Beware of the Dog (11 page)

I sat behind the wheel while the light morning traffic crawled past. Nobody seemed to be in a hurry. I'd been feeling fine when I'd arrived in Katoomba, now I didn't feel so good. The morning sun coming through the windscreen made me hot inside my sweater but I'd been warned against sudden changes in temperature so I didn't take it off. I sat, sweated and swore. I'd been warned about getting emotionally upset, too, but I kept on swearing.
You nearly died and were on drugs for a couple of weeks,
I thought.
That could have screwed up your memory.
I tried to recall in detail my actions before I'd gone up the rock pile and I found that I couldn't.

I started the motor and headed towards Mount Victoria. The weather changed abruptly the way it
can in the mountains. Some cloud came over and some mist came down, a heavy mist, needing an occasional swipe from the windscreen wipers. Not ideal conditions for searching for something brown in a couple of hundred hectares of bush. I took the back way in and bumped along the tracks until I found where I'd parked before going up to watch the house. This was the right place, surely—right rocks, right trees. I convinced myself and got out to search. The mist was almost a drizzle. I grabbed the groundsheet from among the camping gear and draped it over my head.

There had been a fair bit of rain up there and the ground was slushy. Things started to come back to me as I probed around. I'd worn the jacket into town but I'd put the parka on when I got back here because I'd thought I might have a long cold wait up on the rocks. I'd got the binoculars and the whisky from the seat, put them on the ground and taken off the jacket. Then … I remembered. I'd slung the jacket up onto the top of the Cruiser intending to put it away safely. And something had broken the chain of thought. It came back to me—a train whistle from the track across the valley, a long, clear sound that had cut through the chill morning air.

When had they found the Cruiser? I didn't know. If it had been late in the day they might not have seen the jacket and just checked the vehicle over before driving off. In which direction? I searched both ways on both sides of the track for about twenty minutes before I found it. An overhanging branch must have brushed it off the roof. The jacket had fallen into a bush and lay, scarcely disturbed from the way I'd folded it, in a natural leafy shelter.
It was wet and slimy and a white mildew had formed around the seams. I stood under a tree, water dripping from the groundsheet and felt the jacket. The photograph was still there, not as crisp as before, but still there.

I ran back to the Cruiser, put the jacket on the seat beside
Rabbit at Rest
and got moving. I needed the wipers now and the heater. My hands and feet had become cold during the search and aches and pains had started up in various places. The warm air circulated around me and I took a few experimental deep breaths. No wheezing, chest clear. It was some minutes before I realised that I'd turned onto the Electricity Commission service track automatically and was now heading for Salisbury Road. I had an impulse to turn around and go back the way I'd come, difficult though the manoeuvre would be on the narrow road. I've never understood old soldiers' desires to visit the battlefields where they'd fought and bled. I never wanted to see mine in Malaya ever again, and I felt the same about the Lambertes' cabin.

But I kept going and there it was—a collection of blackened foundation pillars, a chimney and fireplace and a set of stone steps that led nowhere at all. The fire had consumed everything combustible. The iron roof had collapsed and lay in a jumbled heap where people had once sat and talked, ate and drunk and made love. I stopped and looked at the ruin through the streaming windscreen and the slapping wiper blades. The barbecue and water tank were intact; the burnt-out 4WD had been removed. Trees on all sides of the house were charred and heavy wheels had churned the ground into a sea of blackened mud. I had a mental flash of the woman
gyrating in terror in her high heeled shoes and erotic underwear, and of Patrick Lamberte, big and commanding in his country squire's outfit, lightly tossing the package he'd picked up at the Post Office. He had looked like a man turning over his cards, confidently expecting an ace. Unaccountably, it was the image of the man that was most disturbing. Although by now I was warm and relatively dry inside the Cruiser, I shivered. I engaged the gear and drove fast down Salisbury Road, away from the death and destruction.

