Peter Corris - The Washington Club

‘Get yourself to a chair, Rhino, and sit down,’ I said, waving the device at them. ‘I’m not going to hurt anyone who stays sensible. You too, Ms Daniels. Sit down!’

They did what I told them. The room reeked of spilt beer now and there were dark, damp patches on two of the cream walls. It was more the kind of fighting environment Jackson was used to but there was no fight in him now. He sat in an armchair rubbing at himself and looking as if he needed something stronger than beer. I kicked the door closed. Judith Daniels jumped. Her cigarette was down to a stump but she drew on it just the same. I crossed to the bar, poured a big Scotch for Jackson and a smaller one for myself.

I gave Jackson his drink, took a pull on mine and looked at Judith Daniels. ‘Are you telling me that all this hide-and-go-seek shit is because you’re scared of Claudia Fleischman?’

She had good recovery, I’ll say that for her. She tossed her butt into the empty fire grate and lifted her slightly soft chin, stretching the skin, defining the bones and making her look almost as beautiful as she must have been a few thousand drinks ago. ‘Yes,’ she said.

For someone who didn’t want to talk, she made a good job of it. I got her settled with her fags, pitcher of orange juice and a fresh bottle of Yellowglen and she didn’t stop for fifteen minutes except to light cigarettes and drink. She swore that she had seen Claudia and Van Kep together at a motel in Chatswood and that her father had declared himself afraid of Claudia. She gave plausible details of times and places. She also claimed that she’d received a phone call a day after Claudia was charged, warning her not to give evidence. The caller threatened to scar and cripple her for life. She said this quickly and her fear was genuine. The statement was worth half a glass of her medicine.

‘So when you said he’d sussed you out, you meant this caller? You thought I was him?’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Im not. You think the caller was acting for Claudia?’

‘Who else could it be? The only evidence I have to give is against her.’

‘But there’s no direct connection?’

‘Listen, whatever your name is, I know that evil bitch. My father was afraid of her and he’s dead. I’m not a brave person. I’m afraid, too.’

I finished off the Scotch that I’d made last a long time. ‘Did you report the call to the police?’

‘Hah! He warned me against that as well.’

‘What kind of a voice was it?’

‘Hard, like yours.’

‘Accent?’

‘Australian.’

I asked a few more questions and got answers in the same vein. She drank steadily and it began to reach her. Her diction started to slip and the ash from her cigarettes got sprinkled around the ashtray on the arm of the chair.

‘Won’t be safe till that bitch is in gaol. Maybe not then.’ The anger had gone. She gazed at the wet patches on the wall. ‘Men’re no bloody use.’

I mumbled some kind of thanks and stood up. She ignored me and emptied the last of her second bottle into the glass and didn’t bother with the orange juice. Jackson got to his feet and I gestured for him to go outside, where I handed him the taser.

‘You’ve slowed up a bit, Rhino.’

‘So’ve you. It’s just that I’ve slowed up more.’

Probably true, and that wasn’t the only similarity between us. ‘I don’t think she’s got anything to worry about,’ I said. ‘But I don’t want to do you out of a job.’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve just about had enough of it anyway. She’s impossible. But she’s fair dinkum. I heard that Sackville got shot. Any connection?’

‘I think so.’ I contemplated asking him if he knew anything about Haitch Henderson and decided against it. No links.

Jackson rubbed his arm. ‘Fuck I hope she doesn’t hear about it. She’ll be off the planet. As it is I’m going to have to hide the car keys now and try to get her to eat something. Christ knows what she’ll do next. You know the funny thing about all this?’

‘I haven’t struck one thing yet that’s funny.’

‘All the poor bitch wants in the world is to get back together with her husband. The last one. The Yank.’

On the way back to Glebe I tried Gatellari again, with the same result. What I’d learned from Judith Daniels didn’t disturb me too much. Her view of things was skewed by her hatred of Claudia, jealousy, reaction to failed marriages, incipient alcoholism and who knows what else. Whether her father told her he was afraid of Claudia or not, there was no need to believe him. Still, I was aware of how slanted my own thinking was getting and I urgently wanted to talk to Claudia and get her reaction to some of these things. I was pretty sure that Haitch Henderson was Judith Daniels’ threatening caller, but how he knew about her spending time at Rhino’s place was anybody’s guess.

But Van Kep was my next target and that required a change of clothes. At home I wolfed down a cheese sandwich and climbed into drill trousers and a blue polo shirt. I swapped the white denim jacket for a zippered khaki job, still loose enough to hide the gun. From Daphne I picked up three business cards that identified me as Henry Pitt, BArch (Sydney), BA (Nebraska State) Landscaping Consultant, and a coloured brochure setting out the claims of Pitt amp; Partners to beautify any patch of ground on earth. We’d fixed up golf courses, changed grass tennis courts to Rebound Ace and vice versa and turned rubbish dumps into Japanese water gardens. We were specialists in American horticulture, Australian native gardens and matching natural to man-made visual landscapes. I was also a contributing editor to a magazine named Classic Gardens. The mock-up of a cover featured my article on ‘The Political Economy of Symbolic Gardens’. The telephone number on the card was Daphne’s private number in her office and she agreed to put an appropriate message on the answering machine for the next few hours.

‘You look okay,’ Daphne said. ‘Might scuff up the shoes a bit.’

The dog she always had with her, even in the pub, came over and investigated the brown leather.

‘Maybe she could piss on them for me?’

‘Never. Have fun, Cliff. I’ll send you a bill.’

I drove to Northbridge, thinking that I was spending more of my time on the wrong side of the harbour lately and wondering what this meant. The. 38 felt heavy in its holster and rubbed me under the arm disconcertingly. I reminded myself that, one way or another, Van Kep was involved in Fleischman’s killing, and that almost certainly linked to Cy’s death, so what was a little discomfort?

Northbridge is hilly, affording views of the harbour from different points. The grounds of the Washington Club must have covered more than a hectare and the council rates would be colossal. I cruised in through an impressive set of gates down a wide gravel drive that curved gracefully up to a large sandstone building occupying the high point of the block. Three storeys, grey slate roof, wide verandah all around, creeper climbing halfway up the walls. There were deep garden beds all along the length of the drive and through the foliage I caught a glimpse of the tennis courts. I couldn’t see the bowling green and concluded it was behind the clubhouse. Several very tall palm trees rose into the sky to different heights back there and I had the impression that the sloping land was terraced in some way, if that was the word. Henry Pitt would know.

Five vehicles were parked in bays, two fancy 4WDs, a couple of Mercs and a white Cadillac stretch limousine. I assembled my materials, climbed down and tried to give an impression of a very knowledgeable man assessing what he saw in an expert way. I scarcely know one plant from another, but I nodded and clucked and advanced purposefully towards the wide steps leading up to an ornate porch. The double doors were open and I wiped gravel off my feet on the large mat with ‘Washington Club’ etched into the door. The interior was darkish, cool and smelled of money. There were large earthenware bowls filled with flowers, mounted on pedestals, and I could see boards on the walls with names on them in gold leaf.