5
Three flights of stairs can have a significant effect on your thinking, particularly after you’ve received a bit of a shock. As I walked along the lifting lino to my office door I realised that I was concentrating my thinking on Haitch Henderson. A car bomb was his style. If that was true the questions followed: was Henderson involved as a principal, for example as the ‘other man’, or was he working for someone else? If so, who and why? I stood outside my office door with the key in my hand and hesitated. The filing card taped to the door with CLIFF HARDY PRIVATE ENQUIRIES printed on it in my best Clovelly Primary School letters, was undisturbed. There were no unusual scuff marks on the floor or signs of illegal entry, but I was anxious. If you’re serious, why not go for a good old one-two?
I decided that was ridiculous and that whoever had set the high-tech bomb would have been confident of a result. I opened the door and went in to the accustomed smells of dust and No Frills disinfectant. The light was flashing on the answering machine and paper had spewed from the fax to form a slightly untidy pile on the card table I’d rigged up behind it. I ignored both forms of communication. First things first. One of my random thoughts in the cab had been about the Falcon. I was in business after all, and it was my habit to regard the economy, as far as it affected me personally, as being in permanent recession and bankruptcy a constant threat.
Ian Sangster had persuaded me to corporatise myself a few years back and I’d done so with considerable misgiving. So far I considered it a lineball between what I’d saved on tax and what accounting fees had cost me. My accountant had stressed to me that the Falcon was my chief piece of capital equipment and the necessity of keeping a close record of every cent spent on it. Was the insurance fully paid up? The papers were on file; I knew I’d seen them recently, but I just couldn’t quite remember writing the cheque. I yanked open the filing cabinet drawer, riffled through the pristine folders in the CLIFF INC section and found the insurance file. The car was comprehensively covered-renewed three weeks ago. I made a two-finger gesture in the direction of where insurance companies conglomerate and got down to some professional analysis.
The material on Julius Fleischman was surprisingly thin, given his wealth. My source opted for a South African origin, with Australian citizenship being granted in 1993-more than twenty years after he first set up business in this country. He was sixty or sixty-four years of age (apparently official documents differed), chairman of the board of Fleischman Holdings Incorporated, a director of this and that, a former economic adviser to several ministers in the previous Coalition government. He had an honorary doctorate from Bond University and was a founding member of the Economic Liberty Society, a business-funded right-wing think-tank that sponsored a magazine, The Mercantilist, radio programs and awarded scholarships in business studies at several universities. Member of the Royal Sydney Golf Club and the Australasian Sailing Club.
Fleischman Holdings was a private company, so its economic solidity couldn’t be judged without inside knowledge. My source asked if I wanted to ‘go this route’. There were substantial mortgages on all of Julius’ known major property holdings-houses, the flats at Kirribilli, the yacht, the plane. That didn’t necessarily mean anything in tycoon land. His interests were given as ‘culture, wine-making, photography, golf. He had been a member of various clubs and a patron of things like the Sydney Opera Company and the Australian Ballet. I read through it all and came out with not the faintest idea of what sort of a man Julius Fleischman had been. The photograph showed a lean face, high forehead, goatee.
When looking at photographs, searching for an insight into the subject, I’d formed the habit of applying one word and trying to extrapolate from that. For Fleischman I came up with ‘discipline’. He looked like a disciplined man and in my experience disciplined people like applying their ideas of discipline to others.
Judith Daniels, nee Fleischman, was more interesting on the surface. Daniels it might have been recently (she’d divorced Mr Daniels a few years back), but it had been Strickland and Katz before that. Katz made me sit up. Judith had married Wilson Katz a few months after her divorce from Weston Strickland had come through. She was then twenty-two. The first marriage had lasted two years. Katz was history as a husband two years later. Daniels, following eighteen months later, had scored three years before being filed away. Judith was now thirty, just. I flicked through the pages to the material on Claudia. Thirty-three. Dangerous situation.
Judith didn’t seem to do much with herself except be ‘seen’ at exclusive places with wealthy people. Her mother and father had been divorced within a year of her birth (there was no information on the first Mrs Fleischman) and Judith had gone to boarding and finishing schools and ‘studied’ abroad. To judge from her photo, what she’d studied most was how-to-be-a-top-person. She was very good-looking-dark, Semitic, with luxuriant hair and a full figure that she’d have to watch if she wanted to keep wearing size twelves. She lived in Woollahra when she wasn’t in Paris, London or LA. Her money came from Daddy and her exes. She drove an Alfa Romeo sports car and had been booked for speeding twice and prosecuted for causing a serious accident while driving under the influence. Fine, community service, suspended sentence. I jotted addresses and telephone numbers down in my notebook.
Wilson Katz was an American, aged forty, who had run his own advertising agency in Sydney until he had joined Fleischman Holdings as personnel manager. At the time of Fleischman’s death he was on the board as vice-chairman. He looked to be medium-sized, fleshy. He sailed with the Sydney amateurs, played golf at the Lakes and had an interest in a Mudgee vineyard. Surprisingly, he was the author of several books- Selling Yourself (1989), Doing Business in Asia (1990) and Playing Poker for Serious Money (1992). All published by Upfront Press-not a household name. Patrick White had said that a writer gives himself away with every word. I made a mental note to get hold of Mr Katz’s revelations.
The phone rang before I moved on to the pages about Claudia. I let the machine pick it up, listening for the umpteenth time to my recorded message. It sounded more world-weary and disillusioned than I’d ever intended. Then Claudia’s unmistakable voice came on the line.
‘My limit for leaving messages, for recorded voices is two, so this is the last try. Again, sorry I was so shitty last night…’
I snatched up the phone. ‘I’m here. I just got in and haven’t played the messages so you can pretend this is number one.’
She laughed. I could see the teeth and the slight inclination of the head and a light sweat broke out on my body. ‘I’ve spent some time looking into the street to see if you’ve put your watcher on. There’re a couple of possibilities but I can’t really tell.’
‘You’re not supposed to. He’ll be there though.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Why the change of heart?’
‘I’m like that. Sometimes everything that’s happened lately seems unreal. Then it hits me-Julius was killed and I’m accused of murder. That’s as real as it gets.’
‘You’re right there.’
‘I’ve been thinking. I’ve never heard of any Henderson. Julius had a computer here that he wrote letters on. I’ve checked the disc-there’s no Henderson. What is it exactly that you’re doing?’
I glanced down at the sheets of fax paper. I’m snooping on you and yours, darling, I thought. ‘I’m fishing around for connections between Van Kep and other people. I’m looking for people who might want your husband dead and you in the dock for it.’
‘Then you believe me.’
‘Claudia, I’ll be honest with you. I don’t believe anybody about anything. That’s the way I’ll play it until… unless something forces me to think differently.’