Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

There had never been any question of skin grafts or plastic surgery. The burns, though severe, hadn’t been the problem, nor the smoke inhalation. The thing that had laid me low was the pneumonia that had developed as a result of my severe cold plus the exertion, trauma and exposure. I’d lain half-naked in cold mud for some time before the rescuers had arrived. Antibiotics had knocked out the infection but, after twelve days in the hospital, I exhibited an allergic reaction to one of the drugs and I went down again into a weakened state that had me sleeping around the clock and having disturbing dreams. I emerged from this bout clear-headed and alert, but very weak physically.

Glen took me home to Glebe and stayed with me there. In one of my dreams I saw Sir Phillip Wilberforce stretched out on a morgue slab. I asked Glen for the latest on him.

‘He pulled through,’ she said. ‘But he suffered some kind of stroke. I understand he’s shaky all down one side, poor old bugger. He’s at home though. D’you want to send him a card?’

I was sitting in a deck chair in the back courtyard, soaking up winter sun. ‘I want to see him,’ I said.

‘Why?’

‘Remember he’s my client, too. Hired me to find his daughter, Paula.’

‘Isn’t that a conflict of interest? You’re working for the Lamberte woman.’

I shook my head. ‘The regulations are vague on this point. Hardy handles heavy case load.’

Glen grinned. ‘Fucks up all round.’

‘But soldiers on.’

We looked at each other. Glen had taken leave and we’d spent a week together, every night and a lot of the daytime. It was the longest time we’d put in like that apart from holiday breaks. It had worked well-a little gentle sex, taking care not to disturb my dressings and open my wounds; quiet walks, light meals, reading and watching TV together. We were closer than we’d ever been, each anticipating the other’s wishes, responding to allusions, taking the hints. Great, and as artificial as a politician’s smile.

‘You’re not ready,’ she said.

‘I’m not planning to climb any mountains. I just want to move around a little. Talk to a few people.’

‘About what? I thought you didn’t have any leads to follow.’

‘Why did you think that?’

‘I just… never mind.’

This was more like our usual style, slightly combative but mutually respectful, resolving itself in bed or being dissipated by work. We had both recognised that we worked different sides of the street. It made for a certain kind of tension that, I realised clearly then, I liked. I wasn’t sure that Glen liked it as much.

I reached forward to touch her. We were sitting about a metre apart and it felt like a kilometre or two. She didn’t pull away, but the movement stretched the healed skin on my shoulders and made me wince. ‘Look, love,’ I said, ‘I don’t believe those two died by accident.’

‘Your former client is being looked for. If you’ve got any information you should volunteer it.’

‘I haven’t, but maybe if I just sniff around.’

‘Bullshit. And what did you say was your unstated motto: no dough, no show, wasn’t that it?’

‘All right, but the Wilberforce thing is different. She took my gun, for Christ’s sake. I feel like a bloody idiot.’

‘Male pride. Terrific way to run a business.’

‘The old man…’

‘Probably doesn’t remember who you are. Leave it be, Cliff.’

‘And do what? Walk all the way to the library on my own? Read the TV guide? Pick a few winners and plan what to have for dinner?’

‘Look at you. You can hardly move without something hurting.’

‘I want to find Paula Wilberforce. I have to. It’s important.’

‘More important than your health? More important than me?’

‘Shit.’

The cat wandered out of the house, stood on the warm bricks and stretched itself. It mewed and curled up in a corner. We both looked at it and laughed.

I started by getting myself fit enough to do more than get out of bed and feed the cat-long walks in the warm part of the day with my shirt off, up and down the Wigram Road hill several times a day, plenty of protein and sleep. After a week of that I felt well enough to reclaim my car from the Chatswood police compound. The cops were barely civil, compliant rather than cooperative. My profession still wasn’t popular with the custodians of the law. They slapped me with a towing charge, a fee for holding the vehicle and an unroadworthy notice. With the taxi fare from Glebe, it was turning out to be an expensive morning. They gave me the notice before I saw the car.

‘What’s this?’ I said.

‘Can read, can’t you?’ the senior constable said. ‘One bald tyre, defective wiper, broken tail-light.’

‘How can you tell the wiper’s defective unless you turn on the ignition? And the tail-light wasn’t broken when I left it.’

‘On your way, Mr Hardy,’ the senior said. ‘And don’t get stopped between here and home with the vehicle in that condition.’

‘No wonder you’re so popular,’ I said.

‘Just be sure the cheques you write to the Police Department and the Road Traffic Authority don’t bounce.’

I let him feel like a winner as he scratched his second chin. The Falcon’s engine purred immediately into life and the wipers worked fine. ‘Like being with the cops, do you?’ I said. ‘Be careful or I’ll trade you in.’

More out of curiosity than anything else, I drove to Lindfield. The For Sale sign had been taken down and work had been done in the garden. New owners were putting their stamp on the place. A Mitsubishi Colt was parked in the driveway and a security screen had been installed across the front door. I wondered who had bought the house, who had got the money and what had happened to the broken easel and the paintings. On past experience, Climpson amp; Carter were unlikely to enlighten me.

The drive back to Glebe didn’t phase me. I found I could put my own seat-belt on and everything. I celebrated by skipping the Wigram Road hike and having a couple of glasses of wine with lunch. Then I phoned Sir Phillip Wilberforce.

‘Yes?’ an old, cracked voice said carefully. It sounded as if he’d suddenly aged twenty years.

‘Sir Phillip, this is Cliff Hardy. Do you…’

‘Remember you? Of course I do. I haven’t gone gaga, despite what they’re trying to say. I’ve been hoping you’d call. We have things to talk about.’

This was better than I’d hoped for. It sounded as if I was still on the payroll. ‘Has there been any word of your daughter?’

‘Daughter,’ he spoke slowly, dragging the word out. ‘No. No. Can you come to see me?’

I said I could but I needed another day to collect something which I hoped I could find.

‘You’re being cryptic, your privilege, I suppose. What?’

‘A photograph. I hope you can identify the subject and the photographer.’

‘Intriguing. Well, tomorrow then?’

‘Tomorrow evening. Have you got someone looking after you?’

‘Yes, damn and blast her. I’ll tell her you’re coming and with a bit of luck she’ll let you in. Do you need any money?’

I said I didn’t and he seemed not to care, one way or the other. The best kind of client. I rang off and rang Verity Lamberte’s home and business numbers-no answer at the one, no information at the other, as expected. Glen had gone to Goulburn again but before she left she’d ascertained that the Land Cruiser was being held by the police in Katoomba and that there was no obstruction to my going and getting it. Like the good bloke he was, Terry Reeves hadn’t made a peep. I rang him and told him I’d have the vehicle back tomorrow.

‘No worries. How’s things, Cliff?’