On the way back to Glebe I tried Gatellari again, with the same result. What I’d learned from Judith Daniels didn’t disturb me too much. Her view of things was skewed by her hatred of Claudia, jealousy, reaction to failed marriages, incipient alcoholism and who knows what else. Whether her father told her he was afraid of Claudia or not, there was no need to believe him. Still, I was aware of how slanted my own thinking was getting and I urgently wanted to talk to Claudia and get her reaction to some of these things. I was pretty sure that Haitch Henderson was Judith Daniels’ threatening caller, but how he knew about her spending time at Rhino’s place was anybody’s guess.
But Van Kep was my next target and that required a change of clothes. At home I wolfed down a cheese sandwich and climbed into drill trousers and a blue polo shirt. I swapped the white denim jacket for a zippered khaki job, still loose enough to hide the gun. From Daphne I picked up three business cards that identified me as Henry Pitt, BArch (Sydney), BA (Nebraska State) Landscaping Consultant, and a coloured brochure setting out the claims of Pitt amp; Partners to beautify any patch of ground on earth. We’d fixed up golf courses, changed grass tennis courts to Rebound Ace and vice versa and turned rubbish dumps into Japanese water gardens. We were specialists in American horticulture, Australian native gardens and matching natural to man-made visual landscapes. I was also a contributing editor to a magazine named Classic Gardens. The mock-up of a cover featured my article on ‘The Political Economy of Symbolic Gardens’. The telephone number on the card was Daphne’s private number in her office and she agreed to put an appropriate message on the answering machine for the next few hours.
‘You look okay,’ Daphne said. ‘Might scuff up the shoes a bit.’
The dog she always had with her, even in the pub, came over and investigated the brown leather.
‘Maybe she could piss on them for me?’
‘Never. Have fun, Cliff. I’ll send you a bill.’
I drove to Northbridge, thinking that I was spending more of my time on the wrong side of the harbour lately and wondering what this meant. The. 38 felt heavy in its holster and rubbed me under the arm disconcertingly. I reminded myself that, one way or another, Van Kep was involved in Fleischman’s killing, and that almost certainly linked to Cy’s death, so what was a little discomfort?
Northbridge is hilly, affording views of the harbour from different points. The grounds of the Washington Club must have covered more than a hectare and the council rates would be colossal. I cruised in through an impressive set of gates down a wide gravel drive that curved gracefully up to a large sandstone building occupying the high point of the block. Three storeys, grey slate roof, wide verandah all around, creeper climbing halfway up the walls. There were deep garden beds all along the length of the drive and through the foliage I caught a glimpse of the tennis courts. I couldn’t see the bowling green and concluded it was behind the clubhouse. Several very tall palm trees rose into the sky to different heights back there and I had the impression that the sloping land was terraced in some way, if that was the word. Henry Pitt would know.
Five vehicles were parked in bays, two fancy 4WDs, a couple of Mercs and a white Cadillac stretch limousine. I assembled my materials, climbed down and tried to give an impression of a very knowledgeable man assessing what he saw in an expert way. I scarcely know one plant from another, but I nodded and clucked and advanced purposefully towards the wide steps leading up to an ornate porch. The double doors were open and I wiped gravel off my feet on the large mat with ‘Washington Club’ etched into the door. The interior was darkish, cool and smelled of money. There were large earthenware bowls filled with flowers, mounted on pedestals, and I could see boards on the walls with names on them in gold leaf.
A booth with a sliding glass panel was on the left side just before a set of stairs that led to the inner recesses of the club. I pressed the button on the counter and waited for a full minute before the panel slid open. A woman with white hair and a young face looked at me in a friendly but cautious way.
‘Yes? Can I help you?’ The accent was American, Southern possibly, appealing.
I gave her a card and launched into my spiel, saying I’d like to talk to the manager about possibly doing an article on the club’s garden for Classic Gardens or offering my services as a consultant should the club have any plans for changes to the grounds. I slipped in at least three compliments before I stopped.
She was handsome and perfectly groomed. Impossible to guess her age. ‘I’m Mrs Kent, Mr Pitt. I’m the club manager and secretary. I guess it’s me you should talk to.’
Please don’t let her ask me anything about Nebraska, I thought. She didn’t. I said I was glad to meet her, that I’d heard a lot about the club’s gardens and would be very glad if I could look around.
‘That’d be fine. We’re very proud of our gardens. I’m a little busy right now or I’d give you the tour. We’ve got a conference on later this afternoon. But you’re welcome to look and when you come back I’m sure I can find some time to talk with you. Could you wait just one minute, please? You might care to look at one of our brochures.’
She wore reading glasses on a silver chain and she put them on to look at the card more closely before backing away. Odds on she’d ring the number on it to check. No worries. I picked up a couple of the glossy brochures on the counter, added them to my papers and waited. She came back after a couple of minutes, gave me a warm smile and handed me a plastic pin-on tag with ‘Visitor’ printed on it in the space between the Australian and American flags. I pinned it to my jacket and strode back out into the sunlight and down the steps. The gravel crunched under my feet.