The Washington Club (18 page)

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 Kur-ing-gai 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.

‘You think of everything,' I said.

‘Tell it to my wife. The lady certainly hasn't left since I last spoke to you and a few discreet enquiries suggest that she's still there. Is there anything else you need?'

I shook my head and signalled to the water-taxi operator that I was coming.

‘Pete said to tell you the job offer's always open,' he said.

‘Tell him thanks but no thanks, and not to pad the bill.'

The trip across the water took less than twenty minutes. A wind had got up and the crossing was fairly rough, but the fast, light boat danced over the waves and I've never been subject to seasickness. The thought didn't even occur to me as I ate the steak sandwich and coleslaw and drank two of the cans of beer. I gave the third can to the boatman, who said he'd drink it when he got back to Palm Beach.

‘Suppose I want to come back in an hour or so,' I said. ‘What's the drill?'

He didn't answer and I thought he hadn't heard me in the high wind. After a minute he nodded and turned his head towards me. ‘Sorry, mate. Channel's a bit tricky just here. Have to concentrate. You can phone from the wharf over there. Cost you, though. This's forty bucks. Be sixty to come over and get you.'

‘Okay. I hope I'll be staying.'

‘Good luck to you, mate.'

It was getting dark when we docked at the small wharf in Bluefin Bay and a few of the houses had lights showing. I lugged the cooler up the rough track, which was longer than Gatellari had led me to believe. The wind buffeted me and I was sweating slightly by the time I got to the dirt road that fronted the scattering of houses running along to a point about five hundred metres away. The land rose sharply behind them and I could just catch a glimpse of tin roofs and windows on the hill. The view east past Barrenjoey Head would be really something from there.

The water taxi pulled away from the dock and the wind carried the sound of its motor to me until it disappeared around the point. Ecco was the eighth house of the dozen or so with nothing between them and water but grass and trees. It was up towards the back of a sloping, bushy block and designed to harmonise with the surrounds and the conditions—cream-painted weatherboard, lots of glass, timber deck, double-pitch tin roof, louvred shutters to
all the windows. There was a bougainvillea hedge in front and the path leading up to the front verandah had been built from old railway sleepers long before recycling was heard of.

I was suddenly nervous, the quintessential uninvited guest, but I told myself I had important business that couldn't wait. The truth was, I had an urgent need to see the woman and the business was only a part of it. I snagged myself on the bougainvillea as I went through the opening. The thorns caught the back of my right hand and ripped the skin. I swore and sucked at the bleeding wound but not before some of the blood had got on my jacket. Fine way to go calling on a lady.

The front garden was badly overgrown, with weeds and blackberry threatening to take over the lawn, flower beds and shrubs. Someone had taken a bit of a hack at the mess recently with a scythe or bush knife but had given up without making much headway. Weeds poked up through gaps in the sleepers and the wooden steps leading up to the verandah. Still, the place wore its run-down air lightly, like an out-of-work actor who might suddenly land a big part and be very spruce again. I flicked at a buzzing mosquito and went up the steps.

The solid front door had stained-glass panels making it difficult to see in, but I was pretty sure I could detect a light towards the back. I put the cooler down. I thought I heard music far in the distance but it might just have
been cicadas or all the other singing and croaking things out there having a good time.

I peered through the panel. Maybe I was mistaken about the light. I tried the handle and the door opened. Terrific security. I swore under my breath. I held the door a few inches open and went inside. The door swung back and I caught it before it closed.
Was she here? Was anyone else here? Were there any guns about?
I ignored the mosquitoes but wiped sweat from my eyes and palms. I had the .38 in a dry hand.

‘Claudia,' I said firmly, not too loud. ‘Claudia, it's Cliff Hardy. Are you there?'

The dim light at the end of the passage intensified as a door opened. Then another, closer light was switched on and it dazzled me.

‘Cliff? Is it you?'

‘It's me.' I still couldn't see her. An old eye injury slows down my reaction time to intense light. A faint shape was beginning to take on firm outlines as it moved towards me. ‘Didn't mean to alarm you,' I said. I holstered the pistol. ‘But there's no phone and . . .'

Then I could see and smell her. She was bare-footed and wore a long white dress like a singlet reaching to her ankles. Her hair was stiff and puffed out around her face, straggling to her shoulders. She smelt of tobacco and the sea. Her eyes were enormous, staring at me, and she had caught her lower lip in her teeth and was chewing it. For a moment I thought
she was freaked out on some drug but she was steady. Alarmed, but not out of control.

‘What's wrong?' I said.

‘You're covered in blood.'

I hadn't noticed that my hand was still bleeding profusely when I'd struck out at the mosquitoes and wiped away the sweat. Blood had flecked my clothes and smeared my face so that I looked like a survivor from an Apache massacre. I found this out after she conducted me to the bathroom and made me strip off my jacket, pistol harness and shirt. She sat on the edge of the bath without speaking and watched me. Blood was still seeping from the tear and she reached up into a cupboard over the basin to get a packet of Band-Aids. Her breasts rose up under the thin cotton dress and her nipples were hard. I noticed and she saw me noticing.

