Beware of the Dog (4 page)

‘What the hell are you playing at?'

‘I wanted you to feel what the dog felt.'

‘You're mad.'

‘What the man felt, then.'

‘You followed me all the way out there?'

‘Sure. I told you I wanted to know how you operate. Now I think I understand.'

I could have told her that I'd gone back and made my peace with the dog, but I was too angry. ‘I doubt it. You need help.'

‘Help me then.'

‘You know what I mean.'

‘Who was that man? What was in the envelope?'

I tossed the toy to her. She caught it deftly, still favouring one leg. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilberforce.'

‘I followed you. I parked just a little way down the street. Shouldn't you have noticed me? Are you getting too old for what you do?'

I shoved the key in the lock. ‘Go away!'

Her voice changed, taking on the severe, serious tone she'd finally adopted in the interview. ‘Mr Hardy. One more thing.'

I had the door open. ‘What?'

‘I can't help wondering what was in that parcel you posted. You seemed terribly concerned about it.'

The cat with no name greeted me as I came through the door. It followed me down the hall into the kitchen and stood over me until I opened a tin of food for it. The way I felt I'd have opened two tins if it had insisted. I searched my memory for some recollection of Paula Wilberforce at the Post Office, on the road and at Granville—some subconscious mental image that I hadn't bothered to process. Nothing. Her question hit the nail on the head. Here I was, congratulating myself on handling a tricky situation with aplomb, and I hadn't noticed a crazy woman keeping tabs on me in broad daylight.

The implications of that failure troubled me more than the fact of her attentions. I'd dealt with unstable women before—telephone callers, letter writers, window breakers. They tend to have low stamina and to be pretty easily deflected onto some other grievance.
Are you getting too old for this? Maybe you should take Dan Sanderson up on
his
offer.
I shook the thought off as I made myself a sandwich and poured a big glass of white wine. It wasn't even an option. I was of value as an instructor
because
I was a practitioner. Maybe it was a blessing in disguise,
a reminder not to get slack just because most of the things I do I've done a thousand times before.

I ate the food and drank the wine. I had the shower I'd missed in the morning, then I set about tidying the kitchen Glen and I had left in such a hurry. I went upstairs to do the same in the bedroom. The bed was a mess with the fitted bottom sheet adrift and the blankets in a tangle. Our love-making after last night's meal had been vigorous and both of us were restless sleepers, contending for space and the bedclothes. I sat down on Glen's side. I could smell her in the sheets and on the pillows. I wouldn't have her tonight to talk to or to hold. I missed her.
Soft, Hardy. You're getting soft.
I straightened the bed roughly, collected the glasses and mugs and went down to make more mess in the kitchen.

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 Visa card 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 & 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.'

‘She inherited a lot of money. She's very dangerous, Mr Hardy. She harassed me for months. I got her to see a student counsellor and his report was, well … disturbing. If she's transferred her attentions to you, you've got a real problem.'

‘Does she have a doctor?'

‘Now that you mention it, yes. I've got some of this stuff on disk. I could look it up and give you a ring back in a few minutes if you'd like.'

I thanked him and gave him my number. Another computer man. Gave him an edge. What I didn't remember, I didn't know. I looked out the window again. Nothing. At least it wasn't raining. I had another can of beer.

‘Dr John Holmes,' Maurice said when he rang back ‘Psychiatrist.'

‘Woollahra. I know him. Many thanks.'

He wished me the best of luck, with feeling. I'd met Dr Holmes a few years back when I was trying to find a freaked-out writer bent on destroying himself
and a few others. I found him, but too late, and Dr Holmes wasn't a hell of a big help. Still, it was something to cling to. Maybe Paula Wilberforce went to see him every week and would be happy to put my gun on his big, polished desk. I went to the cupboard under the stairs where I keep another gun—an unlicensed Colt .45 automatic. It was an early model that didn't have the extra safety grip that has to be squeezed before the weapon can operate. I've never liked it, always thought of it as a dangerous piece of equipment, but I keep it oiled and clean. I worked the slide and ran a rag over it, then put it away in the dark cupboard.

A light flashed in the front window—dial a windscreen had arrived. Normally, I'd have gone out to watch them work and thanked them for their efforts, but the reverses of the day had soured me. I stood at the window and watched their efficient movements as they suctioned out the broken glass and fitted the new windscreen and window. Two men performed the operation inside thirty minutes. They took the cheque, locked the doors and went on their way. I envied them the simplicity and usefulness of their line of work.

It was close to eleven o'clock when I finally got through to Glen. She sounded tired and told me she'd had a hell of a day defending some of her liberal positions on firearms and the use of vehicles. ‘How was your day?' she said.

What could I say? I couldn't tell her about the plastic gun and the real one. She'd have reported the theft immediately, whatever I said. I told her the day had been dull apart from a broken windscreen.

‘Shit. Were you hurt?'

‘No, no. Cost a couple of hundred bucks though.'

‘Look, Cliff, I'm going to have to stay another night. There's a new intake I have to talk to and some other things to do.'

‘Okay, but I won't be here the day after. I've got to go up to the Blue Mountains.'

‘For how long?'

‘I don't know.'

It was one of those difficult moments we encountered from time to time. She didn't expect me to tell her what I was doing. I wanted to but we both knew it wouldn't work. It was an uncomfortable thing, especially over the phone.

‘So,' I said. ‘Take care of yourself.'