The Washington Club by Peter Corris Page B

harness and handled it as if he’d seen such things before. ‘Okay. You say the lady’s your client?’
    â€˜Actually,’ I said, ‘she was Cy’s client. He’s the . . . victim and I’m . . . I was his client. It’s all very complicated.’
    â€˜I can see that. You’re cooperating and I won’t push you. I’d like the lady’s name.’
    â€˜Claudia Fleischman. She’s awaiting trial for the murder of her husband.’
    â€˜Jesus Christ,’ Bolton said, ‘Okay, I’ll get a policewoman in here to keep an eye on her. We’d better get going. The bloodhounds can’t be far off.’

11
    Bolton said he’d need to talk to Claudia at some point but for now he let her sleep. He allowed me to write her a note. How do you tell someone her lawyer’s just been murdered and her new lover’s off to the police station and will be back sometime, all in a note? I did the best I could, told her not to be alarmed if a policewoman was there, propped the note up on the bedside table centimetres from her head and left a card in case she’d lost the first one with my home address and phone number on it as well as the office and mobile numbers. I said I’d phone her as soon as I was clear and that I wanted her to stay where she was or come to me and go nowhere else. There was no way for her to feel safe or act as if she was. I hoped she’d remember my advice about her personal security. If I’d known her better I could have suggested the name of someone to come over and keep her company. Maybe, but my snooping tended to make me think that there wasn’t any such person. That didn’t make leaving the flat any easier.
    As police stations go, North Sydney was better than average. The lighting was muted rather than the harsh brain-searing stuff which used to be standard and you still get sometimes, and the room they put me in had been softened down by a couple of bright prints on the walls and a pot plant or two. If you really want to intimidate someone, you interrogate them under a light in the middle of a dark room, where they come to feel danger and threat in the space around them, especially behind. Here, the desk with the chairs on either side of it was tucked in a corner, almost cosily. The video equipment looked to be state of the art. There was no sign that anyone had ever smoked in the room since it had undergone its last revamp. That’d be a problem for some people, but perhaps they interviewed the really tough guys who smoked cigarettes somewhere else.
    â€˜Your car’s been searched and sniffed at, Mr Hardy,’ Bolton said, before he activated the recording. ‘Seems no reason to impound it. It’s here for when you need it.’
    I took the electronic alarm and locking device out of my jacket pocket and showed it to him. ‘You mean your people by-passed everything? I’m impressed.’
    Bolton smiled and flicked a switch. Machinery hummed.
    â€˜What about my gun?’ I said.
    Bolton frowned and turned the hum off. ‘When this is over we can talk about that, okay?’
    I shrugged. Flick. Hum.
    â€˜North Sydney police station. Detective Sergeant Craig Bolton OIC. Interview with Mr Cliff Hardy of . . .’
    Bolton recorded the date and time of the interview, my address, PEA licence number and other formal details. As he was running through the circumstances that had led to the interview I realised how tired I was. I felt my head growing heavy and my body started to cry out for a level surface to stretch out on. Bolton switched off the machine.
    â€˜Are you all right?’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’m tired. It’s been a bastard of a day and a hell of a night. I’m whacked.’
    He pressed a button on the desk and a voice came over the intercom. ‘Yes, Craig?’
    â€˜Two coffees in here, please. Strong. Sugar and milk on