A private detective without a car is like a ship without a sail, like a boat without a rudder, like a fish without a tail. I caught a taxi to Metro Car Hire in Surry Hills and rented a silver grey Toyota Camry with a sunroof, CD player, air-conditioning and mobile phone. The Falcon needed driving, the Camry only needed steering; everything else it seemed to do itself.
Experience has taught me that it’s useful to see where people involved in a conflict live. The houses can sometimes tell you something about them, the locations themselves can be significant. Or maybe I just fancied driving around for a few hours in the flash car before I called on the client.
The Fleischman pile in Vaucluse was everything you’d expect-white, bigger than anyone would ever need, perched high and commanding a view to make a real estate agent drool. I parked in the street and strolled past the high iron gates, which were well fitted out with an electronic security system, getting a good view into the grounds that looked a little under-gardened for their grand design. I caught a glimpse of a tennis court surrounded by a high brushwood fence with cyclone mesh on top of it to catch mistimed lobs; I couldn’t see the swimming pool but it’d be there all right. There was a three-door garage and a gazebo. From further down the street I looked up to a partial view of the back of the house and could estimate its actual size. Big, very big. Plenty of glass and worked stone, an attic or two and some palm trees. A dream come true.
I stared at the house and wondered how much time Claudia had spent there and what she’d done in the place. That led to speculation about why she’d married a man who’d want such a house. Dangerous ground. I hopped back into the air-conditioning and drove to Woollahra. Judith had positioned herself safely away from where anyone could accuse her of living in Bondi Junction rather than Woollahra. Her apartment was in a big block with a high wall and some massive plane trees to shield it from non-residents. There didn’t seem to be anywhere to park a car off the street. No doubt that would have seemed odd to Daddy, but my guess was that the locals had the area privately patrolled. No chance here of a peek to judge the taste of the occupants. The security looked good.
I parked on the other side of the road in the shade of some more trees and, on a whim, dialled up Judith’s number on the mobile. It was 3-30 p.m. but the voice that answered the phone had drunk its way well past six.
‘Yes? Who’s this?’
‘I’d like to speak to Ms Judith Daniels.’
‘Speaking.’
‘I’m working for Claudia Fleischman’s barrister as a private investigator, Ms Daniels. I wonder if it would be possible for me to have a few words with you? I wouldn’t take up much of your time.’
I could almost smell the gin in the pause that followed. She started to say something, evidently thought better of it and slammed the phone down. I replaced the handset carefully and watched a few leaves settle gently on the bonnet of the Camry. It was my day for upsetting the folks with the money. Not unpleasant. Idly, I pressed the button that opened the hatch on the CD player. There was a disc in place and I lifted it out. Before I could see what it was there was activity across the street.
Judith Daniels, with a scarf over her hair and dark glasses, wearing white stretch pants and a black shirt, rushed through the security gate and threw herself into the red Alfa Romeo sports car parked outside the building. She kept turning the key after the engine had started and the machinery shrieked in protest. She took off from the kerb in a fast lurch then almost turned into a tailspin. She fought the wheel, got the car under control on the wrong side of the road, and accelerated away. If there had been any other traffic her trip would have ended right there.
I U-turned illegally but sedately over double lines and followed at a safe distance and speed. The sports car had to stop at a set of lights only a couple of blocks away, and it was child’s play to hang back and move through the left-hand turn behind her. Her driving settled down after a while. An experienced drunk driver can put on a pretty good show of being sober but I was hoping like hell that she didn’t hit anything or attract cop interest. I wanted to know where she was going. The direction was north-east and in that direction there isn’t all that far to go.
Judith kept up the pace along New South Head Road through Rose Bay and I wondered if she was headed back to where I’d just come from-Vaucluse. But she pushed on and my next thought was that she might circle back at the top and end up at The Gap. Nasty thought, morbid nature. Wrong. She swung off into one of the streets that creep down towards the water at Watsons Bay. I followed, just keeping her in sight around the bends. She stopped outside a tall, narrow white house that commanded a view across Port Jackson towards Middle Head. I crawled past and saw her run up a flight of stone steps. The door opened and Judith was pulled roughly inside the house by a hand at the end of an arm in a white sleeved shirt. I couldn’t see the man’s face or any other part of him, but his body language was distinctive. Rough, very rough.
