategies—I’d have wanted to give he
r Fort Knox style protection too, if she’d been mine. She examined me as if I was a painting on a wall.
‘You’re all right? You’re not hurt?’
I shook my head. She reached out and took me by the arm, drew me inside. ‘It was on the TV news. They showed a picture of your car and I nearly died. Come and have a drink and tell me what happened.’
We went out onto the balcony where she had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, ice, soda and low-calorie ginger ale. The air was still warm after a warm day but the light breeze was fresh. Good drinking conditions. I had a generous whack of the Scotch over ice while she had half my amount drowned in ginger ale. We sat, pointing ourselves towards the bridge. I told her about the grenades and how by good luck I’d managed to keep my arms and legs attached to the other bits.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Does that sort of thing happen to you often?’
‘No. And not lately. I’m not working on anything else important, Claudia, and I don’t have a backlog of desperate enemies. It has to be to do with you.’
She sipped her concoction. I realised how much I’d needed a drink when I saw that most of this one had gone. I swirled the ice cubes.
‘I suppose you feel you have a right to ask me anything now that you’ve risked your life for me?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’ I reached for the bottle, poured myself a judicious measure and added a little soda water. ‘But I’ve done a little preliminary work and all I’ve come up with is questions, about you, about Wilson Katz, about Judith Daniels. I’ll be needing answers and you must have some of them.’
‘I’m sure I do. I’ll tell you everything I can, but can we go out for a while first? It’s been so long since I’ve done anything normal like going out for a meal.’
‘Of course we can and let’s keep it normal. I won’t ask any questions while we’re out.’
She stood up and plucked at a few of the hanging wisps, making them wispier. ‘That’s good, because you’re in for some surprises, Cliff.’
‘I like surprises,’ I said.
7
We went to the Malaya restaurant in North Sydney. Claudia said the other similar establishment in Broadway was one of her favourite places when she was a student and she wanted to try the north-of-the-harbour version. I’d been there once or twice and liked it well enough although South-East Asian food isn’t the delight to me that it is to some people. We sat on the mezzanine floor where we could look down at other diners and out a big window towards buildings where the lights were just beginning to show up as darkness spread over the city. Claudia had put on a white silk jacket over her dress. Now she slipped it off and arranged it carefully on the back of her chair so it wouldn’t crease too much. It looked like the gesture of a person used to taking care of her clothes rather than one who had so much money it didn’t matter.
‘I want short soup, prawn sambal and boiled rice,’ she said.
‘I bow to your expertise. What d’you want to drink?’
She shrugged. I noticed how smooth and shapely her shoulders were, not bony, not fleshy, just right. It’s rare to see perfect shoulders. ‘Doesn’t matter. Any dry white wine with mineral water to dilute it.’
‘Okay. I can remember when we used to order a couple of bottles just to save the waiter the trouble of coming over again. Now we have to think, what is it? Two standard drinks per hour or whatever?’
‘You can drink as much as you like. A couple of spritzers’ll do me. I can drive the Camry. I’m not sure about that Falcon of yours. Was it a manual?’
‘Yeah. It was.’
I put the .38, which I’d oiled and cleaned, in the pocket of my jacket. I took the jacket off and hung it on my chair like Claudia. The lightweight harness I slid round further under my armpit. At a glance it wouldn’t look much different to a pair of rather unusual braces. Claudia watched but said nothing.
The drink waiter came and I ordered a bottle of Chardonnay and the mineral water. Claudia ordered the food and she added mixed vegetables. The wine arrived. Claudia gazed around the room and down below. She took her first drink and it seemed to relax her. She smiled, or maybe just relaxed her mouth and the forward thrusting teeth did the rest.
‘What are you looking at?’ she said sharply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I broke up with the woman I’d been with for a few years not so long back. I was probably staring at you. It’s so good to have such attractive company.’
‘Thanks. I’m glad to be here with you, too. You’re holding together pretty well. You’re what—late forties?’
I nodded. ‘Fairly late.’
‘Good bones,’ she said. ‘And hair. They’ll see you through.’
The food came in bowls and dishes and an insulated bucket along with chopsticks at which I’ve never been a master. We worked our way through it, communicating well it seemed to me, but talking about nothing in particular. About halfway through Claudia reached across the table and touched my arm. I’d rolled up my sleeves—the sambal was having an effect on the sweat glands.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘It’s Malcolm Turnbull.’
