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‘Yes.’
    â€˜That’s something I suppose. I haven’t been getting too many votes of confidence lately. I’ll have to make do with that. What people?’
    The beep of an incoming call distracted me. ‘What?’
    â€˜You said you were looking for people who wanted Julius dead. Like who?’
    â€˜Well, I’m going to try to get to see Wilson Katz as soon as I can.’
    â€˜Oh
him.
He adored Julius, worshipped him. He called him Captain, would you believe?’
    â€˜I see that he was married to Fleischman’s daughter.’
    â€˜For a while, one of many. I could tell you a bit about that, and about her.’
    I took a risk. ‘I think you should. I think you should tell me everything about everybody who’s even remotely involved. I want to know everything about your marriage, day by day. Otherwise I’m working in the dark.’
    I waited to feel the drop in temperature as before but it didn’t come. There was a long pause but when she spoke again her voice was still the same, smoky, with the almost lisp. ‘I didn’t expect anything like this.’
    You could make anything you wanted of that. I kept quiet and turned over pages until I came to Claudia’s photograph. The grainy, poor quality of the print didn’t take anything away from her. The picture showed her at a party of some sort; she was wearing a simple dark dress and her hair had been piled up somehow. Her neck looked stately and her mouth was a wide, dark slash. She held a champagne flute as if she didn’t quite know what to do with it.
    â€˜Would you like to come over here tonight? We could talk.’
    â€˜Fine. Would you like to go out for a meal?’
    â€˜Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps. We’ll see. I . . .’
    â€˜Okay. Would seven o’clock be right?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    I was suddenly aware that she was saying less and less with each utterance, which can be a sign of distress. ‘Are you all right? What are you doing today?’
    Another pause. I could almost feel the effort she was making to get a few more words out. ‘ I’m all right, yes. I’m not doing anything much. I’ll see you at seven then. Goodbye.’
    I put the phone down, very unsure of what I was letting myself in for, but certain I’d be there at seven sharp unless I got hit by a bus or a bullet.
    The phone rang and it was a reporter from Channel 10 asking for an interview. He’d been to Glebe with a crew and they had footage ofthe police technical boys working on the Falcon before towing it away.
    â€˜Dramatic,’ I said.
    â€˜They say a couple of high-power blast grenades were used. We need to talk to you, Mr Hardy. Who tried to kill you?’
    â€˜You’ve got it wrong. Somebody wanted to kill the car. Sorry, mate, no interview. Thanks for the information.’
    â€˜Huh?’
    â€˜You’ve told me what happened and where my car is. Very useful. Thanks again.’
    I hung up. On television, private eyes go straight for the jugular. If a Harley Davidson’s been spotted in the alley the gumshoe heads directly to the toughest biker bar in town and wraps a pool cue around the neck of a seven-foot behemoth with a beard down to his Nazi chest tattoo. Not me. I had a meeting with the client at seven and it was my responsibility to be fully functional when I got there. That meant leaving the places where I’d have to go to get a line on Haitch Henderson until later. I phoned Fleischman Holdings and asked to speak to Mr Katz’s secretary.
    â€˜Mr Katz’s office. Kathy speaking. How can I help you?’
    â€˜My name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator working for the barrister defending Mrs Fleischman. I’d like to see Mr Katz in that connection at his earliest convenience, please.’
    Kathy said, ‘Just one moment,’ and I waited through fully two minutes’ worth of classicalmusic that