I continued on until the road ran out at the military reserve. I three-point turned and came back, checking that I’d got the number of the house right, seven, and the street name, Sandhill. The house was nothing special, two-storeyed but cramped on its skinny site. The elevation and the view would put a rental and price ticket on the property that would make its original owner mumble in his grave. Not for the first time, I wondered why moneyed people were so obsessed with expansive water views. I can see a bit of Blackwattle Bay from the back of my place when I hoist myself up a bit on the fence and that’s enough for me.
I drove on, stopped and wrote down the address. All this wasn’t brilliant detecting but at least I’d established that the formerly married Wilson Katz and Judith Daniels were, quite separately, edgy about something or somebody. Nice to be a catalyst at least. It would be something to talk over with Claudia. Two more things: the Toyota Camry had to be a candidate to replace the Falcon if I couldn’t get another of the same vintage; and Judith Daniels must have phoned ahead, either from her apartment or from the car-the owner of the white-sleeved arm had clearly been expecting her.
I drove down Old South Head Road towards Dover Heights and Bondi-much more my speed. The traffic was light and it wasn’t difficult to sneak a few looks to the left and see the ocean rolling in. I’d thought about moving to Bondi some years back but the idea had never really taken root. I wasn’t sure why. I suspected I’d feel reproached by all that sky and sea and fresh air every time I took a drink or ate a hamburger. For me, exercise and nutrition are an option; in Bondi they feel like an obligation.
It was getting on towards the alcohol hour but not quite. I parked in Campbell Parade and went into the closest coffee shop. Over two long blacks I thought about the slim pickings my source had given me on Claudia Fleischman, nee Rosen. She was born in Sydney in 1963, the only child of Claus Rosen and his wife Julia Levy, both Holocaust survivors- both shipped, parentless, out of Germany in the ‘30s to relatives in Australia. Claus and Julia both became doctors. They met, married, prospered and had Claudia. The Rosens died in a car accident in 1990.
Claudia had done a BA and LLB at Sydney University. She enrolled for a PhD in Law while working part-time as a solicitor for an Eastern Suburbs firm and part-time as a tutor at UNSW, but she’d never submitted a thesis. She married Julius Fleischman nine months after her parents’ death. The file had included a graduation photo of Claudia. Three strikingly handsome people on top of the world-Claudia and her Mum and Dad. There was also a wedding photograph. Fleischman, tall and distinguished-looking but, to my eye, pushing sixty, was standing with a woman in a long white lace dress that didn’t quite suit her full, flowing figure. She’d lifted her veil, but for all the expression on her face she might as well have left it down. The very picture of a mystery woman, and the information I had only deepened the mystery.
I’d only glanced at what the databases had turned up on Van Kep. Perhaps unfairly, I’d bracketed him with Haitch Henderson as tomorrow’s problem. Now I had a third person to slot in there-white-sleeve of Watsons Bay. I could visualise the arrow on my diagram connecting him to Judith and her to Wilson Katz. Katz was connected to Fleischman and who else? Over the years I’d managed to convince myself that plotting these links ultimately provided explanations, motives and reasons. Sometimes they did; other times you found out what was really going on when someone hit you with a brick. The idea is to anticipate what might happen next and be prepared for it, to avoid the brick. Sometimes it works.
I paid for the coffee and killed some time by strolling on the concourse. The whole area has been beautified since the old days and they’ve done a pretty good job of it. But the sea and wind will fight back and some of the shrubs won’t flourish and some of the grass will die and some of the paint will flake off. Bondi wants to be a bit shabby, and there are quite a few of us who like it that way.
