in a tight pattern through his back and into his heart. The entry wounds were small but I could tell from the blood and the tissue spattered around the gate that his chest had been blown open.
The noises I’d heard had been the impact of the bullets. The shots themselves had been silenced and had attracted no attention. The sirens brought out the first onlookers. Lights came on in the house behind the garden where Pete Marinos’ man had been placed and in other houses on that side of the street. Behind me I could hear windows opening onto the balconies in the apartment block. I ignored it all and stayed close to my ambitious, achieving friend of more than twenty years who’d gone out on many limbs for me and never once let me down. His hair was thinning slightly on top and his scalp showed through palely in the light above the gate; I knew Cy had had a horror of going bald. Wouldn’t matter now.
The paramedics arrived and they moved me aside from the body gently, talked to me in calm voices and confirmed what I already knew. They knew their business. People had started to appear on the footpath and from the apartments. The ambulance men waved torches at them and held them back until the police showed up with flashing lights, staticky radio signals, guns on hips and that authority most citizens respect, especially in high-priced places like Kirribilli.
I must have given them Cy’s name and profession and address and done the same for myself but I was barely aware of what I was saying. I was thinking, with no particular logic or orderliness, of Cy’s wife and his kids and even of Miss Mudlark. Who could say who would miss and grieve over him the most? Kids recover; wives re-marry. I was light-on for friends and always had been. I was missing him-the sporting challenges and bullshit that structured our relationship-already. I remembered that my ex-wife Cyn had liked Cy and she had detested almost everyone else I knew. That mattered. I felt the anger building inside me and a determination to find the person who’d done this and make him pay.
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.’
