Brian Garfield, Verity’s solicitor, was a man I’d done business with before. When I showed up with Verity at his office in Neutral Bay he controlled his surprise by expressing his agitation.
‘Verity, my God, where have you been? I’ve had the police and the bank and every Tom, Dick and Harry after you.’
‘I’m sorry, Brian. I believe you know Cliff Hardy.’
I’d told Verity about my former dealings with Garfield on the drive to Neutral Bay. I’d spent the night in Robert’s spare room, used his shower, shampoo and a disposable razor and accepted a croissant and coffee for breakfast. I was feeling better than I had for many days. Well enough to pretend that I was happy to see Garfield again. We shook hands warily.
His offices were all blue walls, grey carpets and white furniture. It felt like stepping into a modern art exhibition. I like the old-time legal offices where thick files tied up with pink ribbon are stuffed into book cases and there are rows and rows of legal reports with cracked bindings. The reports were there all right, but the bindings looked as though they’d never been bent. I knew where all the files were- on computer disks. Garfield ordered coffee for us from a secretary in a tight skirt and we settled down, him behind his big, empty desk and Verity and I in sweetly padded chairs.
‘Tragic business, my dear,’ Garfield said. ‘I hope…’
Verity had cleaned herself up. She shone again, if not quite with the same lustre as before then with enough to suggest she’d get it all back in time. ‘I didn’t do it, Brian,’ she said brightly.
Garfield undid the buttons on his double-breasted suit jacket. There were quite a lot of buttons. He was a small man with a big ego. I am a biggish man with an ego smaller than his. His size had something to do with his ego. I had worked for him on a white-collar crime case which he’d lost. We had not got on well.
‘Of course you didn’t. Ah, coffee.’
He made a fuss over the coffee and drew the whole business out for twice the necessary length. I recalled that he charged by the hour.
‘I want to make a statement to the police. Mr Hardy has already made a statement. He wishes to add a few things in support of mine.’
‘I see. No problem.’
‘Detective Sergeant Willis is the man to get hold of,’ I said.
Garfield stabbed a button on his console and asked someone to get him Willis on the phone. Maybe it was the same woman who’d made the coffee. If so, she was scoring well that morning. Garfield was talking to Willis within thirty seconds. The lawyer didn’t say much. Verity drank her coffee and looked serene. I drank mine and felt uneasy. I was uneasy about her serenity, but what do I know about widowhood and parenthood? I began to wonder whether Verity would inherit anything from Patrick besides bad memories. Would Brian know? It didn’t matter because he wouldn’t tell me. Still, it was something to think about instead of grey carpet and blue walls.
Garfield replaced the phone. ‘He can see us in an hour.’
‘Good,’ Verity said. ‘How does Patrick’s death affect the Family Court proceedings?’
Garfield looked at his watch. ‘Renders them null and void. Of course, many loose ends to tie up. But your worries about getting sole custody are… as things have turned out, at an end.’
If you leave matters to people like Garfield they’ll smooth everything over at a hundred dollars an hour no matter how long it takes. I put my coffee cup and saucer down on his white desk awkwardly, so that some of the coffee slopped out onto the snowy surface. ‘How does Verity stand in relation to Patrick’s estate?’ I said.
Garfield was shocked, or pretended to be. ‘Really, Hardy. I don’t..’
‘Sure you do, Brian. The wife is suspect numero uno until someone else is nailed. Verity hired me to sniff around Patrick. She didn’t ask your permission. We’re both slightly in the shit, as you’ll see when we meet Willis. Patrick was screwing Verity’s sister.’
‘Some sister,’ Verity snarled.
‘You see how it is, Brian. The Family Court may be happy with a few well-worded depositions, but the police won’t be.’
Garfield, to give him his due, was a fighter if sufficiently provoked. ‘With a roughneck like you involved, I suppose you’re right. I can’t imagine what possessed you to engage this man, Verity. He’s..’
‘Honest, I think. How do I stand in relation to Patrick’s crumbling empire?’
