Beware of the Dog (16 page)

‘Other members of her family.'

‘Have you treated any of them?'

‘I cannot possibly discuss such things with you.'

‘That means yes. Who?'

Another cigar died and another was reborn. ‘My hands are tied.'

‘Dogs,' I said. ‘Great. I'll have to make a note of that.' I made a mock movement of my hand towards my pocket and felt the photograph. I pulled it out, unfolded it and laid it on the polished desk

Holmes leaned forward to examine it.

‘What would you say about this, doc?'

‘Paula's work?'

I nodded. ‘She did a painting, too. I suspect she went at that with a hammer or a knife, maybe both.'

Holmes blew smoke down at the photograph as he stared at it. I looked, too. For an instant the shapes in the background threatened to make sense, then they returned to their enigmatic vagueness.

‘This person is in grave danger. Who is he?'

I retrieved the picture and folded it up. ‘I couldn't possibly discuss that with you,' I said.

I drove away from Woollahra feeling that I'd accomplished something. By the time I reached Glebe I couldn't think what the accomplishment might be. I had a vague feeling that things were coming together, but nothing clearly in my mind to justify the feeling. I've been in this condition before and my usual strategy involves a bottle, a ballpoint and some paper. I was still on antibiotics and medical opinion would be against the bottle. I remembered that I hadn't taken the pills for the last twenty-four hours, against all instructions. On the other hand, maybe the antibiotics accounted for my failure to see a pattern. It didn't seem like a good time to abandon a tried and tested strategy.

Glen's car was parked outside the house. She wasn't due back until the next day and the pessimist in me worried for an instant before the optimist in me was glad. I charged inside, scaring the cat from its sleep in the sun and putting a couple of the weak floorboards to the test. Glen was making coffee. She turned and the smile on her face died.

I reached for her but she held me back. ‘What's wrong?' I said. My first impulse was guilt but I had
nothing to be guilty about. Like Jimmy Carter, I'd sinned in my heart, with Roberta, but that didn't count.

‘When did you last look in a mirror, Cliff?'

‘I dunno.' I'd shaved under the shower in Bellevue Hill and combed my wet hair flat in the steamy bathroom. ‘Not lately.'

‘You look like death. Your colour's bad. And you've got a tic.'

‘I do not have a tic.' As I spoke I lifted my hand to the nerve that was jumping in my cheek.

‘What have you been doing?'

I slumped into a chair, feeling drained. ‘A lot, and nothing.'

‘I phoned last night and when I got no answer I was worried. I put a few things off and came back today.'

I lifted my head to look at her.
Is this it?
I thought.
Is this where we have the fight that brings things to an end?
The possible reason was there. A man in my business can't have a little woman waiting at home for him or getting worried when the phone doesn't answer. Glen knew that, or at least I thought she did. We'd talked about it. Or had I just talked about it to myself? She was wearing civvies—skirt, blouse, heels, and she looked terrific. I wanted to touch her, to go up to bed with her and do our special things. I'd be a fool not to make concessions, not to make allowances for her concern. But …

Glen turned back to her coffee-making. ‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘Didn't mean to be like that. It's only because you've been sick. Ordinarily, you can do what you like. You know that.'

Relief flooded through me. No crisis today. I got up and put my arms around her. ‘I know, love. Sorry
to worry you. I spent the night with a couple of Wilberforces. Verity Lamberte's turned up. I took her into College Street today.' 

‘I know. Good.'

I kept my hold and kissed her clean, shining hair. I tried not to let her feel the irritation rising inside me. I didn't want my movements monitored like that. She turned around and we kissed.

‘D'you want coffee?'

‘Later. I want something else first.'

‘You don't look as if you're up to it. Really, Cliff, you don't look well.'

‘I'm well,' I said. ‘Try me.'

We went upstairs and made love very gently, taking our time, avoiding my tender spots and trying to give each other maximum pleasure. We were both aware that a bad moment had passed. That made a good moment better.

