Peter Corris - The Washington Club

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. T 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.’

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, ‘OK, 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.’

Bolton said he’d need to talk to Claudia at some point but for now he let her sleep. He allowed me to write her a note. How do you tell someone her lawyer’s just been murdered and her new lover’s off to the police station and will be back sometime, all in a note? I did the best I could, told her not to be alarmed if a policewoman was there, propped the note up on the bedside table centimetres from her head and left a card in case she’d lost the first one, with my home address and phone number on it as well as the office and mobile numbers. I said I’d phone her as soon as I was clear and that I wanted her to stay where she was or come to me and go nowhere else. There was no way for her to feel safe or act as if she was. I hoped she’d remember my advice about her personal security. If I’d known her better I could have suggested the name of someone to come over arid keep her company. Maybe, but my snooping tended to make me think that there wasn’t any such person. That didn’t make leaving the flat any easier.

As police stations go, North Sydney was better than average. The lighting was muted rather than the harsh brain-searing stuff which used to be standard and you still get sometimes, and the room they put me in had been softened down by a couple of bright prints on the walls and a pot plant or two. If you really want to intimidate someone, you interrogate them under a light in the middle of a dark room, where they come to feel danger and threat in the space around them, especially behind. Here, the desk with the chairs on either side of it was tucked in a corner, almost cosily. The video equipment looked to be state of the art. There was no sign that anyone had ever smoked in the room since it had undergone its last revamp. That’d be a problem for some people, but perhaps they interviewed the really tough guys who smoked cigarettes somewhere else.