Beware of the Dog ch-15

by Peter Corris

  ‘She’s dead,’ Robert said. ‘She had an accident.’

  ‘What sort of accident?’

  He thrust out his underslung chin, ready to take another unhappy memory on it. ‘She was washed off some rocks in Queensland. She drowned.’

  I grunted sympathetically and made a note. ‘No pictures of Paula herself. Why’s that?’

  ‘Paula never let anyone touch her camera,’ Verity said.

  ‘There must have been other cameras around.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘Paula never let herself be photographed. She wouldn’t even sit for the school photograph session. I remember we once tried to force her

  ‘Who’s we?’ I said.

  ‘Nadia and I. I tried to hold her while Nadia took the snap. Paula fought like a tiger. I couldn’t hold her. She scratched Nadia’s face and broke the camera. No-one tried again after that.’

  ‘What was Paula’s attitude to you?’

  ‘She despised me, as she despised all men.’

  ‘What about her and Karen?’

  They exchanged looks as if considering cooking up a story. Then Verity shrugged. ‘She and Karen got on fine. Karen was the only one of us Paula had any time for.’

  ‘It was strange,’ Robert said. ‘Karen wasn’t his child any more than the rest of us, although Paula said she was. They looked rather alike, but Karen’s mother had been such a slut anyone could’ve been the father. Paula called Karen her real sister, but I think it was just because she shared her liking for dogs.’

  I was drawing lines on the page of my notebook, connecting names. ‘I don’t get it. You were just kids. You couldn’t have known anything about…’

  ‘We did!’ Verity snapped. ‘We knew all about it. They never talked about anything else except who was screwing who, and who had whose nose and eyes. It was sick.’

  ‘It was baronial,’ Robert said. ‘He liked to accumulate the women and children and dogs and cats around him like a medieval baron. Actually, I think the Wilberforces ran cotton factories or something.’

  ‘Barons need acres.’ I tapped the photograph I’d detached of the dead dog. ‘This place in the country, Does Wilberforce still own it?’

  ‘Fitzroy House, near Mittagong,’ Verity said. ‘No, it was sold off some time back in one of the divorce settlements. I’m not sure, but I don’t think he’s got anything left now except that ghastly place in Randwick. Randwick!’

  I drank some more of the wine and felt a terminal tiredness creeping over me. Running into dead ends didn’t help. I asked them if they could give me the names of any of Paula’s friends. Verity cracked the first smile I’d seen from her that night.

  ‘None,’ she said. ‘Zero.’

  ‘Come on. Her father told me she’d lived with a man for a time.’

  Verity shook her head. ‘Not in that way. I’d bet anything she’s a virgin.’

  Robert blushed and plucked at the skin on a bit of salami. ‘I’m getting a bit sick of all this about Paula. We’ve spent more time thinking about her tonight than she’d have spent thinking about anyone else in her whole bloody life. What’s so important about Paula? What about Verity’s problem?’

  I could see his point. I told them about the gun and how Paula had used it to shoot Phillip Wilberforce. I told them that the pistol might still be loaded. They were both stunned.

  ‘She couldn’t have meant to kill him,’ Verity said. ‘Not unless she’s gone completely crazy. If you kill someone you can’t inherit their estate, right?’

  ‘As far as I know,’ I said. ‘I thought there wasn’t much of an estate. Just the house.’

  For some reason, all the talk and drama had restored some vitality to Verity. She pushed back her hair; the wine had done something for her colour and her eyes were brighter. ‘D’you realise what that dreadful pile is worth? I remember Patrick put a valuation on it once-a couple of million.’

  ‘Not in this market,’ I said.

  ‘Still, a million five, at least.’

  Robert seemed to find all this distasteful, or perhaps he just had good powers of concentration. ‘Verity, Hardy-what’s she going to do?’

  I rubbed my long dark stubble and felt my injured back stiffening, the skin on the burnt patches growing tight. The itch in my fingers where the split skin had only just healed made me want to scratch. ‘Paula’s psychotic, it looks like. She’s got things against you both. She had something against Patrick Lamberte.’

  Verity snorted derisively. ‘She didn’t! Patrick? She scarcely ever met him.’