I drove straight through Mount Victoria and down to Katoomba before I felt like stopping. The visibility was bad, the road was slick and it took all my concentration to make the run safely. Good. I was in no fit state for letting my mind drift to other matters, to faces and movements and all the other half-collected impressions. Through my association with Helen Broadway, who read philosophy and Jungian psychology, I was aware of the rag-bag of memories and intuitions that make up our unconscious understanding of the world. I resisted them, always. I preferred to deal with the concrete and known—the facts, hidden and revealed, that defined the world in which work could be done, results achieved. I had a sense that I was moving beyond that world and it alarmed and disturbed me as such feelings always have.

I pulled into a shoppers' car park off Katoomba Street and carefully unfolded the leather jacket. I slid the photograph out of the jacket pocket and opened it as delicately as if it was a three-hundred-year-old
buried treasure map. The thick paper had lain inside the nylon lining of the pocket protected by several layers of leather. It was limp but not damp and the folded sections did not stick together. When I was sure it was intact I refolded it and headed for the Paragon Cafe which is the only eating place I know in Katoomba, apart from the pubs. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet, drink coffee and try to sort out the disturbing images that were flitting around in my brain.

The Paragon was dark and the lunch crowd had gone. Seeing the empty seats and booths and the tables with evidence of meals consumed reminded me that I hadn't eaten. I was suddenly hungry and it was the first time I'd felt that way since I'd woken up in the hospital. I decided it was a good sign and ordered orange juice, a club sandwich, apple pie and a pot of coffee. I downed the orange juice in a couple of gulps and lowered the plunger in the coffee pot. Good coffee. Two sips and I unfolded the picture again and spread it out on the table.

I had never studied the photograph carefully and what I was looking at now was very different from my memory of it. The face was clearer and the features more distinct. Whereas before it had seemed otherworldly, a shot taken through a screen of some kind, now it looked lifelike and immediate. Perhaps that was because I was in no doubt as to who was the subject of the picture. Unmistakable. Same incipient widow's peak, strong chin, deep-set eyes. I was looking at a photograph of the late Mr Patrick Lamberte.

The waitress put a plate on the table in front of me. She didn't glance at the photograph. I didn't look at the sandwich. This was what had been niggling at me—the as yet uncoded knowledge that Lamberte was the subject of the photograph. I poured out the last of the coffee. It was cool but I sipped it anyway as questions flooded my brain. Who was the photographer? Where and when was the picture taken? I'd been half assuming, without any evidence, that Paula Wilberforce herself was both painter and photographer. If so, what connection was there between her and Lamberte? And if not … Suddenly the photograph assumed greater importance. Now it was not only a possible clue to Paula Wilberforce's whereabouts but evidence of a deep hostility towards Lamberte. And therefore a lead to his murderer.

‘Are you all right, sir?' The waitress was back, looking concerned.

I'd been sitting with the coffee cup in my hand, not drinking, and staring into space. I looked now at the big, bursting open sandwich—fresh lettuce, Swiss cheese, ham … The sight of it made me feel ill but I forced myself to smile, take a bite and nod appreciatively.

‘Wool-gathering,' I said, through a mouthful.

She was in her early twenties and had probably never heard the expression. Why would anyone gather wool with several million unsaleable bales sitting in the warehouses? She went away, despairing of her tip, convinced that I was insane. I munched on the sandwich without appetite. Maybe I was wrong. There are lots of men with strong chins, brown hair and widow's peaks. John McEnroe, for example. William Hurt. And maybe the photographer had been annoyed at the execution of the shot, not the subject. I looked at the picture again and knew I was kidding myself. It
was
Patrick Lamberte and the portraitist had hated him.

