Peter Corris - Beware of the Dog

‘No. How’s Hilde?’

‘A sweet point in a sour world. Glen?’

‘The same. Thanks, Frank. Hope to hear from you.’

The sky cleared suddenly, the way it will in July, and I went for a walk. Glebe was getting progressively more like Woollahra, but there were still significant differences-like beer cans in the gutters and the TAB doing a roaring trade in the middle of the day. A council worker was sweeping in Boyce Street. He kept moving but he seemed to be more concerned to make a certain number of broom strokes per metre than with the effect. He covered the territory, but a good part of the rubbish remained behind.

I leaned on the fence at the end of Boyce Street and looked out over the Harold Park paceway. A few trotters circled the track quietly. Ground staff were moving around the gardens, betting areas and stands, watering and cleaning, making it a pleasant place for people to lose money at in a few hours. I’d lost a good bit there myself over the years. I considered dropping in at the busy TAB and consulting the form. I didn’t. I could pretend that the Wilberforce-Lamberte matter was just another case, deserving of my best efforts but nothing more. Dr Holmes had upped the ante but he really needn’t have bothered. The ante was high enough for me already. I had to know.

I’d spent a couple of hours with the pen and paper by the time Glen got home. I’d got nowhere. She touched my head as she walked past and didn’t disturb me. It felt strange. So much consideration and me not doing anything to deserve it. I struggled with frustration and building ill-temper.

‘I’m going out,’ Glen said. ‘Police thing. I might be late.’

‘OK.’

We were both on edge, wanting to leave it there- professional on both sides, no worries. I couldn’t. She came down the stairs wearing a blue dress that I liked her in and carrying a black velvet jacket over her shoulder.

‘You look lovely,’ I said. ‘Will there be dancing?’

She laughed. ‘No.’

‘Good. Will the nineteen year-olds with the pectorals and laterals and transversal joints be there?’

‘Uh huh. It’s for pooh-bahs. Community policing policy-pollies, the odd Mayor, you know.’

I got up and we drew close for some of the touching and nuzzling that should remind us that we’re only animals. We were both still wary, though.

‘Well, I’ll be off.’ She couldn’t find an easy exit line and she looked at the papers and bits and pieces I’d been playing with. She pointed. ‘What’s that?’

I picked up the photograph and handed it to her. ‘It’s Patrick Lamberte photographed by Paula Wilberforce. The only questions are where, when and why.’

‘It’s in the country somewhere. That’s a tree and that’s a sort of gully.’

I followed her finger as it traced shapes on the surface, shapes I hadn’t even seen before.

‘I think you’re right. In the country. Well, that rules out Darlo.’

‘Don’t be a prick, Cliff. I can’t help it if you’re short of ideas.’

Glen has the sort of eyes that can see ships over the horizon. She’d had no trouble spotting the dead ends indicated by my doodlings. She held the photograph up to the light and looked hard at it.

‘Summer, to judge from the shadows.’

‘What shadows?’

‘There. Dark ones.’

‘Oh, yeah. I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea what those shapes in the background are?’

‘Dogs,’ Glen said.

I went back to my notes and doodles. I wondered what they taught at the Petersham College of TAFE about this sort of situation. What was the reading list for Running out of Ideas I and Dead Ends IIA? The cat decided it was time to leave its place by the radiator and walk across my papers.

‘Scratch about a bit,’ I told it. ‘Maybe you can get this stuff into an arrangement that makes sense.’

The cat sat down on top of the mysterious photograph and brushed my pen off the table with its tail.

‘Big help,’ I said.

Frank Parker rang soon after. ‘I did a bit of looking around for you,’ he said. ‘Nothing much came up. One thing, there was Nadia Crosbie who drowned in Queensland a few years back. Is that yours?’

‘Yes.’

‘Seems there was something fishy about that, no pun intended. The local police weren’t entirely satisfied about the circumstances-suspicious person seen in the vicinity, weather conditions, state of the body-that sort of thing. All circumstantial. Nothing came of it. The police up there had other things to worry about at the time. The coroner returned death by misadventure, but I just thought you might like to know.’

I thanked him, recovered my pen and scribbled the date of Nadia Crosbie’s death-2 June 1989- on a piece of paper not covered by cat. The cat got offended and jumped off the table. I looked at the notes again. It was risky being a Wilberforce-Lamberte-Crosbie. It was risky being a Hardy. Safer to be a cat.

I got a glass of wine and had one more shot at it, hoping for the light bulb to glow. It didn’t. Among the scribble a name written in block capitals stood out. Clive Stephenson. Who the hell was he? Then I remembered that he was Patrick Lamberte’s solicitor. His address was in the same building as Cy Sackville, my long-suffering lawyer. Maybe Cy could help me there. That was probably what they taught at TAFE- when in doubt, ring your lawyer.

The words of a song were running through my head as I waited to be ushered into the presence of Clive Stephenson with a ‘ph’: ‘In ten years time we’ll have one million lawyers… how much can a poor nation stand?’ Cy Sackville had arranged for me to see Stephenson at very short notice.

‘After a bit of persuasion Clive said he’d find a window in his diary,’ Cy had told me.

‘What?’

“That’s the way he talks. Went to the Chicago Law School. When he looks out at the harbour I think he pretends it’s the Great Lakes.’

‘How should I handle him?’

‘Flatter him. If that doesn’t work, insult him. Clive’s not a subtle guy, but he has got a sense of humour. He owes me a favour or two. He’ll play along with you as far as he can.’

‘What’s his field?’

‘Company law, what else?’

‘Is he interested in due process of law, justice for all, getting to the truth or money?’

‘Hah,’ Cy had said.

Stephenson was older-looking than I had expected, although maybe he was just practising looking like a judge. He wore a dark suit, striped tie and his hair was a distinguished shade of grey at the sides. His office was super-traditional with an American flavour. Everything Clarence Darrow would have had was there, except perhaps for the cuspidor. He sat me down opposite his desk. I refused coffee.

‘How can I help you, Mr Hardy?’ He had a deep voice with an educated Australian accent plus a touch of the mid-west. Pity he wasn’t a barrister.

‘You represent the late Patrick Lamberte?’

He nodded. Saving the voice for when it was most needed.

‘Mrs Lamberte hired me to inquire into certain aspects of her husband’s dealings. I was present when the house at Mount Victoria burnt down.’

‘Tragic business. What exactly were you looking into?’

‘I can’t tell you precisely, but Mrs Lamberte was afraid that her husband intended to harm her. Does that surprise you?’

He shook his head. For a minute I thought he was conserving the voice-box again but I was wrong. ‘It doesn’t surprise me one bit,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a couple so divided, so fundamentally hostile to each other.’ He pronounced it ‘hostel’.

‘You think he was capable of killing her?’

‘In certain moods, yes. But Lamberte was a pretty controlled character, really. He was in a lot of financial and personal trouble and wouldn’t have wanted any more.’