by Peter Corris
I punched the radio buttons as I drove. The quiz on the ABC station held me for a few minutes when I knew some of the answers and lost me when I didn’t. I ran through a blizzard of commercials, religion and talk-back until I got Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto on FM. It’s one of the few classical pieces I can listen to without drifting off into thoughts carnal or mundane. The First Movement, great stuff. I tapped my totally unmusical fingers on the steering wheel and began to feel better. The night was clear and the traffic was light. The heater worked. I was heading for the pure clean air of the Blue Mountains. If I’d had any solid idea of what I was going to do when I got there I’d have felt almost in charge of my life.
8
I stopped at Emu Plains and bought some supplies at an all-night service station—bread, cheese, instant coffee and milk. Also a detailed map of the Blue Mountains. I studied it carefully, approximately locating the Lamberte block. The four acres appeared to be well out of the town and reached by several roads of ever-decreasing importance. Verity Lamberte had mentioned Bells Line of Road and the railway. There was a valley between them and the block. The Electricity Commission had a track through it to service overhead power lines and there were several fire trails.
It was cool in Emu Plains; it would be colder in the mountains. I filled a plastic water bottle I’d found in the back of the Cruiser. I bought a cup of coffee, spiked it with the whisky and sipped it slowly. When I couldn’t put it off any longer I called Glen on the mobile phone.
‘I got your note,’ she said quietly. ‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry. I think this is the way to do it.’
‘It’s not. You’re being stubborn and stupid. Where the hell are you now? Not that you’ll tell me.’
‘Glen, all the explaining, the paperwork, the sitting about would take up days. I’ve got things to do. If nothing works out I’ll come in. I promise.’
‘Meanwhile that crazy woman is running around with your gun.’
‘So she’s still got the gun, has she?’
‘Yes. How many rounds were in it?’
‘Eight.’
‘Terrific. She put one in her dad and shot off another six or seven.’
‘Which? six or seven?’
‘They don’t know. D’you see, Cliff? She might have one bullet left.’
‘Shit.’ The phone buzzed with static.
‘Cliff! Cliff! What’s all that? Are you using a car phone?’
‘Yes. How’s Wilberforce?’
‘Weak, in and out of it. But they say he’ll pull through. Seems to be a tough old bird. It’s a weird family, but I suppose you know that.’
‘No, I know bugger-all about them. This whole thing has just sort of blown up around me. I can tell you one thing, Wilberforce hired me to find his daughter.’
‘You don’t say. Big news. They found the cheque book. They’re not totally stupid. But finding a cheque stub made out to you for a grand hasn’t exactly helped you so far, Cliff.’
‘Look, love, I just can’t be of any use right now. If I could talk to Wilberforce …’
I let it hang there. She didn’t respond. We both knew that there was no way to bring that off. I could feel her hostility and anger. Telephones don’t facilitate calm and understanding.
‘That means you have got some ideas. Please, Cliff, let me come and see you. We can talk …’
‘No, Glen. Give me a couple of days.’
‘To do what, where, for Christ’s sake? Do you know who I feel like? Who I sympathise with?’
‘Tell me.’
‘Your poor starving fucking cat!’
She hung up. I clutched the dead handset and looked out through the windscreen at the highway. I could pull out onto it and head back to the city. Talk to Glen, get into bed with her. Do a deal with Detective Inspector somebody-or-other in the morning. Tell them what little I knew. Get myself side-lined. I couldn’t do it.
I started the engine and headed for the mountains. Every kilometre produced a new rationalisation and justification. No one could talk to Wilberforce until he was better—therefore, the photograph wasn’t any use. Paula had either one round in the .38 or none. If none, fine; if one, she might not even know about it. If she did know she’d probably think long and hard about using it. Wouldn’t she?