Glen was right about my appearance and physical condition. The damaged parts of my back were inflamed, bordering on infection. In some places the skin was raw and weeping. Glen changed the dressings which I had neglected to do and applied ointment. I took catch-up doses of the antibiotics and aspirin for my slight fever. I drank some light beer and wine and tried to show how tough I was by insisting on watching the news on the portable TV and making caustic comments about Greiner. I fell asleep before they got to the sport and weather and slept the clock around, waking up at 6.00 a.m. to a wet dawn and crashing down again for another three hours.

When I got downstairs I found that Glen had left. I prowled around fearing a note, half-wishing she'd left one. She hadn't. My tough-as-nails cop. I moped through the morning, reading old newspapers and putting off the time where I'd have to sit down with the ballpoint and paper. Frank Parker rang in solicitous mood and I broke it by telling him about the deal struck between Willis and Dr Holmes.

‘Why not, Cliff? Willis has to get a handle on you somehow. People blown up in mountain shacks. Loaded pistols floating about. I admire his sense of endeavour.'

‘Shit, Frank. I'm up to my balls in questions with no answers. And my livelihood is on the line.'

‘That's the way it should be. This is a de-regulated society, haven't you heard? The public sector has to justify every cent spent. That's tough, believe me. The private sector has to compete sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a …'

‘Bullshit.'

‘Yeah, I know. Is there any way I can help, Cliff?'

‘I thought you'd never ask. Complete police records on Paula Wilberforce, Verity Lamberte, Patrick Lamberte, Sir Phillip Wilberforce, Nadia Crosbie, Robert Crosbie and Rudi the dog. Also, all changes of address and movements for the past twenty years.'

The pen scratch noise I could hear on the line stopped. ‘I'm glad you're joking, Cliff. That's impossible.'

‘I know. But you asked.'

‘I'll get you what I can. You want me to have a word with Willis?'

‘No. How's Hilde?'

‘A sweet point in a sour world. Glen?'

‘The same. Thanks, Frank. Hope to hear from you.'

The sky cleared suddenly, the way it will in July, and I went for a walk. Glebe was getting progressively more like Woollahra, but there were still significant differences—like beer cans in the gutters and the TAB doing a roaring trade in the middle of the day. A council worker was sweeping in Boyce Street. He kept moving but he seemed to be more concerned to make a certain number of broom strokes per metre than with the effect. He covered the territory, but a good part of the rubbish remained behind.

I leaned on the fence at the end of Boyce Street and looked out over the Harold Park paceway. A few trotters circled the track quietly. Ground staff were moving around the gardens, betting areas and stands, watering and cleaning, making it a pleasant place for people to lose money at in a few hours. I'd lost a good bit there myself over the years. I considered dropping in at the busy TAB and consulting the form. I didn't. I could pretend that the Wilberforce-Lamberte matter was just another case, deserving of my best efforts but nothing more. Dr Holmes had upped the ante but he really needn't have bothered. The ante was high enough for me already. I had to
know.

I'd spent a couple of hours with the pen and paper by the time Glen got home. I'd got nowhere. She touched my head as she walked past and didn't disturb me. It felt strange. So much consideration and me not doing anything to deserve it. I struggled with frustration and building ill-temper.

‘I'm going out,' Glen said. ‘Police thing. I might be late.'

‘Okay.'

We were both on edge, wanting to leave it there—professional on both sides, no worries. I couldn't. She came down the stairs wearing a blue dress that I liked her in and carrying a black velvet jacket over her shoulder.

‘You look lovely,' I said. ‘
Will there be dancing?'

She laughed. ‘No.'

‘Good. Will the nineteen year-olds with the pectorals and laterals and transversal joints be there?'

‘Uh huh. It's for pooh-bahs. Community policing policy—pollies, the odd Mayor, you know.'

I got up and we drew close for some of the touching and nuzzling that should remind us that we're only animals. We were both still wary, though.

‘Well, I'll be off.' She couldn't find an easy exit line and she looked at the papers and bits and pieces I'd been playing with. She pointed. ‘What's that?'

I picked up the photograph and handed it to her. ‘It's Patrick Lamberte photographed by Paula Wilberforce. The only questions are where, when and why.'

