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and I hadn’t even landed a punch.
    I made a pot of coffee and spiked a big mug of it with brandy. I had three painkillers and by the time I was halfway through the second spiked coffee I was feeling solid enough to do some thinking. I ran my mind back over the encounter in the pub and a few things about it struck me as strange. Rhys Thomas could obviously handle himself, so why would he need two heavies in support? I’d got him to repeat his grievance because there seemed to be something almost rehearsed about it as it came out the first time, and even more so the second. I was searching for a lead on the guy with the money and it came to me. He bore a strong resemblance to Jonas Clement. A son? And, although it’s hard to tell from one word, and one phrase, the way he pronounced ‘Out!’ and his use of ‘man’ had a South African touch to them.
    If I was right in my guesses, all that put the pub incident in a very different light. Clement’s son wouldn’t have gone along to support Thomas on a personal affront. More likely he was doing what his dad wanted him to do, which was put the frighteners on me. That meant he knew about my connection with Louise Kramer and was sufficiently worried about it to take some pretty crude action. I called Lou’s home and mobile numbers and got the voicemail. I left a message sketching in a few of my suspicions and suggesting that we get together urgently. Nothing more to be done tonight.
    I went to bed with my coffee and brandy and paracetamol buzz with one comforting thought. There hadn’t been time for Bob Armstrong to alert anyone to my interest in Clement and activate the Thomas heavy brigade. That still left the question of how, when and why Clement came to think me worthy of his plutocratic attention.
    Lou Kramer rang me before eight the next morning. She said she was using some flexi-time she’d racked up before she went on to a part-time contract to work at home and was too busy to meet me anywhere. She asked me to come to her flat. No harm in sussing out the client’s residence. I got a taxi to Balmain and picked up the car. Untouched. I parked with dubious legality, walked a block, and buzzed at the door of the newly and expensively renovated old building in Surry Hills. It stood across from Ward Park, named after Eddie Ward, ‘the firebrand of East Sydney’, a hero of my father’s. Fewer of Eddie’s kind of voters around here now.
    â€˜The Surrey Apartments’— six floors and from the top there’d be a great view of the city whichever way you looked.
    â€˜Push, Cliff. Fifth floor.’ I pushed and the door released. The lift was smooth and quick and she was standing with the door open when I got there.
    â€˜Jesus Christ, you just said you’d been knocked about a bit.’
    â€˜It’s not as bad as it looks.’
    She beckoned me in and kept staring at my battered face. ‘That reminds me of that joke about Wagner—his music’s not as bad as it sounds. Can you see out of that eye?’
    â€˜Sure. So this’s what you pay the big mortgage on? Pretty nice.’
    â€˜Location, location, location.’
    The apartment had a short, wide hallway giving on to a big, light, airy living room with several rooms leading off it. The windows ran from waist high almost to the ceiling and the outlook was to the east. I’m always amazed to see how many trees there really are in Sydney. The sky was cloudy and visibility wasn’t good but I suspected there’d be a view of water on a clear day. The room had a good lived-in feel, with books, magazines, CDs and DVDs not put away where they belonged. What looked like the day’s broadsheets lay around, haphazardly folded open.
    At her invitation I sat near a low table on a comfortable chair and she brought in coffee. She glanced at her watch as she set the tray down.
    â€˜I won’t keep you long.’
    â€˜Sorry.