Peter Corris: Beware of the Dog

Dan Sanderson answered his phone on the first ring, he was that kind of a man.

‘Dan?’ I said. This is Hardy.’

‘You’re not crying off? It’s 10.00 tomorrow. That leaves you all day to fight crime.’

‘No. I’ll be there. I just wanted some information about one of your students-Mrs Paula Wilberforce.’

‘Hey, I thought you were happily attached.’

‘I am. This woman’s harassing me. I can handle it, don’t worry. I just thought a little extra dope might help.’

‘Just a sec. I’ll get her on screen.’

I heard the tapping of keys and wondered whether I should computerise my operation. Maybe the computer would analyse all my cases and come up with solutions in advance. Then it wouldn’t matter that a mad woman could follow me around and stick me up on my own front porch.

‘Got her,’ Dan said. ‘Bright, very bright. HDs all the way in her BA. Doing a PhD on wards of the state and recidivism.’

‘What?’

‘You know, broken homes and criminal careers. Roger Maurice is her supervisor. I know him slightly.’

‘Married, right?’

‘Not according to what I have here. Look, Cliff, I shouldn’t really be doing this.’

‘Come on, we’re almost colleagues and my girlfriend’s a policeperson. Just give me her address and phone number and that’ll be it. It’s no big deal, really.’

He gave me the address, in Lindfield. As an afterthought I got the contact number for Dr Roger Maurice at UTS. Then I made a few calls. Paula Wilberforce was the registered owner of a white Honda Civic, KTP 232. Her credit rating was shaky- she was over her limit on Bankcard and teetering on the brink of having her Visacard snipped in half. Her last tax assessment on an income of over $80 000 hadn’t been paid and her telephone and electricity accounts were in arrears. While I was at it, I ran checks on Patrick and Verity Lamberte. An Escort for her, a Saab for him. She was sitting pat, he was seriously over-extended.

I needed sausages, bread and beer for the evening meal I was planning. I went out to the street and stopped to check the mailbox, which I’d neglected to do on the way in. I glanced at my car; the light seemed to be hitting the windscreen oddly. Then I saw that it was shattered, with only cloudy segments of glass clinging around the frame. I swore. The passenger side window in the front was broken as well and the glove box was hanging open. The plastic gun was sitting on the front seat. I felt my stomach lurch as I reached through to feel inside the glove compartment. The. 38 wasn’t there. I leaned back against the car with my head throbbing. Criminal neglect to leave the gun inside the car, especially after you knew she’d seen your every move. And what to do about it?

The right thing to do was to notify the police, but I didn’t think I could face the humiliation and the complications. I could see the grins on the faces of the cops in the Glebe station. Then would come the serious stuff-the warnings, the threats to lift my licence. It was serious-an unstable woman running loose with a loaded pistol. It might even get into the press. I groaned aloud at that thought and gave up the idea of telling the police, at least for now. Then another thought struck me. She’d pointed a toy gun at me, would she do the same with a real one? I went back inside and phoned one of the places that will send out a mobile van to replace your windshield. I gave them the specifications of the windshield and window, accepted their quote and told them where I’d leave the cheque. They promised to do it ‘today’. Then I called a cab.

I was poor company for the cabbie on the drive to Lindfield. He made the correct assumption that I was a Balmain supporter and commiserated with me about the side’s performance in the Winfield Cup. I barely listened, scarcely responded, even though I’ve started to take more interest in League lately as a result of Glen being a passionate Newcastle supporter. It was after five and quite dark and cool by the time we got to Lindfield. There was a big fare on the meter that I wasn’t going to be able to lay off on anyone as an expense and I was in a foul temper. The taxi cruised along the wide, tree-lined street while I peered out, trying to spot numbers.

‘Don’t these people put numbers on their gateposts?’ I grumbled.

‘Don’t ask me, mate. I live in St Peters. We don’t have bloody gateposts.’

I laughed. ‘Yeah, right. Well, let’s see if we can spot Number 12 through all this greenery.’

We found it. The house was a big, rambling timber job with a botanical garden in front and a wide woodblock driveway leading to a two vehicle carport. It fitted right in with its neighbours to either side- solid, $400,000 places with all the trimmings. The only difference was that Number 12 was obviously empty. Local newspapers had accumulated by the gate and a few telltale weeds sprouted through the woodblocks. Lights were showing in the other houses, but Number 12 was dark. There was also a large For Sale sign mounted over the centre of the front hedge. The agents were Climpson amp; Carter of Chatswood.

‘Chatswood,’ I said to the driver. Ten bucks in it for you if you make it before 5.30.’

He didn’t. The real estate agent’s office was closed up tight and, from long experience, I had no hopes of learning anything useful from trying the after hours number.

By this time the driver and I were chatty. ‘Where to now, mate?’ he said.

‘Back to Glebe, thanks. We’ll have to stop at an autobank on the way so’s I can pay you.’

‘No worries. What d’you think of that Alan Jones?’

‘I try not to think about him. Who d’you support?’

‘Penrith, mate.’

‘I might have known.’

The windscreen repairers hadn’t yet arrived when I got back to Glebe. I walked up Glebe Point Road and bought a hamburger and a six-pack of Toohey’s Blue Label. The hamburger was tasteless, or maybe I was tasting only bile. I drank three cans of beer and rang Glen at the hotel where she usually stayed when she was overnight in Goulburn. She’d registered but wasn’t in her room. I stood by the front window looking out at the car. If it sat there all night the radio’d be gone for sure in the morning. I guessed Paula Wilberforce had done her damage while I was under the shower.

I went out and retrieved the toy gun from the front seat. A crude model of a. 357 Magnum, it looked unreal, an obvious toy. But in the woman’s fist, as she stood there with her legs braced and both hands up, TV style, it had looked very real. I tried to feel sorry for her but I couldn’t. If my gun was used in a crime I was in real trouble. I had to find her and it, fast. I ground my teeth and glared at my neighbours’ cars with their intact windows and windscreens. Still no sign of the men with the glass.

I went inside and tried the number for Dr Roger Maurice. It was engaged and I swore. I sat with the phone in my hand, punching the redial button until I got an answer. ‘Dr Maurice, my name’s Cliff Hardy. I…’

‘Dan Sanderson phoned me, Mr Hardy. I gather you’re having trouble with Paula Wilberforce.’

‘You could say that. What can you tell me about her? I gather she’s a PhD student.’

‘She was. Dropped out a month or so ago.’

‘What was her research topic?’

‘She was supposed to be writing a study of women’s refuges. I never saw any signs that she was serious about it. Tell me, has she.. done any damage?’

‘Yes. Is she sane, do you think?’

‘Far from it. She broke into my room at the university and wrecked it. This was after I pointed out that she hadn’t begun to fulfil the requirements of her course. She’s wealthy, did you know?’

‘Not exactly. I went to her place in Lindfield but it’s up for sale. Big house.’