It was. He arrived with a woman and another man and they fell into intense conversation, only briefly interrupted by the ordering of food and drink.
‘A republican cell without a doubt,’ I said. ‘I kicked in some money to that cause. They’re probably eating it right now.’
Claudia laughed. ‘So you’re a republican. Well, well.’
I was onto my third glass of wine and emboldened. ‘I bet you are too. Admit it.’
‘Of course I am. I . . .’
It wasn’t the wine or the food or the atmosphere. Her every movement—the deft use of the chopsticks, the curve of her wide mouth, the lift of her heavy eyebrows—was having an effect on me. ‘Claudia, why . . .?’
In one smooth movement she put her chopsticks down and placed her right index finger over the slightly raised scar that runs from the left side of my chin up to my lower lip, the result of an uppercut delivered with a split glove by Clem Carter at the state junior amateur boxing titles. ‘No questions,’ she said. ‘Not now. Questions later. Drink some mineral water and eat some vegetables. The sambal’s a mite too hot for you.’
I gripped her hand and felt that it had a film of sweat on it like mine. I grinned at her.
‘We’re both sweating and the place is air-conditioned.’
‘It’s good for us. Clears the toxins from the system.
‘Do you believe that?’
She laughed. More wisps of hair escaped. I wanted to tuck them back, and to touch that down running to her jawline.
We left at least one standard drink in the bottle, maybe two. We walked through the courtyard in front of the restaurant and sauntered up the main street towards the all-night parking station where I’d left the car. The cool air cleared my head and after a few metres I was alert and watchful. Claudia, walking very close, occasionally brushing me with her shoulder or hip, could feel it in me.
‘What’s the matter, Cliff?’
‘Just being careful. We’ve had a few incidents, remember?’
‘Mm. I was trying to forget all about it. All of it. But I suppose that’s impossible.’
Tentatively, I put my arm around her and squeezed gently and briefly. ‘Stay where you are as long as you can. I’ll do the worrying.’
She reached around and patted my chest. ‘Where’s the gun?’
It was back in the holster, near my left armpit. ‘Where it belongs.’
‘Have you used it much?’
‘No. As seldom as possible.’
‘That’s good. I hate guns.’
‘Me too.’
We reached the car park. It was one of the few places still around where you handed in your ticket and an attendant fetched your car. That’s why I’d used it. The Camry came up the ramp and I forked over some more money. The outing would be paid for by Cy Sackville who would in turn charge it up to Claudia. It presented me with a nice
conundrum of etiquette that Emily Post probably couldn’t help with. I had more serious things to worry about, like where was this evening headed and how would my feelings for this woman affect the job I was supposed to be doing for her?
We didn’t talk much on the drive back to Kirribilli. Claudia asked if I minded her smoking in the car. She could have lit three at once as far as I was concerned and I almost told her so. She wound down the window and blew the smoke out discreetly. After stubbing the cigarette she opened the CD player and took out the disc.
‘Edith Piaf,’ she said. ‘Is this yours?’
‘It was in there when I picked up the car.’
She found the case in the glove box and laughed. ‘I remember this. It was a Nescafe give-away. You had to answer some dopey question. The first prize was a trip to Paris but they gave these away by the hundreds.’
‘Did you enter?’
‘No. I mentioned it to Julius. He said we could go to Paris anytime we wanted to. The next day he went out and bought a couple of Piaf CDs.’
She put the disc in the player and pressed the right buttons. The strong, vibrant voice filled the car as we turned into her street. I parked outside and she touched my arm.
‘Don’t turn off. I want to listen.’
Non, rien, rien
Non, Je ne regrette rien
‘You’ve got it all inside,’ I said.
‘Shush, this is better.’
Her head moved down onto my shoulder and we sat there on the looks-like-leather seats, listening to the music that evoked Paris in the rain and the incredible voice with all its hopeful spirit demolished by sadness and dashed hopes. By the end of the record her hand was lying between my legs, gripping my erection, and I’d cupped her right breast and was breathing in her perfume from her hair. It was probably French but could have been Serbo-Croatian for all I cared. There was a faint touch of mentholated tobacco in the mixture and there was nothing wrong with that either.