‘It's in the country somewhere. That's a tree and that's a sort of gully.'

I followed her finger as it traced shapes on the surface, shapes I hadn't even seen before.

‘I think you're right. In the country. Well, that rules out Dado.'

‘Don't be a prick, Cliff. I can't help it if you're short of ideas.'

Glen has the sort of eyes that can see ships over the horizon. She'd had no trouble spotting the dead ends indicated by my doodlings. She held the photograph up to the light and looked hard at it.

‘Summer, to judge from the shadows.'

‘What shadows?'

‘There. Dark ones.'

‘Oh, yeah. I don't suppose you've got any idea what those shapes in the background are?' 

‘Dogs,' Glen said.

I went back to my notes and doodles. I wondered what they taught at the Petersham College of TAFE about this sort of situation. What was the reading list for Running out of Ideas I and Dead Ends IIA? The cat decided it was time to leave its place by the radiator and walk across my papers.

‘Scratch about a bit,' I told it. ‘Maybe you can get this stuff into an arrangement that makes sense.'

The cat sat down on top of the mysterious photograph and brushed my pen off the table with its tail.

‘Big help,' I said.

Frank Parker rang soon after. ‘I did a bit of looking around for you,' he said. ‘Nothing much came up. One thing, there was Nadia Crosbie who drowned in Queensland a few years back. Is that yours?'

‘Yes.'

‘Seems there was something fishy about that, no pun intended. The local police weren't entirely satisfied about the circumstances—suspicious person seen in the vicinity, weather conditions, state of the body—that sort of thing. All circumstantial. Nothing came of it. The police up there had other things to worry about at the time. The coroner returned death by misadventure, but I just thought you might like to know.'

I thanked him, recovered my pen and scribbled the date of Nadia Crosbie's death—2 June 1989—on a piece of paper not covered by cat. The cat got offended and jumped off the table. I looked at the notes again. It was risky being a Wilberforce-Lamberte-Crosbie. It was risky being a Hardy. Safer to be a cat.

I got a glass of wine and had one more shot at it, hoping for the light bulb to glow. It didn't. Among the scribble a name written in block capitals stood out. C
LIVE
S
TEPHENSON
. Who the hell was he? Then I remembered that he was Patrick Lamberte's solicitor. His address was in the same building as Cy Sackville, my long-suffering lawyer. Maybe Cy could help me there. That was probably what they taught at TAFE—when in doubt, ring your lawyer.

The words of a song were running through my head as I waited to be ushered into the presence of Clive Stephenson with a ‘ph': ‘In ten years time we'll have one million lawyers … how much can a poor nation stand?' Cy Sackville had arranged for me to see Stephenson at very short notice.

‘After a bit of persuasion Clive said he'd find a window in his diary,' Cy had told me.

‘What?'

‘That's the way he talks. Went to the Chicago Law School. When he looks out at the harbour I think he pretends it's the Great Lakes.'

‘How should I handle him?'

‘Flatter him. If that doesn't work, insult him. Clive's not a subtle guy, but he has got a sense of humour. He owes me a favour or two. He'll play along with you as far as he can.'

‘What's his field?'

‘Company law, what else?'

‘Is he interested in due process of law, justice for all, getting to the truth or money?'

‘Hah,' Cy had said.

Stephenson was older-looking than I had expected,
although maybe he was just practising looking like a judge. He wore a dark suit, striped tie and his hair was a distinguished shade of grey at the sides. His office was super-traditional with an American flavour. Everything Clarence Darrow would have had was there, except perhaps for the cuspidor. He sat me down opposite his desk. I refused coffee.

‘How can I help you, Mr Hardy?' He had a deep voice with an educated Australian accent plus a touch of the mid-west. Pity he wasn't a barrister.

‘You represent the late Patrick Lamberte?'

He nodded. Saving the voice for when it was most needed.

‘Mrs Lamberte hired me to inquire into certain aspects of her husband's dealings. I was present when the house at Mount Victoria burnt down.'

‘Tragic business. What exactly were you looking into?'