  I took the defaced photograph from my pocket and spread it out on the table. ‘This is Paula’s work. I’ve reason to believe that she treated a painting of Patrick in the same way.’

  Verity gaped at the creased, well-worn picture.

  ‘He’s naked. I can’t believe it. Patrick and Paula? No.’

  ‘What’re those shapes in the background?’ Robert said.

  ‘Who cares about fucking shapes in the background?’ Verity screamed. ‘This is my husband, posing naked for that crazy bitch.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ I said. ‘She could have air-brushed the photo, doctored it in some way. I haven’t had a chance yet to find out.’

  Verity slumped back in her chair. ‘That bastard! That slut! I want a cigarette.’

  ‘You don’t smoke,’ Robert said.

  ‘I stopped, now I want to start again.’

  Robert stopped staring at the photograph and flapped his hands uselessly. ‘Hardy?’

  I shook my head. ‘Tomorrow we’ll go and see your solicitor, Mrs Lamberte. Then we’ll trot along and you’ll make a statement to the police. I’ll support everything you say. You’ll be off the hook, I’m sure. You can get to see your kids again.’

  Verity let go a long sigh. ‘Thank God.’ Robert was the only one who didn’t seem to think it was a brilliant strategy.

  15

  Brian Garfield, Verity’s solicitor, was a man I’d done business with before. When I showed up with Verity at his office in Neutral Bay he controlled his surprise by expressing his agitation.

  ‘Verity, my God, where have you been? I’ve had the police and the bank and every Tom, Dick and Harry after you.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Brian. I believe you know Cliff Hardy.’

  I’d told Verity about my former dealings with Garfield on the drive to Neutral Bay. I’d spent the night in Robert’s spare room, used his shower, shampoo and a disposable razor and accepted a croissant and coffee for breakfast. I was feeling better than I had for many days. Well enough to pretend that I was happy to see Garfield again. We shook hands warily.

  His offices were all blue walls, grey carpets and white furniture. It felt like stepping into a modern art exhibition. I like the old-time legal offices where thick files tied up with pink ribbon are stuffed into book cases and there are rows and rows of legal reports with cracked bindings. The reports were there all right, but the bindings looked as though they’d never been bent. I knew where all the files were- on computer disks. Garfield ordered coffee for us from a secretary in a tight skirt and we settled down, him behind his big, empty desk and Verity and I in sweetly padded chairs.

  ‘Tragic business, my dear,’ Garfield said. ‘I hope…’

  Verity had cleaned herself up. She shone again, if not quite with the same lustre as before then with enough to suggest she’d get it all back in time. ‘I didn’t do it, Brian,’ she said brightly.

  Garfield undid the buttons on his double-breasted suit jacket. There were quite a lot of buttons. He was a small man with a big ego. I am a biggish man with an ego smaller than his. His size had something to do with his ego. I had worked for him on a white-collar crime case which he’d lost. We had not got on well.

  ‘Of course you didn’t. Ah, coffee.’

  He made a fuss over the coffee and drew the whole business out for twice the necessary length. I recalled that he charged by the hour.

  ‘I want to make a statement to the police. Mr Hardy has already
made a statement. He wishes to add a few things in support of mine.’

  ‘I see. No problem.’

  ‘Detective Sergeant Willis is the man to get hold of,’ I said.

  Garfield stabbed a button on his console and asked someone to get him Willis on the phone. Maybe it was the same woman who’d made the coffee. If so, she was scoring well that morning. Garfield was talking to Willis within thirty seconds. The lawyer didn’t say much. Verity drank her coffee and looked serene. I drank mine and felt uneasy. I was uneasy about her serenity, but what do I know about widowhood and parenthood? I began to wonder whether Verity would inherit anything from Patrick besides bad memories. Would Brian know? It didn’t matter because he wouldn’t tell me. Still, it was something to think about instead of grey carpet and blue walls.

  Garfield replaced the phone. ‘He can see us in an hour.’

  ‘Good,’ Verity said. ‘How does Patrick’s death affect the Family Court proceedings?’

  Garfield looked at his watch. ‘Renders them null and void. Of course, many loose ends to tie up. But your worries about getting sole custody are… as things have turned out, at an end.’

