by Peter Corris
‘Scratch about a bit,’ I told it. ‘Maybe you can get this stuff into an arrangement that makes sense.’
The cat sat down on top of the mysterious photograph and brushed my pen off the table with its tail.
‘Big help,’ I said.
Frank Parker rang soon after. ‘I did a bit of looking around for you,’ he said. ‘Nothing much came up. One thing, there was Nadia Crosbie who drowned in Queensland a few years back. Is that yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seems there was something fishy about that, no pun intended. The local police weren’t entirely satisfied about the circumstances—suspicious person seen in the vicinity, weather conditions, state of the body—that sort of thing. All circumstantial. Nothing came of it. The police up there had other things to worry about at the time. The coroner returned death by misadventure, but I just thought you might like to know.’
I thanked him, recovered my pen and scribbled the date of Nadia Crosbie’s death—2 June 1989—on a piece of paper not covered by cat. The cat got offended and jumped off the table. I looked at the notes again. It was risky being a Wilberforce-Lamberte-Crosbie. It was risky being a Hardy. Safer to be a cat.
I got a glass of wine and had one more shot at it, hoping for the light bulb to glow. It didn’t. Among the scribble a name written in block capitals stood out. CLIVE STEPHENSON. Who the hell was he? Then I remembered that he was Patrick Lamberte’s solicitor. His address was in the same building as Cy Sackville, my long-suffering lawyer. Maybe Cy could help me there. That was probably what they taught at TAFE—when in doubt, ring your lawyer.
17
The words of a song were running through my head as I waited to be ushered into the presence of Clive Stephenson with a ‘ph’: ‘In ten years time we’ll have one million lawyers … how much can a poor nation stand?’ Cy Sackville had arranged for me to see Stephenson at very short notice.
‘After a bit of persuasion Clive said he’d find a window in his diary,’ Cy had told me.
‘What?’
‘That’s the way he talks. Went to the Chicago Law School. When he looks out at the harbour I think he pretends it’s the Great Lakes.’
‘How should I handle him?’
‘Flatter him. If that doesn’t work, insult him. Clive’s not a subtle guy, but he has got a sense of humour. He owes me a favour or two. He’ll play along with you as far as he can.’
‘What’s his field?’
‘Company law, what else?’
‘Is he interested in due process of law, justice for all, getting to the truth or money?’
‘Hah,’ Cy had said.
Stephenson was older-looking than I had expected, although maybe he was just practising looking like a judge. He wore a dark suit, striped tie and his hair was a distinguished shade of grey at the sides. His office was super-traditional with an American flavour. Everything Clarence Darrow would have had was there, except perhaps for the cuspidor. He sat me down opposite his desk. I refused coffee.
‘How can I help you, Mr Hardy?’ He had a deep voice with an educated Australian accent plus a touch of the mid-west. Pity he wasn’t a barrister.
‘You represent the late Patrick Lamberte?’
He nodded. Saving the voice for when it was most needed.
‘Mrs Lamberte hired me to inquire into certain aspects of her husband’s dealings. I was present when the house at Mount Victoria burnt down.’
‘Tragic business. What exactly were you looking into?’
‘I can’t tell you precisely, but Mrs Lamberte was afraid that her husband intended to harm her. Does that surprise you?’
He shook his head. For a minute I thought he was conserving the voice-box again but I was wrong. ‘It doesn’t surprise me one bit,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a couple so divided, so fundamentally hostile to each other.’ He pronounced it ‘hostel’.
‘You think he was capable of killing her?’
‘In certain moods, yes. But Lamberte was a pretty controlled character, really. He was in a lot of financial and personal trouble and wouldn’t have wanted any more.’
‘How much financial trouble?’
He opened his hands. ‘Plenty. But he had a chance of getting out of it.’
‘If his wife didn’t take him for fifty per cent?’
‘It wouldn’t have helped.’
‘The Family Court proceedings would have been tricky?’
‘Bloody. Where’s this leading? If you’re working for Mrs Lamberte you’ll find out all about her husband’s affairs in due course. She gets the estate, what there is of it. I’m liaising with Brian Garfield on that.’