I arrived early at Kirribilli to see if I could spot the man Marinos had put on Claudia. It wasn’t easy. The cars parked along the street were either empty or occupied by people going about their ordinary business-a man was listening to a stock market report on the radio in an Audi; a woman was behind the wheel of a Corona station wagon waiting impatiently for someone to come out of a house, probably her husband; a man was working on the engine of a Hiace van and the sweat on his face and anger in his movements couldn’t have been anything but genuine.
Eventually, I located the watcher and I had to give him high marks for ingenuity and agility. He’d climbed a fence opposite the apartment block and taken up a position, well-concealed behind shrubbery. One long step up would put him on the brick pillar where the dividing fence between two properties ended and a manageable jump would leave him on the footpath just across the street from the security gate. I had to assume that one of the cars parked nearby was his. I only spotted him when he swatted at an insect. I’ve done a fair bit of shrubbery sitting in my time and my guess was a fly somewhere near the ear-no man alive can withstand that.
I strolled up and leaned against the post. ‘My name’s Hardy,’ I said. ‘I asked Pete to put you on. You can knock off now. I’m going to be spending the next few hours with the lady myself.’
A voice came from the foliage. ‘Right. I’ll just wait until you’re in there and then I’ll disappear.’
‘Been having fun?’
‘I’ve got a Walkman. Been listening to the races.’
‘Good luck. Many callers over there?’
‘I’ll report to Pete, Mr Hardy. Check with him.’
‘You’re a pro.’ I went across the street and pressed the button for the Fleischman apartment.
‘Yes?’ The almost-lisp.
‘It’s Hardy.’
‘So it is. Come on in.’
I hadn’t realised, but should have known, that Julius would have good security-closed-circuit television giving the resident a good look at the caller. Essential. I went through the garden and pressed another button to gain admission to the building. Halfway up the stairs I realised that I’d come empty-handed- no flowers, no wine. Living without a woman had eroded my sense of gallantry. Just have to rely on the good old Hardy charm. I rang the bell beside the door and there was a pause after I heard the approaching footsteps. I guessed she was looking at me through the spyglass. That made three levels of security Julius had installed between them and the street and I wondered how she felt about that.
The door opened wide and welcoming. Claudia stood there in a tight black dress with a short skirt. She wore high heels and dark stockings and her hair was piled up with some wisps free and hanging down. At that moment I thought I understood Julius’ strategies-I’d have wanted to give her Fort Knox style protection too, if she’d been mine. She examined me as if I was a painting on a wall.
‘You’re all right? You’re not hurt?’
I shook my head. She reached out and took me by the arm, drew me inside. ‘It was on the TV news. They showed a picture of your car and I nearly died. Come and have a drink and tell me what happened.’
We went out onto the balcony where she had a bottle of Johnnie Walker Black Label, ice, soda and low-calorie ginger ale. The air was still warm after a warm day but the light breeze was fresh. Good drinking conditions. I had a generous whack of the Scotch over ice while she had half my amount drowned in ginger ale. We sat, pointing ourselves towards the bridge. I told her about the grenades and how by good luck I’d managed to keep my arms and legs attached to the other bits.
‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘Does that sort of thing happen to you often?’
‘No. And not lately. I’m not working on anything else important, Claudia, and I don’t have a backlog of desperate enemies. It has to be to do with you.’
She sipped her concoction. I realised how much I’d needed a drink when I saw that most of this one had gone. I swirled the ice cubes.
‘I suppose you feel you have a right to ask me anything now that you’ve risked your life for me?’
‘I wouldn’t put it like that.’ I reached for the bottle, poured myself a judicious measure and added a little soda water. ‘But I’ve done a little preliminary work and all I’ve come up with is questions, about you, about Wilson Katz, about Judith Daniels. I’ll be needing answers and you must have some of them.’
‘I’m sure I do. I’ll tell you everything I can, but can we go out for a while first? It’s been so long since I’ve done anything normal like going out for a meal.’
‘Of course we can and let’s keep it normal. I won’t ask any questions while we’re out.’
She stood up and plucked at a few of the hanging wisps, making them wispier. ‘That’s good, because you’re in for some surprises, Cliff.’
‘I like surprises,’ I said.