Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

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.

‘Paula Wilberforce,’ I said. “Your patient.’

He inclined his head. ‘And to you…?’

‘Daughter of my client.’

‘Ah yes, the egregious Sir Phillip. Do you know what that word means, Hardy?’

‘I’ve got a rough idea. Don’t patronise me, doctor, and don’t waste my time, which is as valuable to me as yours is to you, even if less well paid.’

He laughed. ‘I’d forgotten how direct you were. I’m sorry. Do you have any idea of the damage Phillip Wilberforce has done?’

I shrugged. ‘I’ve met some of the children, stepchildren, whatever. I haven’t met their mothers and teachers and friends. I don’t know what they had on their DNAs.’

‘Quite. You’re right to reprimand me. Personalities are formed multi-causally, of course. But there are dominant causes and Sir Phillip Wilberforce’s example and behaviour are just such things.’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’m inclined to think that you have to take responsibility for what you’re like at some point in your life. Maybe not at eighteen, but by, let’s say, thirty or so.’

‘If only it were that easy. Have you accepted responsibility for what you are?’

‘Sure. I’m impatient, suspicious, inclined to be violent. It buggers me up sometimes but I try not to let it bugger up other people. That’s what I mean by taking responsibility. Look, doctor, a little bit of this sort of talk goes a long way with me. Can you.. ’

He squashed out his cigar and took another from the open tin immediately. Before he lit up he risked a breath of air. It wasn’t much of a risk in that room, the difference between smoking and not smoking was marginal. My eyes were beginning to water. The breath he took whistled and screeched like a train engine. He lit the cigar and inhaled quietly.

‘I have never encountered a person more lacking in self-esteem than Paula Wilberforce. Nor one so adept at concealing the fact.’

I shifted in my chair. ‘She followed me. She threatened me. She vandalised my car and stole my gun. She shot her father and shot up the house. I don’t need to be told that she’s disturbed. What I want to know is if she’s ever said anything to you that will help me to locate her now.’

‘Possibly. Privileged information, but I might be prepared to divulge it on certain conditions.’

‘Try me.’

‘That you do everything in your power to see that she does not come to harm. That you do not allow a situation to develop in which she may be shot, or driven to shoot herself. Anything like that.’

‘Sure. That’s implicit in my agreement with her father.’

‘I want it to be explicit in your agreement with me.’

‘Why are you so… adamant, doctor? ’

‘I told you. Her case is extremely rare, with many very interesting features. I had begun a study of it when she interrupted treatment. I believe that if I could resume treating her and gather more data, I would have the basis for a brilliant piece of research.’

I stared at him. ‘You cold-blooded bastard.’

He shrugged and blew smoke.

‘OK,’ I said. ‘I accept. What do you have to tell me?’

He held up his meaty hand. His murky eyes examined the back of his gold wedding ring. ‘You are thinking that my condition is easy to accept. How can it be enforced? You will do your best and no-one can ask for more. I am asking for more.’

It was my turn to shrug.

‘I talked to Detective Sergeant Willis. A shrewd man in his way. I agreed to acting as consultant for the police in the matter of your psychological fitness to hold a private enquiry agent’s licence. Willis believes that such a report is in order, given your recent behaviour.’