  If you leave matters to people like Garfield they’ll smooth everything over at a hundred dollars an hour no matter how long it takes. I put my coffee cup and saucer down on his white desk awkwardly, so that some of the coffee slopped out onto the snowy surface. ‘How does Verity stand in relation to Patrick’s estate?’ I said.

  Garfield was shocked, or pretended to be. ‘Really, Hardy. I don’t..’

  ‘Sure you do, Brian. The wife is suspect numero uno until someone else is nailed. Verity hired me to sniff around Patrick. She didn’t ask your permission. We’re both slightly in the shit, as you’ll see when we meet Willis. Patrick was screwing Verity’s sister.’

  ‘Some sister,’ Verity snarled.

  ‘You see how it is, Brian. The Family Court may be happy with a few well-worded depositions, but the police won’t be.’

  Garfield, to give him his due, was a fighter if sufficiently provoked. ‘With a roughneck like you involved, I suppose you’re right. I can’t imagine what possessed you to engage this man, Verity. He’s..’

  ‘Honest, I think. How do I stand in relation to Patrick’s crumbling empire?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Garfield muttered. ‘You’d have to ask Clive Stephenson and I very much doubt that he’d tell you.’

  I had my notebook out. ‘Is that with a “v” or a “ph”, Brian?’

  ‘Get stuffed,’ Garfield said.

  Verity giggled. ‘Brian, name and address, please.’

  ‘With a “ph”. Stephenson, Bedford and Waters, Martin Place.’

  I scribbled, put the notebook away and got out of my chair. ‘Let’s go and see the cops.’

  Verity was good, very good. She told her story fluently, but not too fluently, with emotion, but not too much emotion. It pretty much dove-tailed with what I’d said because I’d worded her up that way. I made a brief statement confirming a few things, dotting an ‘i’ and crossing a ‘t’ or two. This time we didn’t have to wait for a print-out. It came at the touch of a few keys and Verity and I signed.

  Willis escorted us out the rear exit into the dark alley which is all College Lane is, and called me back. I hesitated. My business with Verity Lamberte was finished on one level, on another I was reluctant to let her walk off. We had driven to the city in the Land Cruiser. Garfield had his BMW. He offered to drive Verity to her Mum’s place in Point Piper. What could I say? I waved them goodbye and turned back to Willis.

  ‘I’m surprised to see you lined up with that little prick, Hardy,’ Willis said.

  ‘I’m not lined up with him.’

  ‘What about her? Cool as you like. Reckon she did it?’

  ‘No.’

  Willis dug in one ear with his forefinger and examined the result. ‘Smith and Wesson. 38 automatic pistol, serial number AS 123/4874, issue permit number… shit, I forget. It’s not doing you any good, having that floating around.’

  ‘Tell me about it. I was hoping you’d had some sightings of Paula Wilberforce. Found her car. Something like that.’

  ‘Fuck-all. Have you got anything else to tell me?’

  Willis’ face was a mask of non-disclosure. I took my cue from him.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said.

  He flicked the dirty ear wax against the door of a parked police car. ‘Here’s something. You know a trick cyclist named Holmes?’

  ‘I’ve met him.’

  ‘We got onto him. He treated the Wilberforce nutter. Wouldn’t tell us a bloody thing of course. I mentioned you and how it was your gun that did the job. You know, since everything was so confidential, like.’

  ‘Sure,’ I said.

  ‘He said he’d be willing to talk to you.’

  ‘He probably only said that because he didn’t like you.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit.’ Willis moved forward quickly and jabbed my third shirt button with a blunt, hard finger. ‘You go and see him, Hardy. Have a cosy chat. And if you get anything useful I want to hear it next. Understand?’

  ‘Or else what?’

  He turned away and moved back towards the door. ‘Or I’ll have a good shot at yanking your fucking licence.’

