Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

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?