Peter Corris - The Washington Club

A booth with a sliding glass panel was on the left side just before a set of stairs that led to the inner recesses of the club. I pressed the button on the counter and waited for a full minute before the panel slid open. A woman with white hair and a young face looked at me in a friendly but cautious way.

‘Yes? Can I help you?’ The accent was American, Southern possibly, appealing.

I gave her a card and launched into my spiel, saying I’d like to talk to the manager about possibly doing an article on the club’s garden for Classic Gardens or offering my services as a consultant should the club have any plans for changes to the grounds. I slipped in at least three compliments before I stopped.

She was handsome and perfectly groomed. Impossible to guess her age. ‘I’m Mrs Kent, Mr Pitt. I’m the club manager and secretary. I guess it’s me you should talk to.’

Please don’t let her ask me anything about Nebraska, I thought. She didn’t. I said I was glad to meet her, that I’d heard a lot about the club’s gardens and would be very glad if I could look around.

‘That’d be fine. We’re very proud of our gardens. I’m a little busy right now or I’d give you the tour. We’ve got a conference on later this afternoon. But you’re welcome to look and when you come back I’m sure I can find some time to talk with you. Could you wait just one minute, please? You might care to look at one of our brochures.’

She wore reading glasses on a silver chain and she put them on to look at the card more closely before backing away. Odds on she’d ring the number on it to check. No worries. I picked up a couple of the glossy brochures on the counter, added them to my papers and waited. She came back after a couple of minutes, gave me a warm smile and handed me a plastic pin-on tag with ‘Visitor’ printed on it in the space between the Australian and American flags. I pinned it to my jacket and strode back out into the sunlight and down the steps. The gravel crunched under my feet.

A man wearing an overall and heavy boots challenged me before I got off the gravel. I showed him my pass and brochure and he gave way like a lamb. My main worry was running into whoever the police had put on the strength to give Van Kep added protection. There was an outside chance that he might recognise me. That would screw things up nicely. A pair of wraparound sunglasses wasn’t much of a disguise. One garden looks much the same as another to me, but I had to admit this was a nice set-up. Everything that was supposed to be green was, and there were no weeds in the beds that had a good covering of bark and chip mulch.

The lawns were neatly manicured; the bowling green was like velvet with just a few brownish patches that a man was working on with a light spray. He was short and stocky, not Van Kep. Tennis courts, I do know something about. The club had two grass courts and three artificial surfaces, all in top condition. One net was up on a grass court and a middle-aged man and one somewhat younger were playing a strenuous, skilful game. I found myself watching and wishing I could play. The younger man hit a strong, double-handed volley and raised his right fist in triumph.

I’ve always been fascinated by left-handed, two-fisted players. The breed simply did not exist in my younger days. There were elegant left-handers like Mervyn Rose and powerhouse lefties like Laver, but I never saw or heard of a two-handed hitter until Pancho Segura came out here as a professional in the ‘50s. I read about him but couldn’t afford the price of a ticket to Kramer’s circus. Since then, of course, they hit two-handed off both sides, orthodox and molly-dook. The only thing they don’t do double-fisted is serve. This guy was good. He hit wicked top spin off both wings which was better suited to a hard court than grass, but still gave his opponent trouble. Enough of them sat up, however, to give him a chance. He was a slicer, especially on the backhand, an effective weapon on grass.

I was watching from a distance and having difficulty tearing myself away. The leftie whipped a shot across court and looked stunned as it missed its mark. He’d broken a string. He slammed the racquet down and trotted towards a sports bag beside the court and closer to me. He jerked the bag open and I could see the words ‘White City Tennis City’ stencilled boldly on the side. He pulled out a racquet, tested its tension by banging his fist on it, and looked briefly in my direction before skipping back onto the court.

I shielded my face by adjusting the sunglasses, turned away and moved off. I didn’t think he’d seen me but it was possible. I didn’t know him, but everything about him-the thickening waistline, the expensive haircut, the moustache, the Andrew Agassi-style racquet- shrieked cop.

‘Three all,’ the older man called.

‘Right. Your serve.’

I hoped the minder was too intent on the game to pay me any attention. If so, it was a break. He was busy. Three games more to play at least.

On the fence around the courts was a diagram under perspex of the layout of the grounds, complete with a ‘You are here’ arrow. I located the ‘Gardener’s cottage’ and set off briskly. There was no sign of Van Kep at any of the obvious places where work was being done so it was a fair assumption he was bludging close to home.

The cottage was a very scaled-down version of the main building: single-storey, sandstone, with some creeper on it, iron roof, verandah running along one side and the back, view of the water. Transplanted into Northbridge proper it’d be worth four hundred grand. Not a bad spot for someone with immunity from prosecution and a good story to tell to hole up in. I circled the place, approached to within a few metres of the back door and took cover behind a shrub. I wondered if Van Kep was getting paid for his gardening job. That led to thoughts of his previous employment and what Claudia had told me. A mosquito buzzed near my ear and I almost slapped at it. Sergeant Delaney would have had my balls for that in Malaya. I realised that I was jealous. Ridiculous. I’d been to bed with the woman once and she’d fucked Van Kep as a tactical move. And everything about that made me angry.

I unshipped the. 38, carried it low beside my leg, and moved quickly up to the back of the cottage to a covered, bricked area. A screen door stood open, fastened to the wall. I opened the back door and walked straight into a small, neat kitchen. I had the pistol higher now, but none of that fancy, sweeping, cop stuff you see on television. You’re likely to knock something off a shelf or get caught up in the curtains that way. The kitchen was empty. I went quietly in the direction of soft voices and other sounds and found myself looking into a sitting room-blinds drawn against the mid-afternoon light, the strong, sweet waft of marijuana smoke, the old, friendly, familiar smell of wine.

A long, pale, lean figure wearing nothing but a black G-string was stretched out on a couch in front of a large TV set. On the screen three figures were caught in a harsh but uncertain light. They were on a bed made up with black sheets and white pillows. A man wearing a black eye mask was kneeling on the bed rubbing his penis over the face of a kneeling female who looked to be about ten years old. He was naked. She wore a blue and white checked school uniform. Behind the man a boy of perhaps twelve or thirteen was stroking his penis, inducing an erection. There was tinny music playing and the lighting flickered as if the equipment was defective.

I found myself watching although I wanted to put a bullet into the TV screen. I knew it wasn’t real, not here and now, but somehow it was more real than the here and now. The girl took the man’s penis into her mouth and began to suck it and stroke his testicles. She brushed her hair back-a gesture I’d seen in pornographic movies before. It demonstrates control, consent, but I’d never seen a child do it. Her eyes were closed. The boy put his hand down out of shot and came up with a tube of lubricant. He squirted it into the man’s anus and onto his own penis. He moved forward and entered the man as he thrust into the girl’s mouth.