I examined the three items, not counting the grenade and associated bits and pieces, I’d taken from the Rooty Hill workshop. The autobank slip told me nothing-Commonwealth Bank in George Street, used by thousands of people daily. The key was a kind I’d seen all my life-grey, flat, with a minimum of notches. Number C20. It was a locker key of some kind, could be a workplace locker or one at a gymnasium or a swimming pool or even a school. No way to tell. The phone number promised more. I looked up the prefix in the dictionary and felt that small thrill that comes with some degree of enlightenment. The numbers indicated that the subscriber lived in Watsons Bay.
I poured a second cup of coffee and rang the number.
‘Hello. Yes?’
‘Is this 337 4343?’
‘Yeah, who’s this?’
‘Telecom, sir. Checking on a crossed-line problem with another subscriber. You are Mr…?’
The line went dead abruptly. Long shot, no luck. The voice was standard Australian with a hard edge, confident, aggressive. I had a feeling that I recognised it and then decided I was wrong. I replaced the phone thinking about white shirt-sleeves and Judith Daniels with her scarf and shades and her load on, risking life and limb to get to Watsons Bay. Why? I looked at the key again. It was well worn, polished smooth by handling and use. The C20 cut into it had almost been obliterated. Maybe if I took it to a clairvoyant she could place it between her palms and visualise the bank of lockers and the owner.
The phone rang again and I snatched at it, hoping for Claudia. The sexual reawakening had left me edgy and anxious on that score; I wanted more scenes, not a slow dissolve. Instead, I got Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton. I realised as I heard his voice that I was edgy and anxious about him as well. I waited for him to suggest that they’d found some connection between me and a dead man at Rooty Hill and that I’d better come out with my hands up.
‘I wondered if you were still working on Mrs Fleischman’s behalf?’ Bolton said.
‘I am, yes. One of Cy Sackville’s people has confirmed that.’
‘I see. Have you learned anything… useful?’
Trying to pick my brains. Fuck him! ‘No. Can you release my pistol to me?’
That surprised him. ‘D’you think you need it?’
‘Did you see my car?’
‘I take your point. Yeah, you can collect the gun. I hope we can count on your cooperation in all this, Mr Hardy?’
‘Of course, sergeant. Where’s the gun?’
‘I’m on my way to Liverpool on another matter. I’ve got about ten other matters, you see. I’ll drop it off at Glebe. OK? Be there within the hour.’
I thanked him. Shrewd. I’d have to check in at Glebe and Bolton would get a report on my appearance, behaviour, method of transportation. But I’d have the pistol and hadn’t told him a bloody thing. I’d call it even.
So far the Fleischman case involved three deaths and I was no closer to knowing what was going on. A priority was to make sure Claudia and myself didn’t make four and five. I had no solutions but at least I had options. For my next move, I had two choices-Watsons Bay, or to act on the information Frank Parker had reluctantly and dangerously given me on the whereabouts of Anton Van Kep. I was intrigued by the voice over the phone, Judith Daniels’ behaviour and the white shirt sleeve. Besides, I needed to make a few preparations before going after Van Kep. Give me a choice and I’ll opt for the beach every time. Watsons Bay it was, after a phone call to Daphne Rowley.
Some time ago I struck up a drinking acquaintance with Daphne, who plays a mean game of pool at the Toxteth Hotel and likes a beer and a chat. She runs a small printing business in Glebe Point Road. Very high tech, very leading edge. I used to be a fair snooker player and I have my moments at pub pool but Daphne can always beat me. As a consequence, she’s well disposed towards me and will do little jobs if time permits. I rang her and placed an order. She chuckled and said the stuff would be ready by late afternoon. She said I’d need a four-wheel drive to complete the picture.
At the Glebe station, just around the corner from Daphne’s, they treated me with polite disdain. I showed ID, signed forms and they gave me back my gun. I couldn’t miss the plain clothes detective pretending to check something at a table behind the desk. He looked me over well and truly and would be telling Bolton how I looked and acted. I played it friendly. When I left the station a female officer picked me up, tracked me to my car and I could almost hear the brain cells clicking as she sauntered past on the other side of the road mentally registering the registration of the Camry. I took off my jacket, a white denim number cut like a sports coat, and put on the holster. I’d bought the jacket when I was with Glen, happy and contented, eating well and somewhat heavier than I was now. It was loose, plenty of room for the gun without creating a bulge. In general, you don’t need a jacket in Sydney in December, but when you’ve got a gun to hide you do-one of the irritations of the profession.
Mindful of what Daphne had said, I drove to Darlinghurst and swapped the Camry for a 4WD Nissan Patrol with all the trimmings. It had a tape deck rather than a CD player, with no tapes provided. Adieu, Edith Piaf. I kept the same mobile, though. I didn’t want to lose touch with Claudia or Vinnie Gatellari. I tried Gatellari on the drive to Watsons Bay and got the no-go signal. Worrying.
I’d had some very good times at Watsons Bay with Frank Parker and Hilde, Glen Withers and other people. Fish feeds at Doyles or the pub, swims at Camp Cove, taking in the fishing village feel of the place that modern developments haven’t quite managed to eliminate. Not a bad spot to hide either-lots of high-rent transients and visitors, a law-abiding, own-business-minding population. Good fishing. Bus, ferry and two road routes to the city. A status-quo inclined police force so I’d been told. The sort of place Haitch Henderson might have used as a bolthole or base. He didn’t, but he had the phone number of someone who might have. Bolthole from what? Base for what? It would help to know.
I drove slowly down Sandhill Street and cruised past number seven. Judith Daniels’ sports car was parked outside. Since I’d last seen it, the car had acquired a long, deep scrape on the driver’s side. No surprise, given the way she drove. I parked more or less outside the house on the other side of the street. Clearly, there was no back access. The houses were built closely here, front to back on the steeply sloping land. The house behind the one I was watching would face the street above. No lanes or right-of-ways. That wouldn’t stop a bit of fence-jumping of course, but a fence-jumper has to come out somewhere and the person with the vehicle has the advantage.
Still, I wondered how to tackle the situation. Marching up to the door and knocking didn’t seem like such a good idea and this was no place for my Rooty Hill fire trick. I resorted to the technology again and dialled the number. Plenty of rings and then that almost-familiar voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Could I speak with Ms Daniels, please?’
‘Who the hell is this?’
‘Tell me who you are and I’ll tell you who I am. I’m right outside.’
Silly thing to say, but I couldn’t think of anything else. I hung on to the phone and waited for a response. He shouted something but he wasn’t talking to me. Then the front door opened. I half-expected to see Judith Daniels come trotting out. Instead a man in a white shirt, with the long sleeves buttoned at the wrist, rushed out and took the steps down to the street three at a time. He was big, he moved fast and fluently and he was carrying something in his hand that wasn’t a mobile phone. He vaulted over the gate and headed straight for me.
I scrambled out of the car, pulling the. 38 from its holster and straining to see what sort of a weapon he had. He was halfway across the road before I recognised it as a taser, a stun-gun. I raised the pistol.
‘Stop right there. Drop the taser or I’ll put a bullet in you.’
He stopped, flicked long straight black hair out of his eyes and stared at me. ‘Fuck me dead! Cliff fucking Hardy.’
17