I remember seeing a mini-series in which Michael York played a German doctor who’d been forced to do bad things by the Nazis. He’d got to Australia illegally and was working in a Gippsland timber camp. The script forced him into utterances like, ‘Der air is like vine.’ By Blackheath the mountain air was like wine all right, but very cold wine. There was an almost full moon, no clouds and a strong chilly wind. I stopped for a piss in a public toilet and the wind cut straight through my jacket and shirt. It seemed like a long time since I’d been out of the city and, despite my problems, it was exhilarating to feel the mountains all around, with more trees than houses and the sky huge and clear overhead.
There was almost no traffic on the road on the rest of the drive up to Mount Victoria. I shut down the heater because it made me drowsy. I turned off the radio as well and denied myself the swig on the whisky I would have welcomed. This was no holiday, no pleasure jaunt. Unless I was smart and careful I’d be spotted immediately, transported to Sydney and subjected to that peculiar scepticism that cops acquire through their mother’s milk or start learning from their first day on the job.
Mount Victoria was still and quiet. The last train had left and the lights were out in the pub and the couple of large guest houses on the edge of the town. The residents were inside around their fires and potbelly stoves and TV sets. The blue light outside the nice old double-fronted police station was glowing but the building was in darkness. I rolled on through and took the Mount York Road. All street lighting ceased after two more right turns and then I was on the thin, rutted track called Salisbury Road that ran past the Lamberte holding.
A square block of four acres gives you a frontage of roughly two hundred yards—I retained that much from high school arithmetic. The lots along Salisbury Road were at least that size or possibly bigger. It was hard to tell because some were vacant, others had houses set well back from the road and in most cases there were only hand-painted signs tacked onto trees to indicate where properties began and ended. I used the spotlight mounted on the roof sparingly even though it looked like weekender territory. The track didn’t get a lot of work and the entrances to the blocks had that half-grown-over look that indicates occasional use.
The Lamberte lot was no exception. There was a wire fence running along the front perimeter but one of the strands had snapped; several of the posts had sagged inwards and the fence looked half-hearted. The track onto the block was marked by a gnarled eucalypt which had ‘Lambert’ painted on it, evidently executed by someone other than the owner. Unfamiliar as I was with the area and dark as the tree-lined track was, the Lambertes seemed to have the best of the location. I stopped at the last fence post and looked across the valley. In the far distance I could see the lights of the Bells Line of Road and imagine where the railway must run. Very nice, Patrick, I thought. If I was in the asset-hiding business, this would definitely be one to hide.
The nearest neighbour was the better part of a kilometre away. I could see the back of the house nestled down among a stand of trees, on a rock shelf fifty metres from the road. No lights, no sign of a vehicle. I was tempted to break in and toss the place. You never knew, maybe Mr Patrick Lamberte had a shelf full of wife-murder books—The Memoirs of Dr Crippen, The True Life Story of john Christie, Tony Agostino Tells All. I resisted the impulse, recognising it as unprofessional and sloppy. Besides, I was in enough trouble already without adding a break-and-enter charge.
I drove on to where the Electricity Commission track met Salisbury Road. It hadn’t been used for some time and the bush was fighting back, trying to reclaim the cleared space. That suited me. I engaged the four wheel drive and piloted the Land Cruiser slowly along the track, probing
ahead with my lights on full beam. I didn’t want to break an axle on a creek bed or rip a tyre to shreds on a metal stake. But the saplings parted easily, brushing the windows on both sides, flicking at the windscreen, and the fall of the land was gentle. The map suggested the presence of a fire trail running to the right, behind the Lamberte land, but it was too dark to search for it. After the hectic events of the day, the sudden slowing down of movement, the dark and the quiet hit me and let me know how dose to exhaustion I was. I could scarcely hang on to the wheel as the tyres bumped along in old, hard-baked ruts. The bush on either side hemmed me in; tall trees shut out the moonlight.