‘I don’t know,’ Garfield muttered. ‘You’d have to ask Clive Stephenson and I very much doubt that he’d tell you.’
I had my notebook out. ‘Is that with a “v” or a “ph”, Brian?’
‘Get stuffed,’ Garfield said.
Verity giggled. ‘Brian, name and address, please.’
‘With a “ph”. Stephenson, Bedford and Waters, Martin Place.’
I scribbled, put the notebook away and got out of my chair. ‘Let’s go and see the cops.’
Verity was good, very good. She told her story fluently, but not too fluently, with emotion, but not too much emotion. It pretty much dove-tailed with what I’d said because I’d worded her up that way. I made a brief statement confirming a few things, dotting an ‘i’ and crossing a ‘t’ or two. This time we didn’t have to wait for a print-out. It came at the touch of a few keys and Verity and I signed.
Willis escorted us out the rear exit into the dark alley which is all College Lane is, and called me back. I hesitated. My business with Verity Lamberte was finished on one level, on another I was reluctant to let her walk off. We had driven to the city in the Land Cruiser. Garfield had his BMW. He offered to drive Verity to her Mum’s place in Point Piper. What could I say? I waved them goodbye and turned back to Willis.
‘I’m surprised to see you lined up with that little prick, Hardy,’ Willis said.
‘I’m not lined up with him.’
‘What about her? Cool as you like. Reckon she did it?’
‘No.’
Willis dug in one ear with his forefinger and examined the result. ‘Smith and Wesson. 38 automatic pistol, serial number AS 123/4874, issue permit number… shit, I forget. It’s not doing you any good, having that floating around.’
‘Tell me about it. I was hoping you’d had some sightings of Paula Wilberforce. Found her car. Something like that.’
‘Fuck-all. Have you got anything else to tell me?’
Willis’ face was a mask of non-disclosure. I took my cue from him.
‘Nothing,’ I said.
He flicked the dirty ear wax against the door of a parked police car. ‘Here’s something. You know a trick cyclist named Holmes?’
‘I’ve met him.’
‘We got onto him. He treated the Wilberforce nutter. Wouldn’t tell us a bloody thing of course. I mentioned you and how it was your gun that did the job. You know, since everything was so confidential, like.’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘He said he’d be willing to talk to you.’
‘He probably only said that because he didn’t like you.’
‘I don’t give a shit.’ Willis moved forward quickly and jabbed my third shirt button with a blunt, hard finger. ‘You go and see him, Hardy. Have a cosy chat. And if you get anything useful I want to hear it next. Understand?’
‘Or else what?’
He turned away and moved back towards the door. ‘Or I’ll have a good shot at yanking your fucking licence.’
I drove to St Peters Lane and parked the Land Cruiser where I usually park the Falcon. With no sticker it was in danger of incurring a fine but what the hell? I was already being treated like an outlaw. My office had accumulated several weeks’ worth of junk mail, bills, receipts and dust. I dealt with it all systematically, hoping that routine tasks would bring with them some clear thinking, even insights. Nothing came. As I cleared away the scraps of paper I’d used to wrap the bullets I started to think about explosives. No-one I’d met so far in this business had struck me as a mad bomber. But I realised how little I knew about most of them-particularly Karen Livermore and Lamberte. Could Patrick Lamberte have blown himself up by accident or design?
When I’d cleared the debris and written a few cheques to pay overdue bills, I rang Dr John Holmes in Woollahra. I had a clear memory of the place- a tree-shaded street with deep gardens fronting elegant Victorian houses. They were the sorts of houses that cost a fortune to buy, another fortune to restore and a hell of a lot to maintain. A woman answered the phone. I stated my name and business was put straight through to Holmes.
‘Mr Hardy, the private detective,’ he said in his honeyed tones. ‘I trust you are well.’
‘I’ve been better and I’ve been worse, doctor. How about you?’
‘Hmm, much the same I’d say. Could you come here? I’d rather like to talk to you.’
‘About Paula Wilberforce. Why?’
‘Have you any idea how many women kill their fathers?’
