by Peter Corris
They and the sketches were all unmistakably in the style of those on the dining room walls. Some of the drawings were barely begun, others had been left half-finished. I’m no art critic but these looked accomplished. I turned the heavy sheets of paper over, hoping to learn something. The only thing that struck me was the absence of human faces and figures. That seemed odd, but what do I know? A couple of studies of dogs, stretched out at a full run, had the kind of life-like quality and vigour that someone like me who can’t draw can only gape at.
Two things caught my eye simultaneously. A photograph, blown up to poster size, which looked to have been attacked by a paint brush, and movement in front of the house. I picked up the creased and crumpled photograph and moved to the window. I could see clearly through the greenery to the street. A police car had pulled up behind mine. Two officers approached the Falcon. One carried a clipboard. He consulted it and checked my registration number. He nodded to his mate who went back to their car. I couldn’t see what he was doing and I didn’t want to wait around to find out. I had no outstanding traffic infringements so my rego number was on their list for another reason. After a second or two they advanced on Number 12. One made as if to draw his pistol. The other stopped him, but one trigger-prone cop is more than enough.
I shot through the house, checked that I had the keys and that I hadn’t left anything lying around. I bounded down the back steps and flipped the door shut behind me. The back yard was short. I was at the fence in a couple of strides and over it with an agility that surprised me. I found myself in a large garden with a sprinkler system playing. I dodged the sprays and made it across to the fence on the right. Over that without damage. Still no dogs. I skulked through shrubberies and climbed fences in an easterly direction for a couple of hundred metres. Eventually, more by luck than good management, I dropped into a lane that led to a street. I emerged from my multiple trespasses without the faintest idea where I was.
I was panting as I turned into Tryon Road which gave me some idea of my whereabouts. I straightened my clothes and tried to look as if I belonged there. To my surprise, I still had the photograph clutched in my right hand. I folded it and put it in my pocket. Then it was a matter of making my way to a main road and hailing a cab. I tramped for a kilometre or so of more leafy streets before I reached the Pacific Highway. It was getting close to three o’clock, when the taxi drivers change shifts and want to head for home or base. I walked along the road for twenty minutes before I got a driver to stop. I said ‘Glebe’, automatically and only began to think as we approached the Gladesville bridge.
There had to be some kind of bulletin out on me and my car. The cops had checked the licence plate, then checked with HQ and it couldn’t have been just a parking fine or to tell me that Glen had been in a car accident because one had touched his gun. The hunt would be on seriously now that I’d skipped out on that pair. The question was, what had I done? I couldn’t think of anything in recent times. That left only one explanation—Paula Wilberforce had done something she shouldn’t have with my .38.
I got the driver to drop me at the bottom of Glebe Point Road and I climbed to the top of one of the blocks of flats behind my street, one of those that impede my view of Blackwattle Bay. I had a clear sight up and down the street and I knew by heart the cars that usually parked there at this time of the day. The grey Laser was definitely out of place. No food for the cat tonight. I needed a drink and a place to sit and think. I knew I should go to the cops myself but something about those two with their shiny boots and pistols made me think twice. My profession wasn’t in good odour with the constabulary at the best of times and these times were not that good. A couple of PEAs had been in the news lately, both acquitted of conspiracy charges on account of tainted police evidence.
My office was out, obviously. The only other place I could think of was Glen’s flat, which they might visit but where they probably wouldn’t kick the door down. I hopped on a bus that took me to Parramatta Road and caught another one up as far as Norton Street. Glen’s flat was close to Fort Street High School and a few stragglers dawdled along the streets dressed in motley versions of the school uniform and carrying khaki bags that looked as if they had done service in World War II. Caution was becoming second nature. I skulked at one end of the street watching the human and vehicular traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary—no one hanging about in front of Glen’s block, no occupied parked cars, no helicopters overhead.
