Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

A square block of four acres gives you a frontage of roughly two hundred yards-I retained that much from high school arithmetic. The lots along Salisbury Road were at least that size or possibly bigger. It was hard to tell because some were vacant, others had houses set well back from the road and in most cases there were only hand-painted signs tacked onto trees to indicate where properties began and ended. I used the spotlight mounted on the roof sparingly even though it looked like weekender territory. The track didn’t get a lot of work and the entrances to the blocks had that half-grown-over look that indicates occasional use.

The Lamberte lot was no exception. There was a wire fence running along the front perimeter but one of the strands had snapped; several of the posts had sagged inwards and the fence looked half-hearted. The track onto the block was marked by a gnarled eucalypt which had ‘Lambert’ painted on it, evidently executed by someone other than the owner. Unfamiliar as I was with the area and dark as the tree-lined track was, the Lambertes seemed to have the best of the location. I stopped at the last fence post and looked across the valley. In the far distance I could see the lights of the Bells Line of Road and imagine where the railway must run. Very nice, Patrick, I thought. If I was in the asset-hiding business, this would definitely be one to hide.

The nearest neighbour was the better part of a kilometre away. I could see the back of the house nestled down among a stand of trees, on a rock shelf fifty metres from the road. No lights, no sign of a vehicle. I was tempted to break in and toss the place. You never knew, maybe Mr Patrick Lamberte had a shelf full of wife-murder books- The Memoirs of Dr Crippen, The True Life Story of John Christie, Tony Agostino Tells All I resisted the impulse, recognising it as unprofessional and sloppy. Besides, I was in enough trouble already without adding a break-and-enter charge.

I drove on to where the Electricity Commission track met Salisbury Road. It hadn’t been used for some time and the bush was fighting back, trying to reclaim the cleared space. That suited me. I engaged the four wheel drive and piloted the Land Cruiser slowly along the track, probing ahead with my lights on full beam.

I didn’t want to break an axle on a creek bed or rip a tyre to shreds on a metal stake. But the saplings parted easily, brushing the windows on both sides, flicking at the windscreen, and the fall of the land was gentle. The map suggested the presence of a fire trail running to the right, behind the Lamberte land, but it was too dark to search for it. After the hectic events of the day, the sudden slowing down of movement, the dark and the quiet hit me and let me know how close to exhaustion I was. I could scarcely hang on to the wheel as the tyres bumped along in old, hard-baked ruts. The bush on either side hemmed me in; tall trees shut out the moonlight. I slowed to a crawl and pulled off the track into the trees. Within a few metres the front bumper came to rest against a solid trunk and that was far enough. I killed the lights and waited for a time to make sure my arrival in the valley hadn’t attracted any attention. A couple of wallabies thumped in the bush nearby and some night birds whistled and cooed. By torchlight I emptied my bladder into a fern bush and made my bed in the back of the Cruiser-foam rubber unrolled, sleeping bag spread out, the parka for a pillow, off with the jacket and shoes, a big swig of whisky to clean the clackers and goodnight.

I woke up a few minutes before dawn, that time when the temperature seems to drop suddenly by a couple of degrees. Inside the sleeping bag, with my jeans, shirt and socks on, I was frozen. My breath was like a fog machine in action and when I reached out for my watch I touched metal that stung. It was no hardship to get up and moving. I climbed into my jacket and pulled on the parka, the gloves and the hiking boots and I was still cold. I stamped around in the almost-light, flapping my arms and taking deep breaths of the icy air.

The sun came up and it got slightly warmer immediately. The Cruiser started at the first turn of the key. I backed out of my shelter and began to search for the fire trail. There was a deep frost but only a light mist. The exhaust was sending up clouds of steam. I spotted the narrow, muddy trail and turned onto it. A small creek trickled over rocks and followed the track for a few metres before changing course and running downhill. I stopped at a point I judged to be directly below the Lamberte place. The tree cover had been thinned over the years under the power lines and I had a good view of the country above me. Glass winked in the sunlight to the left. I drove on another twenty metres and swept the hill with the binoculars. I was slightly past the house and a hundred metres below it. Above me was a jumble of rocks that seemed to join up with the rocky shelf on which the cabin sat.

I parked between two big trees; the exhaust steam faded away and the bush noises took over-bird calls, the wind in the trees, running water. My teeth were chattering and my fingers were stiff with cold inside the thick gloves. Wanda’s soup was still warm. I drank almost all of it and ate several slices of bread. I boiled water on the primus and made instant coffee. Then I slung the binoculars around my neck and began to climb the rock pile. It was steeper and harder than it looked from below. After a few minutes I was hot and discarded the parka. The hiking boots were well used, comfortable and gave a good purchase on the damp rocks. A sheer-faced, ten-metre-high boulder forced me to move to my left and when I went round it I found myself on a ledge about seventy-five metres west of, and slightly above the Lamberte cabin.

There was light timber between me and it, but the powerful Zeiss glasses gave me an excellent sight of the back of the house. I squatted and regained my breath. The position could hardly have been better. I could see the track all the way up to the road. Near the house there was a cleared space where cars could be parked; wood was stacked under the jutting eaves and the barbecue area was handy but a safe distance from the building. The water tank was in view and beyond it, connected to the house by a cable, was a small shed which almost certainly housed the generator. The cabin was nicely sited, with a view out over the valley. I couldn’t see it, but I’d have been willing to bet that the place had a front deck, possibly cantilevered out over the rock shelf. No self-respecting architect could do otherwise.

I scratched under my chin where the stubble was beginning to itch and thought about my next move. If Lamberte met with anyone up here and any weapons were displayed, I’d be able to get pictures. It was a pity that I didn’t have any bugging equipment. I had the gear at my place in Glebe but that was no doubt being watched around the clock by the constabulary. Lamberte was due to arrive today and I’d have to be at the Post Office when it opened to hang around to see whether he picked up the package. Doing that without attracting attention to myself was going to be tricky. It was nicer out here, with the birds whistling and the steam rising off the rocks as the sun climbed above the trees.

I stared down at the house and again I was tempted. What harm could it do, a little look around? From what Verity Lamberte had said it didn’t sound as if the place was used all that often. So what if I disturbed the kindling box or left the Trivial Pursuit set slightly off line? Who’d notice? I’ve never owned a country house or a weekender, but I was pretty sure that if I did I’d make certain the lights were out and the stove was off and that’s about all I’d worry about before the next visit. A place to slob about in, leave things lying comfortably around. Wasn’t that the point?