Beware of the Dog (13 page)

‘Oh, step-daughter's husband. Funny chap. Yes, it could be. Odd, though.'

He doesn't know they're dead,
I thought. I took refuge in my drink. It was good whisky. ‘Why odd?'

‘Paula and Verity hated each other on sight as children. Wouldn't have thought they'd had any contact as adults.' He drank again and appeared to be listening to a replay of his words inside his head. ‘Trouble, Hardy? More trouble?'

‘I'm afraid so.'

I told him what had happened at Mount Victoria, giving it to him as gently as I could. He nodded as he listened, sighed and occasionally shook his head. Our drinks were empty by the time I'd finished. My throat was dry, and the old man was quietly weeping.

‘Karen,' he said huskily. ‘Selina's girl. Selina said she was mine and she may have been. Certainly the resemblance was there. But, you know, I was so busy in those days I can hardly remember her. Those poor, poor children. I made a terrible mess of things.'

‘There were mothers and other fathers involved. You don't have to take all the blame.'

‘I have to take it for Paula. I spoiled her, indulged her in every way, but I didn't take the trouble to find out what she was really like until it was too late.'

‘I have to find her. Not only for your sake, for hers
and mine.' I told him that it was my gun that he had been shot with and that Paula might have another round still in it.

‘She knows nothing about firearms so far as I'm aware,' he said. ‘
That's extremely dangerous.'

‘This is painful for you, but can you tell me what she said to you that day.'

He closed his eyes and sighed. With his damp cheeks and bloodless lips he looked dead and I wouldn't have been surprised to have heard the rattle. But he roused himself, struggled up against the pillows and handed me his glass. ‘Go down and get us both a refill, will you, old chap?'

‘What will Mrs Darcy say?'

‘It'll be up to you to convince her. I'm going to sit here and collect my thoughts for a minute.'

I found Mrs Darcy sitting at the kitchen table doing a cryptic crossword. She had pocket editions of a dictionary and a thesaurus to hand and was arranging letters in a circle, working with a pencil and eraser on a scribbling pad. For one terrible moment I thought she was going to ask me to provide a word. I can't understand the questions in cryptic crosswords, let alone come up with the answers. But she didn't. Instead, she frowned at the glasses.

‘Make it a very weak one,' I said. ‘Just to jog his memory.'

‘And you, are you driving, Mr Hardy?'

‘Not yet,' I said.

She got a bottle of Black Douglas from a cupboard and poured one judicious and one very judicious measure into the glasses. She added the water. Then she surprised me by taking down another glass and
pouring herself a solid slug.

‘I won't tell,' I said.

She took a sip. ‘Tell all you like. Are you a policeman?' 

I shook my head. ‘A private enquiry agent. He's hired me to find his daughter.'

‘I see. Which one?'

‘Paula.'

‘Ah, yes. The dog girl. Very strange.'

‘I'm not with you.'

‘Can you imagine what it's like to take care of rich people in their houses? No, how could you? Or perhaps you do. You become involved and … inquisitive. You have time on your hands. What do you think of him?'

I shrugged. ‘He's probably been a right bastard in his time, but he's paying his dues now. Despite myself, I quite like him.'

‘So do I. You seem to be a decent man and I know he's worried about Paula. He's had a stroke and I doubt if his memory is up to much. Ask him about Paula's photographs.'

‘That's already come up.'

She nodded and sipped her whisky. Her eyes drifted to the crossword and she stabbed at a word on the scribbling pad with her pencil. ‘Ah. Good! See me when you've finished, Mr Hardy.'

The old man had slumped down on the bed and his eyes were closed again. His face was dry now but there was a lost, defeated look about him. He heard me coming and his old, wrinkled eyelids lifted. ‘Did she give you the drinks?'

‘Yes.' I handed it across and he took a sip. It didn't seem to interest him.

‘I've been trying but I simply can't remember
anything useful about anything. It's like living in the clouds. I have memories, but they're oddly detached from each other. There's no sequence and no clarity. I can remember things that have been said to me, but not who said them. I can recall places but not who I was with. It's a terrible thing to lose your life in this way, Hardy. It makes what's left seem not worth having.'