‘I’m not exactly working for Mrs Lamberte just now.’
He leaned back in his chair and touched the grey streaks in a way that made me suspect that they were cosmetic. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘I’m actually working for Sir Phillip Wilberforce, trying to locate his daughter. There’s a connection between her and Lamberte.’ I hated myself for the ‘Sir Phillip’, but I forgave myself.
There is no category of human being more monarchist and pro-aristocracy than a Republican American, which is what Stephenson was aping. He was impressed. ‘What kind of a connection. The obvious?’
‘I know Lamberte was sexually active,’ I said. ‘But Paula Wilberforce apparently wasn’t. I suspect it wasn’t about sex, or not altogether. I’m fishing, I admit. Did he ever mention her to you? Does her name appear on any documents you’ve seen?’
He shook his head. ‘No, to both questions. I’d remember the name.’
‘I know very little about him. Were you friends, or what?’
‘He designed my house. That’s how we met.’
‘Good house?’
‘For now. It’s at Bowral. Patrick owned some country property himself and he’d put up a few nice houses on acres, if you know what I mean.’
‘Bowral,’ I said.
He glanced at his Rolex. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to have to …’
‘You said Bowral. Did Lamberte own land at Bowral? I thought he’d had to sell everything off?’
His carefully controlled face became cagey. ‘Is that what Mrs Lamberte told you?’
I nodded.
‘That’s right, he did. But when he was riding high and the banks were ladling out the money he bought and speculated like Donald Trump. He had property all over the place. I’m not sure of the exact state of his holdings as of now.’
I could hear the bells ringing and feel the synapses being bridged. ‘Now doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘If you could dig out a list of Lamberte’s property holdings at his peak it could help tremendously.’
Stephenson stroked his closely-shaven chin. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How can it hurt? The guy’s dead.’
Stephenson’s grin was wolfish. The sense of humour Cy had alleged to exist flashed into sight. ‘And his account’s way overdue. I’ve got people to see, Mr Hardy, but I’m sure I can oblige you. Why don’t you step outside and ask for Robin?’ He gave me his wise-as-Clarence-Darrow smile and picked up the phone.
‘Robin, would you get the Lamberte file up on screen for Mr Hardy, please? Specifically assets. Okay? Many thanks.’
Back in the busy outer office, I deduced that Robin was the woman looking at a VDT while keeping one eye on Stephenson’s door. She raised a hand and beckoned me over. I approached warily. I have mixed feelings about computers; I like them when they save me time and effort, I hate them when they get between me and something I want, like my money on a Saturday afternoon.
Robin was about twenty-two and probably couldn’t remember the pre-computer age. She surrendered her chair to me and pointed at the screen. ‘There you go. Assets.’
She started to move away but I took hold of her arm and held her. ‘I don’t know how to work this thing.’
‘It’s simple.’ She picked up a plastic object the size of a cigarette packet. ‘You can use a mouse or the keyboard.’
&n
bsp; ‘I haven’t got any cheese and I don’t play the piano.’
She blinked, then smiled hesitantly. ‘A joke, right?’
‘Right. But I still don’t know how to run a computer.’
‘Sit down. Here’s the cursor, see? You move it up and down with these arrow keys and the information scrolls.’
‘Cute,’ I said.
‘Call me if you have a problem.’
She went across the room and whispered in the ear of a young man sitting at a desk. He glanced across at me and they both laughed. I’d like to see them drive an ’81 Falcon manual.
My assets would have taken up about three lines; Patrick Lamberte’s filled the screen several times over. I scrolled carefully through it. His basic company, Lamberte Holdings, had subsidiaries like Pat Co. and Verity Inc. There was a Shane Trust and a Michelle Pty Ltd. It was hard to tell how solid the assets were without knowing the meaning of the code numbers that accompanied them. If 0026 meant ‘wholly owned and in the black’ Patrick was in good shape, if it meant ‘money owning’ he was down the tubes.