‘No, how many?’
‘Virtually none. It’s of the utmost urgency that she be located and given treatment.’
‘Is she dangerous?’
‘Very.’
Darlinghurst to Woollahra is ten minutes in time, a couple of kilometres in distance and a huge leap economically and socially, but I had no reason to feel uncomfortable. As I drove along Holmes’ street, I noticed that the Land Cruiser fitted in nicely. A good number of its brothers and cousins were nestled into the driveways and carports. I’ve been told that the great majority of 4WDs sold in Australia never leave the bitumen. They are status symbols and dream machines. ‘One day, Vanessa, I’ll sell the agency and we’ll drive around Australia. I’ve always wanted to see Kakadu.’ But Vanessa ends up driving the thing to do the shopping, while Jeffrey takes the Volvo to work.
I parked outside Holmes’ high brick wall and was surprised to see the extra security systems installed since my last visit a few years back. More status trappings, maybe. The squawk box and buzzer got me through the gate but only into a tunnel that led to the front door. The tunnel was constructed of metal bars, thin but tough-looking and too closely meshed to allow escape. The bars were arched across the path, bolted into a track along the bottom and into the high side wall. Outside of them the garden was lush and green, but the bars spoilt the effect.
I tramped up towards the front door and the bell. There was absolutely nothing else to do. As I stepped up onto the porch I expected a metal grill to come slamming down behind me. Instead, I got looked at through a fish-eye lens and there was more electronic communication.
A female voice said, ‘Can you show some identification, please?’
I held my licence folder up to the lens.
Thank you.’
The door opened and I moved into the big entrance area that I remembered from my first visit. The huge mirror was still there, but not the woman dressed in riding gear. Now she was wearing jogging clothes- a white designer tracksuit with headband and Reeboks. The sneakers squeaked on the polished floor as she jogged gently on the spot.
‘Up the stairs and the first on the right.’
‘Aren’t you going to come?’ I said. ‘Great for the hamstrings.’
She giggled and kept on jogging.
I went up the stairs and opened the door she’d indicated. Dr John Holmes rose from behind his desk and moved forward to meet me. He had become even more bear-like with the passage of a few years- massive chest, huge shoulders. His heavy-jowled face was dominated by a broad, spreading nose and thick pepper-and-salt eyebrows. I prepared myself for his grip but was surprised to find it mild. The other time we’d shaken he’d nearly demobilised the thumb and two fingers.
‘Hardy, yes. You’ve been through a bit since we last met, I see. Sit down. Sit down.’
He’d been through something himself. He’d gained weight, lost hair and his eyes were muddy. One of his thin cigars was burning in an ashtray on the desk and he picked it up and inhaled as if he wanted both lungs to be completely filled. I sat down in a chair pulled up close to the desk, well away from the leather couch. A blind had been drawn halfway down the big window behind Holmes’ desk and the room was gloomy. The smoke he was exhaling went up and floated around the ceiling rose. The hand I’d shaken, the books in the shelves on three walls, the chair, all smelled of cigar smoke.
‘Paula Wilberforce,’ I said. “Your patient.’
He inclined his head. ‘And to you…?’
‘Daughter of my client.’
‘Ah yes, the egregious Sir Phillip. Do you know what that word means, Hardy?’
‘I’ve got a rough idea. Don’t patronise me, doctor, and don’t waste my time, which is as valuable to me as yours is to you, even if less well paid.’
He laughed. ‘I’d forgotten how direct you were. I’m sorry. Do you have any idea of the damage Phillip Wilberforce has done?’
I shrugged. ‘I’ve met some of the children, stepchildren, whatever. I haven’t met their mothers and teachers and friends. I don’t know what they had on their DNAs.’
‘Quite. You’re right to reprimand me. Personalities are formed multi-causally, of course. But there are dominant causes and Sir Phillip Wilberforce’s example and behaviour are just such things.’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I’m inclined to think that you have to take responsibility for what you’re like at some point in your life. Maybe not at eighteen, but by, let’s say, thirty or so.’
