The Washington Club by Peter Corris

the side. Quick as you can.’
    â€˜Coming up.’
    â€˜The departing chief here installed the machine as a gift to the station,’ he said. ‘Makes good coffee.’
    I grunted my thanks.
    Bolton grinned at me. The frown line stayed, even though he was almost smiling. It gave him an ambiguous, hard-to-read look. ‘ I never knew a murderer who felt like a kip afterwards, unless he was all bombed out on drugs. Relax, Hardy, I’ve checked you on our computer and spoken to Frank Parker who vouches for you. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
    Frank, now a Deputy Commissioner in the New South Wales Police Force, was an old friend. ‘Just a dead mate and a lady in very serious trouble.’
    â€˜Maybe you’d like to tell me something about that.’
    A uniformed constable knocked and brought in a tray with two mugs of coffee on it along with some mini-cartons of long-life milk and sugar cubes wrapped in paper. I took mine with everything—three milks and three sugars. By the time I’d stirred the milk and sugar in the drink was warm rather than hot but I drank it anyway. Whoever had prepared it had taken Bolton at his word—the coffee was very strong and I could feel the caffeine and sugar kicking in as Bolton flipped the switch again . . .
    It was 2.30 a.m. when I left North Sydney. The Camry was in the station car park and the electronic gadget and everything else worked just fine. The ignition key was in my pocket but the car had a few more kilometres on the clock than when I’d left it. Made you wonder how good these security gizmos really were. I sat behind the wheel for a few minutes, mulling over what I’d told Bolton and wondering what to do about Claudia. Bolton had been easy, almost friendly. I worried about that. In the old days there’d have been shouts, threats,cigarettes offered and denied, shoes against chair legs. I felt as if I was getting late-’90s treatment and didn’t know how to cope with it.
    In keeping with the times, I’d played it selective but pretty straight. I’d begun by pointing out that Cy was a high-profile criminal lawyer of longstanding. Matters he’d worked on in the past or other matters on hand could have explained the attack and I had no knowledge of such things. His death didn’t necessarily have anything to do with my current case. Bolton gave that short shrift and pressed for details. I’d mentioned the grenades in my car (I knew he’d find out about them easily anyway) and the surveillance I’d mounted outside Claudia’s flat which had been all at the wrong time and to no effect. I’d told him about the car I’d seen speeding away after my first visit, but not that I’d identified Haitch Henderson as the driver. I said I’d paid calls on various people connected with the case but declined to name them or provide any details. Getting back at me for that, Bolton had hung on to my gun for testing—minor sparring.
    In days gone by he’d have held me overnight, just on principle, but times had changed and Bolton appeared to be working to the spirit as well as the letter of the law. The record of interview had been fed into a computer and I signed the printout. He said he’d see me again and expressed the hope that I’d cooperate in every way, including securinghim an interview with Mrs Fleischman. No leer, no wink.
    It had been a big night for technology and I decided to stick with it. I used the car phone to ring Claudia. Fittingly, I got her answering machine message: ‘
This is Claudia. I’m not taking calls just now. Leave a message after the tone if you wish.’
    Not welcoming.
    â€˜Claudia, this is Cliff. I’m on the car phone. Just out of the police station. I’m assuming you’re still asleep . . .’ I waited. No response. ‘Okay. Please do as I say in the note. I’m going home to get some sleep,