On the third screen-full I found it: Fitzroy House Kennels, owned by the Shane Trust. I looked up and caught Robin watching me. She raised an eyebrow, I nodded and she hurried over. Very economical this computer business. I pointed to the item on the screen. ‘How do I get more information?’
Automatically her hand snaked out and her long-nailed fingers began tapping the keys. The print on the screen changed from white on blue to black on white. Fitzroy House Kennels was located at Lot 5, Wombeyan Road, between Bowral and Mittagong. That was the only part of the text that made sense to me, the rest was columns of figures and more code numbers.
I made a note of the address and looked helplessly at Robin. ‘What does it mean?’
She did some more key tapping. ‘Doesn’t make any money. Never did. Bought in 1986 for three hundred thousand, top of the boom that’d be. Mortgaged … let’s see, probably above its current value. Westpac and others. If you’re interested in buying it you can probably pick it up for a song.’
‘Are you a lawyer or an economist, Robin?’
‘Both.’
‘Kennels,’ I said. ‘Dog minding?’
‘Supposedly. Dog and cat minding. But it hasn’t operated for a couple of years, and the rates haven’t been paid, see?’ She touched a key and the screen filled with copies of correspondence.
‘Does it have a manager, a tenant or whatever?’
Another key stroke, another display. ‘Walked out early last year. Owing rent.’
‘So there’s no one there now?’
‘I guess. Do you want a survey map?’
‘Why not?’
A stretch appeared on screen. Robin hit some keys and a printer across the room began chattering. She went over to it and tore off a sheet. She went to her own desk, folded the map and put it in an envelope. I got up and began to tell her that the envelope wasn’t necessary. She smiled and asked me for my name and address. I gave it and her fingers flew across the keyboard of her computer.
‘What’s that for?’
‘We’ll bill you,’ she said.
I stood in Martin Place, shortly before lunchtime. A few brave souls were settling down on the seats with their lunches, turning their backs to the cold wind. I walked down Pitt Street and went into the first pub I came to. I bought a scotch and took it across to a table as far from the blaring TV set as I could get. I opened the long white envelope and looked at the annotated survey map. The property known as Fitzroy House consisted of a sandstone cottage built in the northern quadrant of a 4.5 hectare allotment. Improvements comprised a large garage, swimming pool, tennis court and ‘buildings erected for the purpose of caring for domestic pets’. The block had a creek running through it and it fronted onto Wombeyan Road for 100.3 metres.
I tried to work out how many acres there were in 4.5 hectares. A lot. The cottage was built in 1883, there were probably quite a few rooms in it. A good out-of-the-way place to hide. Good for dogs, too.
18
It was raining by the time I got back to Glebe, but I had everything I needed to cope with that. I changed out of the son of clothes you wear to visit a lawyer into the sort you wear to go looking for a mad woman in the country—boots, thick socks, jeans and a sweater. The good quality parka I’d got from Terry Reeves had been reduced to a burnt ruin so I took mine, older, less padded, hoodless. I still had the leather jacket, except that it had lain as a soggy mess in the back of the Cruiser for a couple of days. I collected a few more items, like my antibiotic capsules, and then I had to ask myself the question: did I compound my law-breaking by taking the unregistered Colt with me? The thought of Paula Wilberforce’s blue eyes gave me the answer.
I left a note for Glen, including the car phone number, telling her that I could be away overnight. Through the kitchen window I could see that the rain was driving down hard and it was getting dark in the mid-afternoon. It didn’t matter, I’d have gone if it had been snowing.
On the road I was glad of the big vehicle’s tyre traction, powerfully sweeping wipers and sure handling. The rain was coming down in sheets from a leaden sky and I tried to remember the last weather forecast I had heard or read. Nothing had stuck. I turned on the radio and got one—rain, rain and more rain; flood warnings on the south coast, cold nights. Somewhere out near Campbelltown the cars with weak wipers and lights were pulling over to the side of the road. If I’d been driving the Falcon I’d have been with them. Better a wet distributor and a long wait than a pile-up in the mist. The rain didn’t slacken but the traffic adjusted to it. The trucks laboured along in the left lane, the speedsters curbed themselves and we 4WD men were the kings of the road.
