Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

I pulled into a shoppers’ car park off Katoomba Street and carefully unfolded the leather jacket. I slid the photograph out of the jacket pocket and opened it as delicately as if it was a three-hundred-year-old buried treasure map. The thick paper had lain inside the nylon lining of the pocket protected by several layers of leather. It was limp but not damp and the folded sections did not stick together. When I was sure it was intact I refolded it and headed for the Paragon Cafe which is the only eating place I know in Katoomba, apart from the pubs. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet, drink coffee and try to sort out the disturbing images that were flitting around in my brain.

The Paragon was dark and the lunch crowd had gone. Seeing the empty seats and booths and the tables with evidence of meals consumed reminded me that I hadn’t eaten. I was suddenly hungry and it was the first time I’d felt that way since I’d woken up in the hospital. I decided it was a good sign and ordered orange juice, a club sandwich, apple pie and a pot of coffee. I downed the orange juice in a couple of gulps and lowered the plunger in the coffee pot. Good coffee. Two sips and I unfolded the picture again and spread it out on the table.

I had never studied the photograph carefully and what I was looking at now was very different from my memory of it. The face was clearer and the features more distinct. Whereas before it had seemed otherworldly, a shot taken through a screen of some kind, now it looked lifelike and immediate. Perhaps that was because I was in no doubt as to who was the subject of the picture. Unmistakable. Same incipient widow’s peak, strong chin, deep-set eyes. I was looking at a photograph of the late Mr Patrick Lamberte.

The waitress put a plate on the table in front of me. She didn’t glance at the photograph. I didn’t look at the sandwich. This was what had been niggling at me-the as yet uncoded knowledge that Lamberte was the subject of the photograph. I poured out the last of the coffee. It was cool but I sipped it anyway as questions flooded my brain. Who was the photographer? Where and when was the picture taken? I’d been half assuming, without any evidence, that Paula Wilberforce herself was both painter and photographer. If so, what connection was there between her and Lamberte? And if not… Suddenly the photograph assumed greater importance. Now it was not only a possible clue to Paula Wilberforce’s whereabouts but evidence of a deep hostility towards Lamberte. And therefore a lead to his murderer.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ The waitress was back, looking concerned.

I’d been sitting with the coffee cup in my hand, not drinking, and staring into space. I looked now at the big, bursting open sandwich-fresh lettuce, Swiss cheese, ham… The sight of it made me feel ill but I forced myself to smile, take a bite and nod appreciatively.

‘Wool-gathering,’ I said, through a mouthful.

She was in her early twenties and had probably never heard the expression. Why would anyone gather wool with several million unsaleable bales sitting in the warehouses? She went away, despairing of her tip, convinced that I was insane. I munched on the sandwich without appetite. Maybe I was wrong. There are lots of men with strong chins, brown hair and widow’s peaks. John McEnroe, for example. William Hurt. And maybe the photographer had been annoyed at the execution of the shot, not the subject. I looked at the picture again and knew I was kidding myself. It was Patrick Lamberte and the portraitist had hated him.

I left a good tip and most of the sandwich. The Paragon is famous for its handmade chocolates. On impulse, I bought a couple of dollars’ worth of a mixed selection. I had a feeling that Terry Reeves’ Wanda would be brave enough to eat liqueur-centred milk chocolates. I was pretty brave myself. I went to the nearest pub and had a couple of scotchs. I hoped the whisky might stimulate thought as well as brace me for the drive back to Sydney. Instead, I fell into a mood of self-reproach. I’d screwed up the Lamberte case from start to finish and so far Paula Wilberforce had taken all the points. I should have checked everybody involved more carefully before I started haring off in all directions. I finished the second drink. There was a self-breathalyser in the bar and I dropped a dollar in it and blew in the straw. The reading was orange for caution. I swore and walked briskly back to the car. The cold air did me good and triggered some professional responses at last. When it came to checking people out, it was never too late.

On the drive back to Sydney I decided I liked the 4WD. I liked the way it held the road and the feeling of security, of being able to take the knocks. I liked the heater; I would probably get to like the cassette player. I already liked the mobile phone. I stopped in Wentworth Falls and set the machine on ‘broadcast’. Terry Reeves was at his desk as I’d expected and I asked him if I could hang on to the Land Cruiser for a bit.

‘You sound better,’ he said. ‘Amazing what a good vehicle will do for a man.’

‘You can bill me for it.’

‘Don’t worry, I will. The phone calls and everything. That’s if you’re working. If you’re planning a holiday, I guess I can work something out.’

Paula Wilberforce knows the Falcon, I thought, but she doesn‘t know this crate. This is a justified expense. ‘I’ve got a client,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Terry. Love to Wanda. I’ll be in touch.’

‘You’ve got the equipment.’

My next call was to Roberta Landy-Drake in Vaucluse. A sometime client, Roberta has an inexhaustible knowledge of Sydney society and its workings-at the top end. She said she’d be delighted to see me. No-one can say ‘delighted’ quite like Roberta. She was in the garden when I pulled up outside the massive double front gates later that afternoon. I touched the horn and it let out a deep bellow. Roberta lifted her head from what she was doing and gazed calmly at the gate. I got out and waved. She was thirty metres away with another thirty metres to the front of the house-a long, sandstone structure that seemed to have grown out of the earth, bringing up lawns and trees and garden beds with it. Roberta returned my wave, reached into her gardening basket, removed something and pointed it in my direction. The gates slid apart like two lovers who had done all they were going to do for now.

I drove up the gravel drive and stopped near the rose bed where Roberta was working. She wore a straw hat, a white silk shirt, tight trousers and black spike heels. Only Roberta would wear heels to prune roses.

‘Cliff,’ she said. ‘That truck thing is so very you. So masculine. How are you, darling?’

She advanced towards me, arms outstretched, the basket hanging from the right wrist. Roberta is tall, thin and very strong from all the exercise she does to stay looking forty-five when she is actually ten years older. Dark, auburn-tinted hair and expert make-up help the illusion. She wrapped the left arm around me and held on too hard to a burnt spot. I tried not to flinch but she felt the movement. She kissed my cheek. ‘What’s wrong, darling? Are you hurt?’

‘I was. I’m OK now. You’re looking as good as ever, Roberta.’

‘It’s a struggle,’ she said. A spot of rain fell and she looked up at the grey sky. “Thank Christ. Now I can get out of this bloody garden. Come inside, you poor wounded man, and tell Roberta your troubles.’

We went up the drive to the massive porch that ran the breadth of the house-a sixty-metre sandstone dash. Roberta dropped the basket with its secateurs, meagre rose clippings and remote control gate-opener on the top step and marched into the house. Roberta’s house has at least two rooms for every kind of activity you can think of and, for some things, five or six.