I left a good tip and most of the sandwich. The Paragon is famous for its handmade chocolates. On impulse, I bought a couple of dollars' worth of a mixed selection. I had a feeling that Terry Reeves' Wanda would be brave enough to eat liqueur-centred milk chocolates. I was pretty brave myself. I went to the nearest pub and had a couple of scotchs. I hoped the whisky might stimulate thought as well as brace me for the drive back to Sydney. Instead, I fell into a mood of self-reproach. I'd screwed up the Lamberte case from start to finish and so far Paula Wilberforce had taken all the points. I should have checked everybody involved more carefully before I started haring off in all directions. I finished the second drink. There was a self-breathalyser in the bar and I dropped a dollar in it and blew in the straw. The reading was orange for caution. I swore and walked briskly back to the car. The cold air did me good and triggered some professional responses at last. When it came to checking people out, it was never too late.
On the drive back to Sydney I decided I liked the 4WD. I liked the way it held the road and the feeling of security, of being able to take the knocks. I liked the heater; I would probably get to like the cassette player. I already liked the mobile phone. I stopped in Wentworth Falls and set the machine on ‘broadcast'. Terry Reeves was at his desk as I'd expected and I asked him if I could hang on to the Land Cruiser for a bit.

‘You sound better,' he said. ‘Amazing what a good vehicle will do for a man.'

‘You can bill me for it.'

‘Don't worry, I will. The phone calls and everything. That's if you're working. If you're planning a holiday, I guess I can work something out.'

Paula Wilberforce knows the Falcon,
I thought,
but she doesn't know this crate. This is a justified expense.
‘I've got a client,' I said. ‘Thanks, Terry. Love to Wanda. I'll be in touch.'

‘You've got the equipment.'

My next call was to Roberta Landy-Drake in Vaucluse. A sometime client, Roberta has an inexhaustible knowledge of Sydney society and its workings—at the top end. She said she'd be delighted to see me. No one can say ‘delighted' quite like Roberta. She was in the garden when I pulled up outside the massive double front gates later that afternoon. I touched the horn and it let out a deep bellow. Roberta lifted her head from what she was doing and gazed calmly at the gate. I got out and waved. She was thirty metres away with another thirty metres to the front of the house—a long, sandstone structure that seemed to have grown out of the earth, bringing up lawns and trees and garden beds with
it. Roberta returned my wave, reached into her gardening basket, removed something and pointed it in my direction. The gates slid apart like two lovers who had done all they were going to do for now.

I drove up the gravel drive and stopped near the rose bed where Roberta was working. She wore a straw hat, a white silk shirt, tight trousers and black spike heels. Only Roberta would wear heels to prune roses.

‘Cliff,' she said. ‘That truck thing is so very you. So masculine. How are you, darling?'

She advanced towards me, arms outstretched, the basket hanging from the right wrist. Roberta is tall, thin and very strong from all the exercise she does to stay looking forty-five when she is actually ten years older. Dark, auburn-tinted hair and expert make-up help the illusion. She wrapped the left arm around me and held on too hard to a burnt spot. I tried not to flinch but she felt the movement. She kissed my cheek ‘What's wrong, darling? Are you hurt?'

‘I was. I'm okay now. You're looking as good as ever, Roberta.'

‘It's a struggle,' she said. A spot of rain fell and she looked up at the grey sky. ‘Thank Christ. Now I can get out of this bloody garden. Come inside, you poor wounded man, and tell Roberta your troubles.'

We went up the drive to the massive porch that ran the breadth of the house—a sixty-metre sandstone dash. Roberta dropped the basket with its secateurs, meagre rose clippings and remote control gate-opener on the top step and marched into the house. Roberta's house has at least two rooms for every kind of activity you can think of and, for some things, five or six.
She threatened to sue a magazine that said she lived alone, insisting that she lived with six other people who happened to be her servants. It was typical of Roberta that she forced the magazine to publish their names and photographs in the retraction. She was the only filthy rich person I'd ever really liked and, as far as I know, the only person in that category who ever liked me.

We went into a room where there were books, a TV set and CD player, comfortable leather chairs and a bar.

‘What do men who drive those sorts of cars drink?'

‘Beer,' I said.

She flicked open the fridge. ‘Light or … dark, is that what it's called?'

I laughed. ‘Let me get it Roberta. You'll have …?'

She glanced at the tiny diamond-studded watch on her wrist. ‘Low calorie tonic with lemon and ice, fuck it.'

Roberta has trouble swearing with fluency. I made her drink, opened a twist top of Cooper's light and sat opposite her in one of the thousand dollar leather chairs.

‘Wilberforce,' I said. ‘What can you tell me?'