‘Maybe you can get it back.'

He shook his head. ‘Doubt it. Doubt if I can be bothered.'

This was bad news for yours truly. I sat down and sipped my scotch, waiting for him to give me the boot—if he could be bothered. The whisky seemed to perk him up, though. A little colour came back into his face and he set his jaw in what must have been a very determined jut in his younger days. ‘But I want to see Paula again. I want to make my peace with her.'

‘I asked you what she said, before she shot you.'

‘Buggered if I can remember. If it comes back to me I'll let you know. Meanwhile, what will you do?'

‘There's some sort of connection between Paula and Verity. I'll look for them both. There's ways—parking fines, credit card checks, people to talk to. I hadn't even started when all this happened.'

He nodded and lifted his free hand from the bedcovers like a benediction. ‘Do what you have to. Need more money?'

‘Not yet.'

‘Verity and Paula. Can't understand it. Hated each other on sight …'

His voice was fading and the glass in his hand drooped. Whisky and water slopped into the bed.
I took the glass and put it on the bedside table.

‘I believe there's a collection of Paula's photographs in the house. I'd like to take a look at them. Maybe take a couple away.'

‘Yes,' he said. A spark of memory flared. ‘
Verity killed a dog.'

‘What?'

‘She killed a dog and Paula …' 

‘Did what?'

He shook his head. The clouds had come down again, enveloping and confusing him. I took Paula's photograph of Lamberte from the bed and went away quietly, carrying my drink and hoping very strongly I'd be able to give him what he wanted.

Mrs Darcy was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs.

‘He's asleep,' I said. ‘Or very close to it. I mentioned the photographs. He said it was okay for me to take any I needed.'

She pointed through the archway into the sitting room and went up the stairs. I took a drink and moved in the direction she'd indicated. There was a deep, fresh scar ploughed into the parquet floor and one of the cabinets was missing a glass panel—evidence of Paula's visit. Three fat, bulging photograph albums were sitting on a coffee table. I opened one and read the childishly formed handwriting: ‘Paula Wilberforce, her pictures.' The second album had ‘P. WILBERFORCE' printed in severe block capitals on the inside cover. The third had no identification at all.

I was too tired to start leafing through them now, too tired to be likely to notice what was significant and what wasn't. I went to the stairs and listened
but I couldn't hear anything. I finished my drink and took the glass out to the kitchen. Mrs Darcy had wrapped up the crossword. It lay there with every square neatly filled in. I looked at it and thought about the comparison it presented to the shambles of the Wilberforce-Lamberte case. What sort of a case was it? Missing persons? Attempted murder? An actual double murder? Sororicide? Was there such a crime?

I was past coherent thought. I rinsed the glass and put it on the sink. I needed to stay in Mrs Darcy's good books. Then I collected the photograph albums and let myself out of the house. It loomed up above me, dark on the top storey apart from one light in the master bedroom. I tramped down the path towards the gate. The albums weighed a ton. My back hurt; the whisky was acidic in my empty stomach and the arousal I'd felt back at Roberta's was a distant, shameful memory. I pushed open the gate and headed for the solid, comforting shape of the Land Cruiser.

A man stepped from behind the vehicle, a big man, moving close. He said, ‘Hardy?' and put his hand in his pocket.

I had too much frustration, doubt and worry built up inside me to react other than violently. I dropped the photograph albums and hit him in the ribs with a punch that sent waves of pain through my back and shoulders but still felt good. He bellowed and threw a fast punch at my face, but I stepped inside it and banged him again in the same spot. He was strong; he grunted and tried to kick me. A mistake, always a mistake. He was off balance when I caught him with a solid right jolt to the side of the jaw. His knees wobbled and he sagged towards the Land Cruiser. I moved forward; it was like being back in
the Police Boys Club in a three-rounder with the opponent tired and on the ropes. I felt young and strong again and I measured him for a combination.

‘Don't hit him again. Don't!'

The woman's voice was close, almost in my ear. I kept an eye on my man but the moment had passed. He lifted his hands protectively and Verity Lamberte stepped between us.