‘If only it were that easy. Have you accepted responsibility for what you are?’
‘Sure. I’m impatient, suspicious, inclined to be violent. It buggers me up sometimes but I try not to let it bugger up other people. That’s what I mean by taking responsibility. Look, doctor, a little bit of this sort of talk goes a long way with me. Can you.. ’
He squashed out his cigar and took another from the open tin immediately. Before he lit up he risked a breath of air. It wasn’t much of a risk in that room, the difference between smoking and not smoking was marginal. My eyes were beginning to water. The breath he took whistled and screeched like a train engine. He lit the cigar and inhaled quietly.
‘I have never encountered a person more lacking in self-esteem than Paula Wilberforce. Nor one so adept at concealing the fact.’
I shifted in my chair. ‘She followed me. She threatened me. She vandalised my car and stole my gun. She shot her father and shot up the house. I don’t need to be told that she’s disturbed. What I want to know is if she’s ever said anything to you that will help me to locate her now.’
‘Possibly. Privileged information, but I might be prepared to divulge it on certain conditions.’
‘Try me.’
‘That you do everything in your power to see that she does not come to harm. That you do not allow a situation to develop in which she may be shot, or driven to shoot herself. Anything like that.’
‘Sure. That’s implicit in my agreement with her father.’
‘I want it to be explicit in your agreement with me.’
‘Why are you so… adamant, doctor? ’
‘I told you. Her case is extremely rare, with many very interesting features. I had begun a study of it when she interrupted treatment. I believe that if I could resume treating her and gather more data, I would have the basis for a brilliant piece of research.’
I stared at him. ‘You cold-blooded bastard.’
He shrugged and blew smoke.
‘OK,’ I said. ‘I accept. What do you have to tell me?’
He held up his meaty hand. His murky eyes examined the back of his gold wedding ring. ‘You are thinking that my condition is easy to accept. How can it be enforced? You will do your best and no-one can ask for more. I am asking for more.’
It was my turn to shrug.
‘I talked to Detective Sergeant Willis. A shrewd man in his way. I agreed to acting as consultant for the police in the matter of your psychological fitness to hold a private enquiry agent’s licence. Willis believes that such a report is in order, given your recent behaviour.’
‘You set me up. You and Willis.’
‘You do see the point, don’t you? Your best may not be good enough to enable you to hold your licence. I understand professionalism, Mr Hardy. Part of it involves looking ahead to the next project. Completing the one on hand, certainly, but learning from it and looking to the future. Unless you do better than your best you won’t have a future in your present career.’
My eyes were watering badly and my throat was becoming raw from breathing the smoke-laden air. I wanted out. ‘I understand,’ I rasped. ‘Tell me.’
‘Dogs,’ he said. ‘Somehow the key to her errant behaviour lies in her attitude to dogs. Wherever she is now, whatever she is doing, dogs will be involved.’
‘Is that it? Dogs?’
He spread his hands keeping the cigar imprisoned between two fingers. ‘I thought it might help.’
‘I thought you might tell me about a person-a friend, a lover, an enemy. Someone, somewhere…’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Who is in most danger from her?’
‘Other members of her family.’
‘Have you treated any of them?’
‘I cannot possibly discuss such things with you.’
That means yes. ‘Who?’
Another cigar died and another was reborn. ‘My hands are tied.’
‘Dogs,’ I said. ‘Great. I’ll have to make a note of that.’ I made a mock movement of my hand towards my pocket and felt the photograph. I pulled it out, unfolded it and laid it on the polished desk.
Holmes leaned forward to examine it.
‘What would you say about this, doc?’
‘Paula’s work?’
I nodded. ‘She did a painting, too. I suspect she went at that with a hammer or a knife, maybe both.’
Holmes blew smoke down at the photograph as he stared at it. I looked, too. For an instant the shapes in the background threatened to make sense, then they returned to their enigmatic vagueness.
‘This person is in grave danger. Who is he?’
I retrieved the picture and folded it up. ‘I couldn’t possibly discuss that with you,’ I said.