I had a key to Glen’s place as she had to mine, the only difference being that I’d never used it. The block was on three levels, one below the street. Glen had told me she was in the street-level section which was reached by a kind of bridge running above the basement flats to the pavement. There was no security door. I went across the bridge and into the dark lobby and quickly up a flight of stairs. No one lurking or challenging. I went in and felt safe for the first time in a couple of hours. My first need was for a drink. Glen’s indifference to alcohol is a source of wonder to me. She simply doesn’t care whether she has any or not. But she was well enough supplied with what she favours when she does drink—gin and white wine. I poured a generous slug of gin over ice and sat down to do some thinking.
The cold gin relaxed me. The telephone rang twice but I didn’t answer it. I took a look out of the window from time to time but the street was quiet. I wandered around the flat, feeling like an intruder. I recognised some of the things Glen had brought from her house at Whitebridge—a pine table, a leather couch and a couple of paintings. The pictures reminded me of the photograph in my pocket. I sat down at the table and smoothed it out. At first I thought it was some kind of abstract study, but as I looked closer I could make out a face and the upper part of a man’s naked body. The features were almost obliterated, either by the film being wrongly exposed or a deliberate artistic device. The slashes of paint across the surface didn’t help.
I had another drink and stared at the picture. I wondered if I’d be able to recognise the person if I met him. Large or small, young or old, fair or dark, it was hard to say. There was no sense of perspective. The face was arresting though with a suggestion of … what? Strength? Madness? For whatever reason, the photograph had clearly meant something to whoever had painted in the studio of the Lindfield house. Who was that? Paula Wilberforce herself? I had no way to know. I refolded the picture and put it back in my jacket which was now hanging over a chair. It was getting cold in the flat. I turned on an electric radiator and began to feel drowsy. No good. I turned the radiator off and tried to get on with my thinking.
Nothing much came except a decision that what I did next would be governed by what Paula Wilberforce had done. Reactive thinking, but the best I could do. I contemplated another drink but decided that contacting Glen in Goulburn would be a better idea.
7
Glen answered immediately. ‘Cliff, what in God’s name have you been doing?’
‘For the last couple of hours I’ve been hiding from your colleagues. Have they been on to you?’
‘I’ll say. I was plucked out of a meeting and practically given the third degree about you.’
‘I’m sorry, love. What’s it all about?’
It was a key question and everything would depend on how she answered it. I swilled the dregs of the gin and melted ice and the pause seemed to go on forever.
‘All they told me is that there’s been a shooting. Someone was wounded. Your car was seen nearby.’
‘Wounded? Not killed?’
‘Wounded. Cliff …’
‘Who? Where?’
‘Christ, Cliff, I tell you I don’t know. An old man. In Randwick somewhere. What …’
I told her about it in as much detail as I could muster there and then. It was a relief to tell it. ‘I hope the old guy’s okay,’ I said. ‘What about the gun?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If she’s still got it I’m in the shit.’
‘Cliff, you have to go in. Why don’t you ring Frank Parker?
He’ll smooth things out for you. Where are you calling from?’
My mind was racing: even if Frank Parker could ensure me a reasonable hearing it was likely that my licence would be suspended. I would probably be watched. What chance would I have of finding Paula Wilberforce then? And there was the matter of the bullets posted to Mount Victoria. She might even have seen where the package was going. I couldn’t explain all that to the cops, nor could I sit back and let things take their course.
‘Cliff?’
‘I can’t go in,’ I said. ‘It’s too tricky. I’ve got something else that can’t wait.’
‘Something else, my God! What could be more important than this?’
‘Life and death,’ I said.
‘Cliff, are you drunk?’
I almost told her that I’d buy her a new bottle of gin but I managed not to. ‘I’m not drunk. Listen, Glen, I’ve got things to do …’
‘Are you mad? There’s an APB out on you.’
I laughed, maybe I was a bit drunk—two very stiff gins on a very empty stomach can do it. ‘I’ve had those things out on me before. They won’t shoot on sight, will they?’