She had lost most of the smartness and dash she'd displayed when she'd come to my office. How long ago was it? It seemed like months. She was thinner, her hair was lank and in trousers, jumper and padded jacket she looked drab. But it was still her. Instinctively, I reached out to grab her arm and stop her from running. But she stood there with no thought of flight. The man pulled out a handkerchief and wiped blood from his face. My punch had caused his nose to bleed.

‘Mr Hardy,' Verity Lamberte said.

‘The same.' I gestured towards the man. ‘Who's this?'

‘My step-brother, Robert. We … we just wanted to talk.' 

‘To talk,' Robert said.

On closer inspection, he wasn't so big. Only a fraction taller than me and some of the bulk was in his clothes. Still, he'd made some pretty good moves. He was pale-faced and a touch weak-chinned. I was relieved to see that he wasn't wearing glasses.

‘Talk is right,' I said. ‘What the hell's going on here? Where have you been?'

‘Hiding. With Robert.'

‘Great. And what're you doing here? Don't tell me you've followed me all day like your crazy sister did. I couldn't stand it.'

She stared at me uncomprehendingly. ‘Karen followed you?'

‘Not Karen, Paula.'

‘She's not … I haven't seen her for years.'

Robert put his handkerchief away. His eyes drifted to the albums lying on the nature strip. ‘
We came to see him.' He pointed at the Wilberforce mansion. ‘We thought he might be able to help.'

‘You can't see him now. He's asleep.'

‘Maybe you can help me,' Verity said.

Robert shook his head. ‘I don't think that's such a good idea.'

‘I think it's a great idea,' I said. I was still holding her arm. I released her and bent to pick up the albums. When I had them under my arm I took hold of her again. ‘Where can we go to talk?'

I drove with Verity in the Land Cruiser following Robert in his Audi. Our talking place proved to be Robert Crosbie's three-bedroom flat in Bellevue Hill. Robert turned out to be a computer programmer and electrical engineer who'd inherited money from about three different directions the way the rich do. He was a bachelor, running his own small business and very attached to his step-sister, Verity. She had been staying with him since the visit from the police to tell her of her husband's death. Verity's mother, who was Selina Livermore before she became Wilberforce (she was subsequently Ashley-Hawkins, I was told),
was keeping an eye on the two children. They had temporarily become boarders at their respective private schools which they found a great lark.

‘I
loved
being a boarder,' Verity said.

Robert nodded.

I had nothing to contribute at this point, having walked to Maroubra High for five years from our semi. All this information had poured out almost as soon as we entered the flat. Step-brother and step-sister were dead keen to show how solid their family was, how caring and protective. I dumped the albums on the living room table and asked if there was anything to eat. The half sandwich consumed in Katoomba seemed like an experience from another lifetime.

Robert said, ‘Sure, sure,' and went off to busy himself in his bachelor kitchen.

Verity and I sat in armchairs a metre apart. Although her looks had suffered, for a woman who had lost a husband and a sister and whose kids were on hold, she was bearing up pretty well. I thought she could take some direct action. I said, ‘Did you know he was screwing Karen?'

She shook her head. ‘No. But she was very attractive.'

‘Right,' I said. ‘I saw her in all her fucking togs. Trouble was … her hair was on fire.'

She closed her eyes. ‘Do you have to be offensive?'

‘Widow Lamberte,' I said. ‘I went into that house when it was going up like a bonfire. I got Karen out but she was too badly burnt and smoke-affected to live. I nearly died myself. The cops very naturally wanted to know what I was doing up there with my binoculars and survival gear. I told them, but you weren't around to back up my story.'

‘I was afraid. The police came and told me there'd
been a fire and that Patrick was dead. They didn't mention you. But I thought … when they heard about you and the bullets and everything, they'd blame me. They'd think I killed them. You know what they do! You know how they falsely accuse people and ruin their lives.'

She was right. There had been a rash of cases of just that kind lately, affecting people of all classes and walks of life. My own insecurities derived from problems within the law enforcement structure.