Peter Corris - The Washington Club

With all the craziness that was going on in this case, I almost did. The implications were worrying, though. Never come to trial-why? There were only three ways that could happen-the charges could be dropped or the accused could die or jump bail. The first was unlikely and I didn’t care for the other two. Van Kep must have calculated he had time to clean up after his fun and games, but I sensed that time was running short unless the tennis players were engaged in a best of three with no tie-breaks in the third.

‘I’d like to see some evidence of all this,’ I said. ‘Like the photos.’

‘No! You want to blackmail me as well…’

‘Listen, Anton, you disgust me. I don’t ever want to see or hear you again, but I need some proof. I’m betting that someone like you would be just a bit turned on by photos like that and you’d keep them. Show me.’

He sniffed and looked at his gold watch that sat on a low chest of drawers beside the bed. Todd’ll be back soon.’

‘I’m your big worry at the moment, not Todd.’

‘I have to get rid of the roaches.’

‘So hurry up.’

He opened a drawer, took out a plastic wallet stuffed full of photographs, riffled through, selected two and held them out. I’m an old hand at diversion and distraction. If I’d been him, this would be the moment to make a move. I gestured with the. 38.

‘Drop them on the floor and lie back on the bed.’

There was no fight in him. He did it. The photographs only needed a glance-much the same stuff as on the video.

‘Okay,’ I said. ‘I believe you. Last thing- tell me about this bloke who heavied you. What did he look like, sound like, how old- all that.’

He collected the photos and put them back in the wallet. He looked tired and drained and I was feeling much the same. He needed some prompting; accurate observation and character analysis weren’t his thing, but the description I ended up with was Harvey ‘Haitch’ Henderson to the life.

Anton Van Kep was as glad to see me go as I was to leave. There was a shadow of despair across his pale, narrow face and the few traces of make-up left behind made him look like a clown who’d strayed out of the circus and couldn’t find his way back. I walked back through the handsome gardens clutching my papers, hiding behind my sunglasses, feeling like shit. The tennis game had finished and the two players were brooming the lines and rolling up the net like good boys. Van Kep’s minder looked chipper; he’d probably won the match, but he’d scored zero out of ten for the job he was supposed to be doing. I could’ve disposed of his client without any troubles at all. That made me wonder how serious the protection was intended to be and what that might imply. I pushed the thought aside as too complicated. I needed to see Claudia.

There were many more cars when I got back to the parking area-a couple of Mercs, a Holden Statesman or two, Saabs and Audis. The Nissan Patrol looked like a rough country cousin beside all that citified polished duco. I started the engine and prepared to back out carefully so as to avoid the Saab parked perilously close on my right side. A white Celica soft top skidded to a halt in the middle of the car park. The driver pivoted expertly and slid the car into a narrow space not far from me. I almost scraped the Saab as I ducked my head and tried to turn away. The driver of the Celica was Wilson Katz.

I pulled out slowly and reversed away into a deep shadow cast by some tall Norfolk Island pines. Katz alighted and paid no attention to me or anything else. He was wearing a business suit but carrying a Nike sports bag. He might have been going to Mrs Kent’s conference, but it looked as if he had a gym workout afterwards in mind. I studied him closely as he went up the steps into the clubhouse. His shoulders drooped and his face was knotted with concern. He was a big, fit, sophisticated man in early middle-age; he had money and still had most of his hair. His lubricous ex-wife wanted him back, so he must be adequate in the sack. The Fleischman corporate structure might be in trouble but Katz was only an employee, albeit a highly-paid one, so he wasn’t liable if the thing came crashing down. Why, then, for a second time, was he acting so terribly worried?

Third time lucky. Gatellari answered.

‘Mr Hardy, good. I’ve been trying to reach you but I think this phone’s on the blink. I’d better talk fast. The house belongs to someone named Angela Tawney. No one around seems to know what she does. She’s almost never there. Here’s the bad news-no phone.’

A true retreat. I groaned. ‘Are you sure Mrs Fleischman’s still there?’

‘Ninety per cent sure at least. I haven’t been able to keep every ferry and water taxi under scrutiny because I’ve been ducking in here and there checking on things. There’s a chance she slipped by but I don’t think so. Pete said to take my instructions from you. What d’you want me to do next?’

I considered. I could ask Gatellari to deliver a message, ask Claudia to ring me. But there was no guarantee she’d do it and a phone call wasn’t the answer anyway. Besides that, she could react very badly to a strange man walking up the garden path to her hideaway. No help for it.

‘I’ll have to come up,’ I said. ‘I’m in Northbridge. It’ll take a good hour or more to Palm Beach. Are these water taxis available all the time?’

‘Pretty much. I can book one for, say, seven. An hour and a half from now.’

‘Thanks. Do that, would you? I’ll see you on the wharf. And I’ll tell Pete you’re doing a great job.’

‘Better make sure she’s there before you do that.’

‘There’s no other way in or out?’

‘Not really. Something like a ten mile hike through pretty rough country to a road. Is the lady a bushwalker?’

‘I don’t think so. Look, I don’t like to ask you, but could you have a sandwich or a hamburger or something on hand for me? I’m going to be famished by then.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘And a couple of cans of beer and a decent bottle of white wine.’

‘Prawns? Oysters? Caviar?’

‘Don’t be a smartarse. I’ll see you soon.’

‘What if she takes off before you get here?’

‘Jesus, don’t say that. In that event we’ll just have to pray that bloody phone of yours works.’

The Nissan was equipped with a copy of 200 Kilometres around Sydney, and I took a look at it when I stopped for petrol. Bluefin Bay was across Pittwater from Palm Beach and slightly to the north. The peninsula was part of the Kuringgai Chase National Park, but there were a couple of tiny settlements tucked away, little bits of highly desirable and expensive freehold and leasehold that predated the declaration of the park. I was familiar with such enclaves in the Royal National Park to the south. The better heeled residents have their own boat docks and resent tourists and newcomers. As I pushed the car along the Pacific Highway, I wondered idly who Angela Tawney might be and why she didn’t spend any time in her retreat. If I had such a place… fat chance.

Gatellari was waiting for me at the ferry wharf. We shook hands and I thanked him for his good work. He described the house to me and explained exactly where it was-there were no street names or numbers. The house was called Ecco.

‘That means “Here it is” in Greek.’

I looked at him and he shrugged. ‘Italian father, Greek mother.’

‘Jesus,’ I said. ‘A true Australian.’

He laughed and handed me a soft-pack cooler holding two bottles of white wine and three cans of beer. He gave me a plastic bag which held a steak sandwich in a styrofoam box, a container of coleslaw and two sachets of tomato sauce.