Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

‘You set me up. You and Willis.’

‘You do see the point, don’t you? Your best may not be good enough to enable you to hold your licence. I understand professionalism, Mr Hardy. Part of it involves looking ahead to the next project. Completing the one on hand, certainly, but learning from it and looking to the future. Unless you do better than your best you won’t have a future in your present career.’

My eyes were watering badly and my throat was becoming raw from breathing the smoke-laden air. I wanted out. ‘I understand,’ I rasped. ‘Tell me.’

‘Dogs,’ he said. ‘Somehow the key to her errant behaviour lies in her attitude to dogs. Wherever she is now, whatever she is doing, dogs will be involved.’

‘Is that it? Dogs?’

He spread his hands keeping the cigar imprisoned between two fingers. ‘I thought it might help.’

‘I thought you might tell me about a person-a friend, a lover, an enemy. Someone, somewhere…’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Who is in most danger from her?’

‘Other members of her family.’

‘Have you treated any of them?’

‘I cannot possibly discuss such things with you.’

That means yes. ‘Who?’

Another cigar died and another was reborn. ‘My hands are tied.’

‘Dogs,’ I said. ‘Great. I’ll have to make a note of that.’ I made a mock movement of my hand towards my pocket and felt the photograph. I pulled it out, unfolded it and laid it on the polished desk.

Holmes leaned forward to examine it.

‘What would you say about this, doc?’

‘Paula’s work?’

I nodded. ‘She did a painting, too. I suspect she went at that with a hammer or a knife, maybe both.’

Holmes blew smoke down at the photograph as he stared at it. I looked, too. For an instant the shapes in the background threatened to make sense, then they returned to their enigmatic vagueness.

‘This person is in grave danger. Who is he?’

I retrieved the picture and folded it up. ‘I couldn’t possibly discuss that with you,’ I said.

I drove away from Woollahra feeling that I’d accomplished something. By the time I reached Glebe I couldn’t think what the accomplishment might be. I had a vague feeling that things were coming together, but nothing clearly in my mind to justify the feeling. I’ve been in this condition before and my usual strategy involves a bottle, a ballpoint and some paper. I was still on antibiotics and medical opinion would be against the bottle. I remembered that I hadn’t taken the pills for the last twenty-four hours, against all instructions. On the other hand, maybe the antibiotics accounted for my failure to see a pattern. It didn’t seem like a good time to abandon a tried and tested strategy.

Glen’s car was parked outside the house. She wasn’t due back until the next day and the pessimist in me worried for an instant before the optimist in me was glad. I charged inside, scaring the cat from its sleep in the sun and putting a couple of the weak floorboards to the test. Glen was making coffee. She turned and the smile on her face died.

I reached for her but she held me back. ‘What’s wrong?’ I said. My first impulse was guilt but I had nothing to be guilty about. Like Jimmy Carter, I’d sinned in my heart, with Roberta, but that didn’t count.

‘When did you last look in a mirror, Cliff?’

‘I dunno.’ I’d shaved under the shower in Bellevue Hill and combed my wet hair flat in the steamy bathroom. ‘Not lately.’

‘You look like death. Your colour’s bad. And you’ve got a tic’

‘I do not have a tic’ As I spoke I lifted my hand to the nerve that was jumping in my cheek.

‘What have you been doing?’

I slumped into a chair, feeling drained. ‘A lot, and nothing.’

‘I phoned last night and when I got no answer I was worried. I put a few things off and came back today.’

I lifted my head to look at her. Is this it? I thought. Is this where we have the fight that brings things to an end? The possible reason was there. A man in my business can’t have a little woman waiting at home for him or getting worried when the phone doesn’t answer. Glen knew that, or at least I thought she did. We’d talked about it. Or had I just talked about it to myself? She was wearing civvies-skirt, blouse, heels, and she looked terrific. I wanted to touch her, to go up to bed with her and do our special things. I’d be a fool not to make concessions, not to make allowances for her concern. But…

Glen turned back to her coffee-making. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Didn’t mean to be like that. It’s only because you’ve been sick. Ordinarily, you can do what you like. You know that.’

Relief flooded through me. No crisis today. I got up and put my arms around her. ‘I know, love. Sorry to worry you. I spent the night with a couple of Wilberforces. Verity Lamberte’s turned up. I took her into College Street today.’

‘I know. Good.’

I kept my hold and kissed her clean, shining hair. I tried not to let her feel the irritation rising inside me. I didn’t want my movements monitored like that. She turned around and we kissed.

‘D’you want coffee?’

‘Later. I want something else first.’

‘You don’t look as if you’re up to it. Really, Cliff, you don’t look well.’

‘I’m well,’ I said. ‘Try me.’

We went upstairs and made love very gently, taking our time, avoiding my tender spots and trying to give each other maximum pleasure. We were both aware that a bad moment had passed. That made a good moment better.

Glen was right about my appearance and physical condition. The damaged parts of my back were inflamed, bordering on infection. In some places the skin was raw and weeping. Glen changed the dressings which I had neglected to do and applied ointment. I took catch-up doses of the antibiotics and aspirin for my slight fever. I drank some light beer and wine and tried to show how tough I was by insisting on watching the news on the portable TV and making caustic comments about Greiner. I fell asleep before they got to the sport and weather and slept the clock around, waking up at 6.00 a.m. to a wet dawn and crashing down again for another three hours.

When I got downstairs I found that Glen had left. I prowled around fearing a note, half-wishing she’d left one. She hadn’t. My tough-as-nails cop. I moped through the morning, reading old newspapers and putting off the time where I’d have to sit down with the ballpoint and paper. Frank Parker rang in solicitous mood and I broke it by telling him about the deal struck between Willis and Dr Holmes.

‘Why not, Cliff? Willis has to get a handle on you somehow. People blown up in mountain shacks. Loaded pistols floating about. I admire his sense of endeavour.’

‘Shit, Frank. I’m up to my balls in questions with no answers. And my livelihood is on the line.’

‘That’s the way it should be. This is a de-regulated society, haven’t you heard? The public sector has to justify every cent spent. That’s tough, believe me. The private sector has to compete sixty seconds a minute, sixty minutes an hour, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a…’

‘Bullshit’

‘Yeah, I know. Is there any way I can help, Cliff?’

‘I thought you’d never ask. Complete police records on Paula Wilberforce, Verity Lamberte, Patrick Lamberte, Sir Phillip Wilberforce, Nadia Crosbie, Robert Crosbie and Rudi the dog. Also, all changes of address and movements for the past twenty years.’

The pen scratch noise I could hear on the line stopped. ‘I’m glad you’re joking, Cliff. That’s impossible.’

‘I know. But you asked.’

‘I’ll get you what I can. You want me to have a word with Willis?’