I slowed to a crawl and pulled off the track into the trees. Within a few metres the front bumper came to rest against a solid trunk and that was far enough. I killed the lights and waited for a time to make sure my arrival in the valley hadn’t attracted any attention. A couple of wallabies thumped in the bush nearby and some night birds whistled and cooed. By torchlight I emptied my bladder into a fern bush and made my bed in the back of the Cruiser—foam rubber unrolled, sleeping bag spread out, the parka for a pillow, off with the jacket and shoes, a big swig of whisky to clean the clackers and goodnight.
I woke up a few minutes before dawn, that time when the temperature seems to drop suddenly by a couple of degrees. Inside the sleeping bag, with my jeans, shirt and socks on, I was frozen. My breath was like a fog machine in action and when I reached out for my watch I touched metal that stung. It was no hardship to get up and moving. I climbed into my jacket and pulled on the parka, the gloves and the hiking boots and I was still cold. I stamped around in the almost-light, flapping my arms and taking deep breaths of the icy air.
The sun came up and it got slightly warmer immediately. The Cruiser started at the first turn of the key. I backed out of my shelter and began to search for the fire trail. There was a deep frost but only a light mist. The exhaust was sending up clouds of steam. I spotted the narrow, muddy trail and turned onto it. A small creek trickled over rocks and followed the track for a few metres before changing course and running downhill. I stopped at a point I judged to be directly below the Lamberte place. The tree cover had been thinned over the years under the power lines and I had a good view of the country above me. Glass winked in the sunlight to the left. I drove on another twenty metres and swept the hill with the binoculars. I was slightly past the house and a hundred metres below it. Above me was a jumble of rocks that seemed to join up with the rocky shelf on which the cabin sat.
I parked between two big trees; the exhaust steam faded away and the bush noises took over—bird calls, the wind in the trees, running water. My teeth were chattering and my fingers were stiff with cold inside the thick gloves. Wanda’s soup was still warm. I drank almost all of it and ate several slices of bread. I boiled water on the primus and made instant coffee. Then I slung the binoculars around my neck and began to climb the rock pile. It was steeper and harder than it looked from below. After a few minutes I was hot and discarded the parka. The hiking boots were well used, comfortable and gave a good purchase on the damp rocks. A sheer-faced, ten-metre-high boulder forced me to move to my left and when I went round it I found myself on a ledge about seventy-five metres west of, and slightly above the Lamberte cabin.
There was light timber between me and it, but the powerful Zeiss glasses gave me an excellent sight of the back of the house. I squatted and regained my breath. The position could hardly have been better. I could see the track all the way up to the road. Near the house there was a cleared space where cars could be parked; wood was stacked under the jutting eaves and the barbecue area was handy but a safe distance from the building. The water tank was in view and beyond it, connected to the house by a cable, was a small shed which almost certainly housed the generator. The cabin was nicely sited, with a view out over the valley. I couldn’t see it, but I’d have been willing to bet that the place had a front deck, possibly cantilevered out over the rock shelf. No self-respecting architect could do otherwise.
I scratched under my chin where the stubble was beginning to itch and thought about my next move. If Lamberte met with anyone up here and any weapons were displayed, I’d be able to get pictures. It was a pity that I didn’t have any bugging equipment. I had the gear at my place in Glebe but that was no doubt being watched around the clock by the constabulary. Lamberte was due to arrive today and I’d have to be at the Post Office when it opened to hang around to see whether he picked up the package. Doing that without attracting attention to myself was going to be tricky. It was nicer out here, with the birds whistling and the steam rising off the rocks as the sun climbed above the trees.
I stared down at the house and again I was tempted. What harm could it do, a little look around? From what Verity Lamberte had said it didn’t sound as if the place was used all that often. So what if I disturbed the kindling box or left the Trivial Pursuit set slightly off line? Who’d notice? I’ve never owned a country house or a weekender, but I was pretty sure that if I did I’d make certain the lights were out and the stove was off and that’s about all I’d worry about before the next visit. A place to slob about in, leave things lying comfortably around. Wasn’t that the point?