‘Don’t joke, Cliff. Where are you?’
‘Sorry. It’s better that you don’t know.’
‘I want to help. Frank will, too. We can help.’
‘I don’t think so. Not just now. When will you be home?’
‘Tonight, of course. I’m coming straight back.’ I didn’t say anything and it hit her that I wasn’t going to be around.
Her voice faltered. ‘I … You don’t trust me.’
‘It’s not that. You’d have to turn me in. You’d be in the shit yourself if you didn’t. This is my trouble.’
‘You’re behaving like an idiot.’
‘I’ve got to go. I’ll call you at home later.’ I hung up and breathed out slowly. I’d just avoided saying ‘here’ instead of ‘at home’. Terrific. Now I had trouble on four fronts—Wilberforce, Lamberte, the New South Wales police and Glenys Withers. Plus I’d given a terrible lecture and didn’t have a car. It would have to rate as one of my more inglorious days.
I turned on the TV for the six o’clock news. It had been a slow day and the shooting made an item: ‘A man was shot today at his home in Randwick.’ The screen showed the house and some paramedics toting a stretcher towards an ambulance. ‘Neighbours of Sir Phillip Wilberforce, a retired businessman, say they heard muffled noises that seemed to come from inside this large house. Then there was a clearer noise that sounded like a shot. There was some delay before anyone investigated and Sir Phillip was found beside his swimming pool bleeding from a wound. A spokesman for the Prince of Wales Hospital said that, on account of Sir Phillip’s age, his condition was being classified as critical. A blue Falcon sedan was observed near the house and police are anxious to interview the driver.’ There was a quick take of a police detective staring up at the house and then one of the solarium and one of bloodstains on the tiles around the pool. The ambulance drove away.
It was less than helpful. I still didn’t know how badly the old fellow had been hit or whether the police had found the gun. Glen would find those things out for sure and maybe she would tell me. It wouldn’t take long to drive from Goulburn so my bolt-hole had a limited life. I had a shower, made coffee and ate two cheese sandwiches made with stale bread. I looked at the gin and riesling but I was strong. Then I sat down and wrote a note to Glen saying that I loved her and trusted her and needed her help. I thought about telling her about the Lamberte case but decided against it.
I didn’t want to leave. Glen’s odours, familiar and pleasing, were in the air. I opened her bedroom and looked at the bed. Inviting. I wondered when we’d get a chance to use it, if ever. I sensed that I was on dangerous ground with Glen now and there would be more trouble to come unless things straightened out quickly. The thought struck me that she might have her service pistol here and that I might need it. I swore at myself, closed the bedroom door and left the flat.
I rang Terry Reeves from a public phone, not wanting to use Glen’s resources any more than I already had, a worrying state of affairs. Terry had expanded his car rental business since I’d helped him out a few years back when someone had been stealing his cars. Now he also rents four wheel drives, camping and skiing gear and other things for people whose idea of fun is to put themselves through discomfort. He lives in a terrace opposite his business operation so he can watch over it personally. He also has several thousand dollars’ worth of alarm systems installed. I’d solved Terry’s immediate problem but, last I’d heard, his paranoia had got worse. He stayed open until he was absolutely sure that no one was going to wander in to rent a jackaroo and a tent.
A tired-sounding female receptionist put me through to Terry.
‘Are you still driving that bloody Falcon, Cliff?’ he said.
‘Same car, later model, but I’m … ah, temporarily without wheels.’
‘I can sell you a Subaru. Ex-fleet but the cleanest, sweetest …’
‘No, Terry I want to rent something. I’ll be over in a cab. Give me half an hour.’
‘Where are you? I’ll pick you up.’
‘What? You can’t knock off yet. It’s only just gone seven.’
‘I’m getting help with all that. Trying not to be so obsessive.’
‘You? Not obsessive?’
‘Yeah. I’m having therapy. C’mon Cliff, give me a break I’m trying to re-focus.’