  I drove to St Peters Lane and parked the Land Cruiser where I usually park the Falcon. With no sticker it was in danger of incurring a fine but what the hell? I was already being treated like an outlaw. My office had accumulated several weeks’ worth of junk mail, bills, receipts and dust. I dealt with it all systematically, hoping that routine tasks would bring with them some clear thinking, even insights. Nothing came. As I cleared away the scraps of paper I’d used to wrap the bullets I started to think about explosives. No-one I’d met so far in this business had struck me as a mad bomber. But I realised how little I knew about most of them-particularly Karen Livermore and Lamberte. Could Patrick Lamberte have blown himself up by accident or design?

  When I’d cleared the debris and written a few cheques to pay overdue bills, I rang Dr John Holmes in Woollahra. I had a clear memory of the place- a tree-shaded street with deep gardens fronting elegant Victorian houses. They were the sorts of houses that cost a fortune to buy, another fortune to restore and a hell of a lot to maintain. A woman answered the phone. I stated my name and business was put straight through to Holmes.

  ‘Mr Hardy, the private detective,’ he said in his honeyed tones. ‘I trust you are well.’

  ‘I’ve been better and I’ve been worse, doctor. How about you?’

  ‘Hmm, much the same I’d say. Could you come here? I’d rather like to talk to you.’

  ‘About Paula Wilberforce. Why?’

  ‘Have you any idea how many women kill their fathers?’

  ‘No, how many?’

  ‘Virtually none. It’s of the utmost urgency that she be located and given treatment.’

  ‘Is she dangerous?’

  ‘Very.’

  Darlinghurst to Woollahra is ten minutes in time, a couple of kilometres in distance and a huge leap economically and socially, but I had no reason to feel uncomfortable. As I drove along Holmes’ street, I noticed that the Land Cruiser fitted in nicely. A good number of its brothers and cousins were nestled into the driveways and carports. I’ve been told that the great majority of 4WDs sold in Australia never leave the bitumen. They are status symbols and dream machines. ‘One day, Vanessa, I’ll sell the agency and we’ll drive around Australia. I’ve always wanted to see Kakadu.’ But Vanessa ends up driving the thing to do the shopping, while Jeffrey takes the Volvo to work.

  I parked outside Holmes’ high brick wall and was surprised to see the extra security systems installed since my last visit a few years back. More status trappings, maybe. The squawk box and buzzer got me through the gate but only into a tunnel that led to the front door. The tunnel was constructed of metal bars, thin but tough-looking and too closely meshed to allow escape. The bars were arched across the path, bolted into
a track along the bottom and into the high side wall. Outside of them the garden was lush and green, but the bars spoilt the effect.

  I tramped up towards the front door and the bell. There was absolutely nothing else to do. As I stepped up onto the porch I expected a metal grill to come slamming down behind me. Instead, I got looked at through a fish-eye lens and there was more electronic communication.

  A female voice said, ‘Can you show some identification, please?’

  I held my licence folder up to the lens.

  Thank you.’

  The door opened and I moved into the big entrance area that I remembered from my first visit. The huge mirror was still there, but not the woman dressed in riding gear. Now she was wearing jogging clothes- a white designer tracksuit with headband and Reeboks. The sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as she jogged gently on the spot.

  ‘Up the stairs and the first on the right.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to come?’ I said. ‘Great for the hamstrings.’

  She giggled and kept on jogging.

  I went up the stairs and opened the door she’d indicated. Dr John Holmes rose from behind his desk and moved forward to meet me. He had become even more bear-like with the passage of a few years- massive chest, huge shoulders. His heavy-jowled face was dominated by a broad, spreading nose and thick pepper-and-salt eyebrows. I prepared myself for his grip but was surprised to find it mild. The other time we’d shaken he’d nearly demobilised the thumb and two fingers.

  ‘Hardy, yes. You’ve been through a bit since we last met, I see. Sit down. Sit down.’

  He’d been through something himself. He’d gained weight, lost hair and his eyes were muddy. One of his thin cigars was burning in an ashtray on the desk and he picked it up and inhaled as if he wanted both lungs to be completely filled. I sat down in a chair pulled up close to the desk, well away from the leather couch. A blind had been drawn halfway down the big window behind Holmes’ desk and the room was gloomy. The smoke he was exhaling went up and floated around the ceiling rose. The hand I’d shaken, the books in the shelves on three walls, the chair, all smelled of cigar smoke.