The Washington Club by Peter Corris

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 thinningslightly 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 whomthe 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.
    â€˜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.’
    â€˜Her?’
    â€˜My client.’
    â€˜I thought you said Mr Sackville was your client?’
    â€˜Did I? Fuck. I don’t know what I’m saying.’
    â€˜Have you been drinking, sir?’
    â€˜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.
    â€˜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 ifI 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.’
    â€˜Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton. I’m sorry, I don’t smoke.’
    â€˜It doesn’t matter. Neither do I. Someone has to tell his wife.’
    â€˜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