part of him, but his body language was distinctive. Rough, very rough.
I continued on until the road ran out at the military reserve. I three-point turned and came back, checking that Iâd got the number of the house right, seven, and the street name, Sandhill. The house was nothing special, two-storeyed but cramped on its skinny site. The elevation and the view would put a rental and price ticket on the property that would make its original owner mumble in his grave. Not for the first time, I wondered why moneyed people were so obsessed with expansive water views. I can see a bit of Blackwattle Bay from the back of my place when I hoist myself up a bit on the fence and thatâs enough for me.
I drove on, stopped and wrote down the address. All this wasnât brilliant detecting but at least Iâd established that the formerly married Wilson Katz and Judith Daniels were, quite separately, edgy about something or somebody. Nice to be a catalyst at least. It would be something to talk over with Claudia. Two more things: the Toyota Camry had to be a candidate to replace the Falcon if I couldnât get another of the same vintage; and Judith Daniels must have phoned ahead, either from her apartment or from the carâthe owner of the white-sleeved arm had clearly been expecting her.
I drove down Old South Head Road towards Dover Heights and Bondiâmuch more myspeed. The traffic was light and it wasnât difficult to sneak a few looks to the left and see the ocean rolling in. Iâd thought about moving to Bondi some years back but the idea had never really taken root. I wasnât sure why. I suspected Iâd feel reproached by all that sky and sea and fresh air every time I took a drink or ate a hamburger. For me, exercise and nutrition are an option; in Bondi they feel like an obligation.
It was getting on towards the alcohol hour but not quite. I parked in Campbell Parade and went into the closest coffee shop. Over two long blacks I thought about the slim pickings my source had given me on Claudia Fleischman, née Rosen. She was born in Sydney in 1963, the only child of Claus Rosen and his wife Julia Levy, both Holocaust survivorsâboth shipped, parentless, out of Germany in the thirties to relatives in Australia. Claus and Julia both became doctors. They met, married, prospered and had Claudia. The Rosens died in a car accident in 1990.
Claudia had done a BA and LLB at Sydney University. She enrolled for a PhD in Law while working part-time as a solicitor for an Eastern Suburbs firm and part-time as a tutor at UNSW, but sheâd never submitted a thesis. She married Julius Fleischman nine months after her parentsâ death. The file had included a graduation photo of Claudia. Three strikingly handsome people on top of the worldâClaudia and her Mum and Dad. There was also a wedding photograph.Fleischman, tall and distinguished-looking but, to my eye, pushing sixty, was standing with a woman in a long white lace dress that didnât quite suit her full, flowing figure. Sheâd lifted her veil, but for all the expression on her face she might as well have left it down. The very picture of a mystery woman, and the information I had only deepened the mystery.
Iâd only glanced at what the databases had turned up on Van Kep. Perhaps unfairly, Iâd bracketed him with Haitch Henderson as tomorrowâs problem. Now I had a third person to slot in thereâwhite-sleeve of Watsons Bay. I could visualise the arrow on my diagram connecting him to Judith and her to Wilson Katz. Katz was connected to Fleischman and who else? Over the years Iâd managed to convince myself that plotting these links ultimately provided explanations, motives and reasons. Sometimes they did; other times you found out what was really going on when someone hit you with a brick. The idea is to anticipate what might happen next and be prepared for it, to avoid the brick. Sometimes it works.
I paid
I continued on until the road ran out at the military reserve. I three-point turned and came back, checking that Iâd got the number of the house right, seven, and the street name, Sandhill. The house was nothing special, two-storeyed but cramped on its skinny site. The elevation and the view would put a rental and price ticket on the property that would make its original owner mumble in his grave. Not for the first time, I wondered why moneyed people were so obsessed with expansive water views. I can see a bit of Blackwattle Bay from the back of my place when I hoist myself up a bit on the fence and thatâs enough for me.
I drove on, stopped and wrote down the address. All this wasnât brilliant detecting but at least Iâd established that the formerly married Wilson Katz and Judith Daniels were, quite separately, edgy about something or somebody. Nice to be a catalyst at least. It would be something to talk over with Claudia. Two more things: the Toyota Camry had to be a candidate to replace the Falcon if I couldnât get another of the same vintage; and Judith Daniels must have phoned ahead, either from her apartment or from the carâthe owner of the white-sleeved arm had clearly been expecting her.
I drove down Old South Head Road towards Dover Heights and Bondiâmuch more myspeed. The traffic was light and it wasnât difficult to sneak a few looks to the left and see the ocean rolling in. Iâd thought about moving to Bondi some years back but the idea had never really taken root. I wasnât sure why. I suspected Iâd feel reproached by all that sky and sea and fresh air every time I took a drink or ate a hamburger. For me, exercise and nutrition are an option; in Bondi they feel like an obligation.
It was getting on towards the alcohol hour but not quite. I parked in Campbell Parade and went into the closest coffee shop. Over two long blacks I thought about the slim pickings my source had given me on Claudia Fleischman, née Rosen. She was born in Sydney in 1963, the only child of Claus Rosen and his wife Julia Levy, both Holocaust survivorsâboth shipped, parentless, out of Germany in the thirties to relatives in Australia. Claus and Julia both became doctors. They met, married, prospered and had Claudia. The Rosens died in a car accident in 1990.
Claudia had done a BA and LLB at Sydney University. She enrolled for a PhD in Law while working part-time as a solicitor for an Eastern Suburbs firm and part-time as a tutor at UNSW, but sheâd never submitted a thesis. She married Julius Fleischman nine months after her parentsâ death. The file had included a graduation photo of Claudia. Three strikingly handsome people on top of the worldâClaudia and her Mum and Dad. There was also a wedding photograph.Fleischman, tall and distinguished-looking but, to my eye, pushing sixty, was standing with a woman in a long white lace dress that didnât quite suit her full, flowing figure. Sheâd lifted her veil, but for all the expression on her face she might as well have left it down. The very picture of a mystery woman, and the information I had only deepened the mystery.
Iâd only glanced at what the databases had turned up on Van Kep. Perhaps unfairly, Iâd bracketed him with Haitch Henderson as tomorrowâs problem. Now I had a third person to slot in thereâwhite-sleeve of Watsons Bay. I could visualise the arrow on my diagram connecting him to Judith and her to Wilson Katz. Katz was connected to Fleischman and who else? Over the years Iâd managed to convince myself that plotting these links ultimately provided explanations, motives and reasons. Sometimes they did; other times you found out what was really going on when someone hit you with a brick. The idea is to anticipate what might happen next and be prepared for it, to avoid the brick. Sometimes it works.
I paid
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