I was measuring the distance and thinking about hopping over a rocky outcrop and sliding down a lightly timbered slope, when I was saved from folly. A Land Rover came chugging in from the road and negotiated the track down to the parking spot in front of the woodpile. A man got out. He was tall and trimly built, wearing country clothes—jeans, boots, heavy sweater—that managed to look at once smart and fashionable. He fitted the description Verity Lamberte had given me of her husband—tall and well-built with greying brown hair, receding at the temples.
It was his attitude that clinched the identification for me though. He looked utterly at home, completely proprietorial. People who own county land tend to behave as if their title extends over everything they survey—far out to sea if they occupy a coastal headland, to the horizon in the outback. Lamberte clapped his gloved hands together and stamped his feet. His breath plumed in the cold air. He talked animatedly and waved his hands about, while pointing in this direction and that. Then he went around to the other side of the Land Rover and opened the door. The woman he handed down was a tall blonde.
9
At first I thought it was Paula Wilberforce and I almost shouted with surprise. I did make some kind of noise and I pulled back fast behind the nearest large rock. I recovered and took a good look through the glasses. Lamberte and the woman were unloading the back of the Land Rover. She had the Wilberforce build and hair, but her face was fuller and she was a few years older than Paula. The pair looked comfortable together, as if they’d done this sort of thing many times before, which had to make you speculate about what else they’d done before. Lamberte unlocked the back door and they ferried in their cardboard boxes, overnight bags and bundles. Two trips each and they were done. The door closed behind them. A short time later, a puff of smoke issued from the chimney and made me realise how cold and lonely I was.
There was nothing to be gained by staying where I was. It was only just past seven o’clock, too early to start hanging around the Post Office. I stared at the cabin door willing someone to come out, something to happen. Nothing did. I remembered Verity Lamberte’s statement about Patrick—‘attractive to women and likes to take advantage of it’. I guessed that was what he was doing right now. He wasn’t likely to come out and start chopping wood. I scrambled back down the rocks, timing myself. It took about four minutes to get down, maybe twice that long to get up. So what? I didn’t know. It was just something to do.
Anyway, it seemed like a safe time to move the Land Cruiser. I drove back along the fire trail towards the service track. As near as I could judge, I couldn’t be seen from the cabin. When I reached the service road I turned in the other direction and did a little exploring. There were several tracks through this part of the valley and one led up to the highway. So there were two ways in t
o my spy point. I tried to make finding that out feel like an achievement. I sneezed violently several times as I drove and I could feel a cold building inside my head. Great for surveillance work.
I drove into town and killed time buying petrol, tissues and a newspaper. There was a small item on the Wilberforce shooting. His condition was unchanged; the police still wanted to interview the driver of a Falcon seen in St Marks Road some time before the shooting. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror as I climbed back into the Cruiser. My hair was wild and I had a heavy growth of dark beard sprinkled with grey. I sneezed, swore and wiped my nose savagely. My eyes were red and wet-looking.
‘You’re getting too old for this,’ I said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ A woman crossing the road looked at me oddly and I realised that I had spoken aloud.
I sneezed and grinned at her, no doubt a horrible sight. ‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Talking to myself.’
She gave me a tentative smile and very deliberately moved a little further away as she passed. I didn’t blame her. I was parked outside the Post Office at nine o’clock on the dot. It was an old building set on a rise above the highway with the Imperial Hotel and the Bells Road turn-off opposite. There was a general store a little further along and an ‘old wares’ shop. The Post Office opened at five past nine, but business was slow. A woman from the antique shop took in a few parcels; a couple of elderly people made heavy weather of the climb but emerged with envelopes and contented expressions. I sat behind my paper, sneezing and feeling conspicuous. Balmain had won an interstate night game; Wimbledon was shaping like an all-European final, again; rail fares were up, air fares were down.