Peter Corris - The Washington Club

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, nee 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 ‘30s 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 her Fort Knox style protection too, if she’d been mine. She examined me as if I was a painting on a wall.