What happened after that was more or less inevitable. She was naked under the dress and I soon had it off her. She undid my belt, pulled down my pants and took my cock in her hand. Somehow I got rid of my shoes, trousers and underpants. Somehow we made it to the bedroom. She took me in her mouth and sucked me until I begged her to stop. I licked her nipples and her rounded belly and below that and then she produced a condom and we were joined and thrusting urgently at each other as if we were anxious to end it but neither of us wanted to. I tried to hold back,
couldn't, came in a hot, shaking rush. She lay still for a minute, then began pushing back up at me. She gripped my buttocks, hauled me with surprising strength onto my hip and shoved against me. I could feel myself shrinking but tried to synchronise with her and at last she hammered into me, shuddered deeply and I felt her tense and then relax. We fell apart. I slid out and wrapped my arms around her. We were both sweat-soaked and breathing heavily.

‘Hey,' she said. ‘Good. Lovely.'

‘Yes.' I put on a brogue. ‘I'm a ruined man.'

She giggled. ‘Are you Irish?'

‘Irish, English, French, gypsy . . .'

She kissed me. ‘A mongrel in other words.'

I could feel myself drifting towards sleep.

‘That's right. Claudia . . .'

‘Have a sleep, Cliff. You're exhausted. All I've done for two days is sleep, swim and smoke.'

‘An hour,' I murmured. ‘We have to talk.' If she replied, I didn't hear what she said.

The only thing I hadn't taken off or had pulled off me before we made love was my wristwatch. I woke up lying on my stomach with my hands under my head. The watch was pressing into my cheek. I looked at it and found it was after midnight. Claudia wasn't in the room. The sweat and some blood had dried on me and my mouth was raw on the outside from kissing and on the inside from hours on the road, beer and fast food. I swung my legs off the bed and was almost surprised to find that they supported my weight. I took the watch off and put it on the bedside table. A drawer in the table was partly open and I did what Oscar Wilde advocated—yielded to temptation. I slid the drawer out and saw a set of credit cards in a soft leather wallet and an Australian passport. Flip, flop: Claudia Fleischman, colour photograph, expired.

I walked to the window. I could see Claudia in a rocking chair on the deck. She was wearing her white dress and rocking backwards and forwards, with apparent serenity. There was a
length of batik cloth hanging on a hook on the back of the door and I wrapped it around me and went to the bathroom.

Under the shower I washed everything and let the warm water ease some of the ache from my bones. There were several toothbrushes in a mug. I selected the most battered, used it and dropped it into the tidy bin. I put a fresh Band-Aid on my cut hand, ran a wide-toothed comb through my hair and was ready to do whatever came next. On almost every front, I had very little idea of what that would be. I went out through French windows onto the verandah, scuffling my feet so she would hear me. The wind had dropped and the surf beating on the sand was a low murmur, like a deep bass note. She stopped rocking. I went up behind her and slid my hands inside the top of the dress. How many men have attempted to soothe away doubts by feeling a pair of tits?

‘Mmm,' she said. ‘That's nice.'

She reached back around the chair, went inside the lap-lap and gripped my cock. Her hand was cold.

‘Nowhere to go from here,' I said. ‘I'm a detective, not a contortionist.'

She laughed, let go and turned around. She must have washed her hair which had been stiff with salt because it was now frizzed and rippled and wafted around her face. She had no make-up on and looked pale under the dim
outside light. The recent stresses and strains had put faint lines beside her mouth.

‘We have to talk,' I said.

‘Pity. We were doing so well with almost no talking.'

‘Things have been happening.'

‘Not here. Nothing ever happens here. That's why I like it.'

‘You can't . . .'

‘Ssh. I know. I found the wine. It was sweet of you to bring it. I drank the bit of gin Angela had here and couldn't be bothered getting any more.'

We went inside to the old-fashioned but comfortable kitchen and I sat down at a big pine table. There was a combustion stove that must have been a plus in the winter and everything was solid and functional—frying pans on hooks, a pine dresser full of unmatched cups and plates and glasses, an Early Kooka gas oven. Claudia opened both bottles of wine—my mum would've liked her style—and set out biscuits, cheese and salami.

‘It's tomorrow,' she said, drinking a mock toast. ‘I wonder what the date is. I've got through another day. Well, Mr Detective, tell me all about it.'

I told her everything I'd done, leaving nothing out, although I might have got the sequence wrong here and there. I told her about killing Henderson and how it happened and about the grenade parts I'd found. I didn't go into details about Anton Van Kep's recreational
practices, but I had to tell her enough for her to appreciate how the blackmail had been applied.