The woman who opened the door of Phillip Wilberforce’s house was about the same age as Roberta Landy-Drake, but she hadn’t made a career out of looking younger. She was of medium height and plump. She wore her grey hair short and very little make-up. Her dress was a plain blue worn with a heavy white cardigan. A pair of spectacles hung on a light cord around her neck. She looked intelligent and capable.
‘My name’s Hardy,’ I said.
‘I’m Pamela Darcy. Please come in, Mr Hardy. He’s expecting you.’
That got us off on the right foot as far as I was concerned. I was relieved that she hadn’t said, ‘Sir Phillip…’ the way some people working for titled employers do when they want some of the gilt to rub off on them.
‘How is he, Mrs Darcy?’
‘Not strong, but fighting. He’s got a touch of lung trouble which is worrying at his age. I’d ask you not to tire him and so on, but I know it’d be a waste of time.’
We were climbing the stairs. ‘How’s that?’ I said.
‘He’ll do exactly as he pleases.’
We stopped outside the master bedroom. Mrs Darcy knocked firmly and walked straight in. I got the impression that an interesting battle of two strong wills was going on here. The old man was sitting up in the big bed propped on a heap of pillows. His tan had faded to a sallowness and his hair lay flat on his skull. He looked like an old China hand who’d spent so long in the east he’d taken on an oriental appearance. This was emphasised by the embroidered silk dressing-gown he wore over a black pyjama top. Gold-framed half-glasses balanced on his nose.
‘A decent pause before entering is customary, Mrs Darcy,’ Wilberforce growled. ‘What if I’d been doing something you wouldn’t like to see?’
‘It’s hardly appropriate for you to invoke what is customary,’ Mrs Darcy said. ‘Have you taken your medicine?’
‘Damn you, yes.’
‘Damn you, too. Would you like a drink, Mr Hardy?’
‘Of course he would,’ Wilberforce said. ‘And get one for me while you’re at it. Scotch, Hardy?’
‘That’d be fine.’
I sat down in a chair that, as I recalled, had served for Wilberforce to throw clothes over. Now the room was tidy but not fussy. A coat hung on the back of the door, there were books and magazines on the bed and bedside table and the several bottles of pills, glass and water jug hadn’t been neatly arranged.
Wilberforce snorted as he saw me taking in the details. ‘She wanted to put flowers in here but I wouldn’t allow it. I told her flowers remind me of death.’
‘I prefer them outside, myself,’ I said. ‘Otherwise, how’s she treating you?’
‘She’s worth talking to. What’s that you’ve got there?’
I was unfolding the photograph. The intense interest in his voice suggested that he lacked stimulation. I hoped I wasn’t going to give him too much. I leaned forward and put the picture in front of him. He pushed his glasses up into position.
‘Huh, out of focus. Typical.’
‘Have you ever seen it before? Do you know who took it?’
Mrs Darcy came in and handed me a solid scotch in a heavy glass. The glass she gave her patient contained about half as much. I refused water. She poured a generous amount into his over his protest.
‘Drowning good whisky. My grandfather would have had you shot for that.’
Mrs Darcy was a last word specialist. ‘And your great-great-grandfather would have turned in his grave.’ She smiled at me and left the room.
‘That Wilberforce,’ I said. ‘Freed the slaves?’
‘Silly old fool didn’t live to see it. Died a month too soon.’ He sipped his whisky and made a face. ‘It’s always too soon. Now this photograph, it could be one of Paula’s. Where did you get it?’
‘From the house in Lindfield. Is she a painter as well?’
‘Yes. Competent, no more.’ He sounded indifferent, even dismissive, but he let his fingers rest on the surface of the photograph. ‘What’re these shapes in the background?’
The overhead light falling on the picture highlighted several vague forms behind the subject in the foreground. I hadn’t seen them before. Interesting, but not as interesting as the next question I had to ask.
‘Do you recognise the face?’
He adjusted his glasses and peered more closely. ‘No. She’s taken a brush to it by the looks. Well, that’s Paula. Who is it?’
‘I believe it’s Patrick Lamberte.’
‘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 OK 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.