‘Jesus. I’m in Petersham. New Canterbury Road, comer of Crystal Street.’
‘What’re you doing there?’
‘Terry …’
‘Okay. Stay put. I’m in a white Commodore.’
A lot of cars went past as I waited near the corner. It was dark and the warmth of the day had vanished. A cold wind blew along Crystal Street carrying fast food aromas, exhaust fumes and dust. I was wearing a leather jacket, Levis, a green corduroy shirt, cracked and battered Italian leather shoes. My heavy dark beard had sprouted since the none-too-close shave of that morning. I looked and felt like a suspicious character. A police car cruised by and I had to steel myself not to shrink back into the shadows.
The white Commodore pulled up on the other side of the road, paused, and did a showy U-turn to end up immediately in front of where I was skulking. I leapt forward, wrenched open the door and dived in.
‘Shit, Terry,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you try to make yourself conspicuous?’
He gunned the motor, waiting for another car to pull out around him. ‘Sorry, Cliff. I just feel so good.’
I was pushed back against the well-padded seat as he accelerated away. ‘Terry,’ I said, ‘take it easy. You’re a respectable businessman driving an accessory to Christ knows what.’
He made the next turn on the amber light with screaming tyres. ‘I don’t care. I’ve got to feel loose.’
‘Fuck loose,’ I said, ‘I’ve got to feel safe.’
‘Put your seat belt on, then.’
He drove in his expert, if sporty, manner through Stanmore towards Surry Hills.
‘I heard you were shacked up with a female copper,’ he said as he passed the railway and entered Eddy Avenue.
‘Right,’ I said.
Like most of my male friends, Terry had met and admired Helen Broadway. ‘The only cure for one woman is another woman,’ he said.
‘Right,’ I said again.
‘I want you to meet Wanda.’
‘Wanda?’
‘My therapist put me on to her. It’s fantastic. She’s helped me enormously.’
I leaned back against the padded seat and closed my eyes. ‘Good, Terry,’ I said. ‘I’m happy for you. I hope she hasn’t turned you into a totally solid citizen.’
‘What’s the trouble, Cliff?’
‘You wouldn’t want to know. But if you can fix me up with a four-wheel drive, a tent and a primus stove it’d be a big help.’
‘Serious problems can’t be solved by material things, mate.’<
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‘Terry,’ I said. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
Wanda turned out to be a big blonde woman of about Terry’s age or a few years older. Everything about her shrieked ‘Mum’, but Terry seemed to lap it up. He told her about how I’d cracked the stolen car racket and how I had a penchant for old Falcons with defective heaters and no cassette player. Wanda smiled indulgently at me and touched Terry every chance she got. They fed me on Wanda’s vegetable soup and home-made bread and then Terry took me across to the lot.
The staff had finally knocked off. It took Terry ten minutes to deactivate the alarm system. Wanda hadn’t had any effect in that department. His operation had expanded since I’d last seen him. He had a big service area and an imposing customer lounge. There weren’t many cars around which I took to be a good thing, business-wise.
‘I can let you have a Land Cruiser, Cliff. How long would you be wanting it?’
‘A week at the most.’
‘That’ll be okay. Did you say you wanted camping gear?’
‘A bit. Nothing fancy.’
‘D’you want a mobile phone?’
An hour later I was on the road. I had a one-man tent, a groundsheet, foam-rubber slab, sleeping bag, parka, thick gloves, tilly lamp, torch, binoculars, a Panasonic camera with zoom lens, primus stove, matches, a thermos full of soup and a half bottle of Johnny Walker red label. The Land Cruiser had a full tank of petrol and was running smoothly. I turned on the radio and caught the nine o’clock news but there was nothing about Sir Phillip Wilberforce. I wondered how he’d made his money and how much there was of it. I could feel the folded photograph in my pocket. It was my only glimmer of a lead in the Wilberforce case. It would be useful to ask Sir Phil about it, Dr John Holmes also, possibly. No chance of that for now.