As I drove towards Northbridge I tried not to think about Claudia. I wanted to focus on what I was trying to do-get inside the Washington Club (avoiding Mrs Kent and Anton Van Kep at all costs), and try the key on C20. I was expecting it to be Wilson Katz’s locker but that was as far as my thinking went. Surprise me, I thought. But I couldn’t get the image of Claudia, entranced inside the Chevra Kadisha, responding to Ruth Goldman’s warmth and urgency, out of my head. I crossed the bridge and usually the sight of the war between the water and the buildings can distract and please me, but not this time. I gave up and allowed my thoughts to drift out to Rookwood, where I’d been more times than I cared to remember to see people being put in the ground. Some of them I was happy to see go, others not. I knew how much I would miss Cy, and for a long time, but my mental pictures were all of Claudia in her dark olive suit with the black hair escaping from under her hat.
26
I’d arranged to meet Rattray in the car park at the club. I was a few minutes late and he was there right on time, standing beside his gun-metal Mazda. Security consulting must pay better than PEA work. He was talking animatedly on his mobile phone as I rolled up and parked between a Merc and a Jag. He finished the call before acknowledging my presence. We introduced ourselves and shook hands. He was already in his tennis gear with that long bag at his feet. His grip was strong and although he was a bit heavier than he should be, so was I. I was glad I was playing tennis with him rather than wrestling. I gestured at my suit.
‘I need to change, Todd. Been to a bloody funeral. Where’s the locker room?’
‘You can change at the court, Warwick. Let’s go.’
Bad news, but nothing I could do about it. I hefted my bag and followed him through the gardens towards the court. He was shorter than me, maybe ten years younger and he walked with a bounce. Worrying. Also troubling was the sudden drop in the light. Some clouds had come across and there was a very distant rumble of thunder. Rattray looked up at the sky through the leaf canopy.
‘We’ll get a set in, Warwick, with a bit of luck. But it’s going to piss down later.’
‘Wasn’t in the forecast,’ I said.
‘Fuckin’ idiots, those blokes. What d’they know? If their jobs were performance-based they’d all be on the dole.’
Hard to argue with that. We got to the courts and he pointed me towards a structure that was little more than a shell-fine for changing, storing nets and balls and court maintenance equipment, but no shower. My spirits rose. I was bound to work up a sweat against Todd. Just watching him do stretching exercises over by the net post was tiring. He unzipped his bag, took out three racquets and tested them for tension.
‘Heavy atmosphere,’ he said. ‘Need the right stringing.’
Pretentious prick, I thought. I only had the one racquet and if the tension was wrong, tough shit. I wasn’t really here to play tennis. I was here to snoop, professionally, dangerously. But, despite myself, I could feel that I was getting into it-feeling the competitive urge.
I changed, we tossed for serve. He won. I picked an end and after a brief hit-up we got down to it. I hadn’t played for a while and not on grass for a long time. I was rusty in the hit-up. I’ve got a heavy, fairly accurate first serve; the second I just try to spin in. I hit my forehand flat and slice and chip the backhand. I’m shaky overhead and my backhand volley is suspect; forehand volley’s better. All in all, my game was better suited to the grass than his. Every so often, his heavily top-spun ground strokes tended to sit up and give me time to get set for a good hit. Also he occasionally mishit one. He preferred the back court but he was no slouch at the net.
His weakness was his mean streak. He liked to embarrass an opponent with a dinky little drop shot every now and then. The first time he tried it he caught me flat-footed and I could see the expression of pleasure on his face. Trouble was, he started that expression when he was thinking about playing the next shot, so that the next time I was ready for it and lobbed over him. That left him running backwards, mistiming his shot and me dropping it dead just over the net. Todd didn’t like that. He liked it even less when it happened twice more.
Still, he was younger, faster and a better player than me and I had no chance of beating him unless he broke a leg. The disadvantage to two-handed hitting is that you have to be closer to the ball to hit it and you can get jammed by a straight, fast serve. I had him stretching a few times and jammed him every so often. But once he found the range and adapted to my style, he whipped those two-handers past me if I tried to come in and found sharp angles if I played from the back court. Ordinarily, I’d have enjoyed the game, even if I was losing. I hit some good shots and aced him a few times. But I was pissed-off that he insisted on coaching me.
‘You’re off-balance, Warwick.’
‘You’re dropping the racquet head.’
‘Hit through it, mate.’
A light wind got up and the sunlight began to come in shafts through the clouds, so that one minute the court would be brightly lit and the next in shadow. Tricky. The thunder rumbled closer when he had me 3–5 down. He was serving for the set and I chased everything and hit the two best shots I’d played to date. The score got to my advantage which rattled him. I decided I’d had enough. He probably would have won it anyway, but I lost the next point to a deliberate mishit and we were back to deuce. He went ad-up after a kicking serve that might have missed the line, hard to say. Todd tended to call the lines himself and always his way. He won the set with a down-the-line shot that had me running the wrong way. I was dripping with sweat when I jogged up to the net to shake his hand. The first drops of rain fell.
‘Hope you have better luck against the bloke you’re playing. You lack a bit of speed.’
‘I’ve got guile,’ I panted. ‘Thanks, Todd. Shit, I need a shower. Okay to use the clubhouse?’
‘Sure.’ He went to his bag and took out a plastic tag like the one Mrs Kent had given me. ‘This’ll get you in. I’ll just tidy up here a bit.’
I couldn’t believe the luck. I made a feeble offer to help him but he waved me away. I collected my clothes and walked quickly back to the Nissan. I dumped the suit, the racquet and tennis bag and took out the bag with the casual gear. It also happened to have my. 38 inside it. A study of the brochure had shown that there was a side entrance to the club leading directly to the squash court, swimming pool, gym, sauna and locker room. Less chance of meeting Mrs Kent, but I kept the peak of my cap drawn down over my face as much as possible anyway.
There were a few lap swimmers trawling up and down and I could hear grunts from the weights room. A tough game of squash was in progress. It made me think of Cy. They’d be finished at Rookwood now and the long sit-in at the house would have begun. I pushed open the door to the locker room thinking that Cy would have choked about the WASP pretentiousness of this place. ‘Stained woodwork to convey an air of spurious antiquity,’ he would have said, or something such. I was missing him and I was angry about everything.
The locker room was empty. I inhaled the familiar smell of sweat and liniment, strode to the bank of lockers and dumped my bag down in front of C20. A name tag slipped into the space provided read ‘W. KATZ’. The key was in a zip pocket of the bag. I took it out and tried it. The door, nearly as tall as me, swung smoothly open. The locker was deep and divided into two compartments. On the top shelf was a pair of sneakers, some tennis balls and an unsealed padded jiffy bag. I opened it and a thick quarto sized notebook slid out. I caught it before it hit the tiles and flipped through a few pages. It was a kind of diary-cum-journal. The language looked like German but I was willing to bet it was Yiddish and that the writer was Klaus Rosen. I put the notebook on top of my bag.
In the lower part of the locker were an empty sports bag, two tennis racquets and something wrapped in heavy plastic. I pulled it out and was surprised at its lightness, but not by its size or shape. What I had in my hands was an assault rifle-folded-down, moulded plastic stock, handgrip, trigger guard. Taped to it were two other items also plastic-wrapped- at a guess, a magazine and a telescopic sight.
The door whispered open and I spun around. My gun was only inches away, but tucked deep inside my bag. Wilson Katz had a pistol in his hand, pointed at my chest and all ready to fire. So did Todd Rattray.
27