Although the freeway was built years ago I still think of it as new because I drove the old road many, many more times. It bypasses all the towns, but I still measure the distance and know where I am in terms of them. It was somewhere past Picton that the blue and red flashing lights began appearing and the wail of sirens lifted above the noise of tyres and wipers. Every vehicle on the road slowed down to allow the ambulances and police cars through and we all drove circumspectly past the place where four cars had collided. They were slewed around on the road—headlights pointing crazily and rear bumpers and radiators crumpled and leaking plastic and metal.
People huddled by the side of the road, their faces white in the headlights; cops, with water sloshing off their yellow slickers were directing the traffic and paramedics, shielded by umbrellas held over them, dealt with the still shapes stretched out on the wet tarmac.
I stopped at one of the big highway service centres that have replaced petrol stations and truckies’ cafes. It was all neon and glass and aluminium—easy-to-clean surfaces that were still new and bright but would one day become as dull as the old cafe laminex. The place was doing good business. I suspected that a lot of the customers were drivers who were hoping for the rain to stop. Others, shaken up by the accident scene, needed to get off the road for the sake of their nerves. I wasn’t sure which category I was in. I ordered coffee and a hamburger from a uniformed girl behind the counter. No waiting. The stuff was hot and ready to go. I took the polystyrene box into a comer and sat with my back to the road. Maybe I was in category two.
As I sat there I examined my certainty that Paula Wilberforce was hiding at Fitzroy House. I decided that there was no basis for it in fact, just an enormously high probability. It felt right. On the other matter, whether she’d killed Patrick Lamberte and Karen Livermore, I felt no certainty at all. It seemed unlikely, but so did the deaths themselves. Halfway through the hamburger I realised I was hungry. I hadn’t had lunch. I was supposed to take the antibiotics before meals, but what if you didn’t have meals? I took a couple of capsules anyway and washed them down with a second cup of coffee.
I used the toilet and examined myself in the mirror. Pale from lack of sun, a bit hollow-eyed and sunken-cheeked. No oil painting. No photograph. Back in the Land Cruiser with the ra
in still coming down, I phoned Glen using the gismo. No answer. I phoned the Wilberforce house in Randwick and got Mrs Darcy.
I asked her how her patient was doing.
‘Not well, Mr Hardy. The doctor’s been and seems very concerned about him.’
‘What’s the problem?’
‘Irregular breathing and pulse. He seems to be weakening.’
‘Is he conscious?’
‘Oh, yes. He’s reading and he demands whisky from time to time. The doctor says he might as well have it.’
That was a bad sign. I asked her if he’d mentioned me or Paula. ‘There was something he was trying to remember.’
‘He mentioned you only to ask if you had been in touch. I don’t suppose you have any good news for him? I believe it would help.’
I told her I didn’t, not yet, but that I might have soon. I gave her the mobile phone number and asked her to give old Phil my best wishes. Glen didn’t answer either at Glebe or Petersham. Well, why the hell should she? We were independent adults, weren’t we? Pursuing our own fates. I filled up with unleaded and got back out on the road. It was seven o’clock and the traffic was thinner. The rain slanting down through the beam of the headlights was steady and being moved around by a slight wind. The heater and demister were doing their jobs. I was doing mine, but whether coming up with good news was part of it or not I didn’t know.
As the road climbed the rain began to clear. A few kilometres out of Mittagong it was a drizzle, by the same distance on the other side of the town it had stopped. At Mittagong I turned off the freeway. The sky was clear and the moon was bright and almost full. Even the stars seemed to be giving out some helpful light, but that might have been my imagination—it was just so good to see the rain stop. I found Wombeyan Road at the mid-point of the old route to Bowral and turned off a reasonably wide, reasonably well-lit bitumen strip onto a narrow, rutted track from which the tarmac was fast falling away. After a kilometre or two it gave up trying and became a dirt road.