Beware of the Dog (3 page)

‘I was okay as soon as I got my first laugh.'

‘How soon was that?'

‘Right off.'

I told Glen how the lecture had gone while we waited for our food. She rubbed the arm she'd taken a bullet in the previous year. That was in Newcastle soon after we met. The wound was one of the reasons she'd swapped policing for teaching. Rubbing it had become a habit. Sometimes I rubbed it for her in bed, along with other parts. We enjoyed touching and talking, and what else is there, really? She spent part of her time at the academy and part in police stations and offices showing the trainees the ropes. She liked it and didn't seem to miss the operational work. She kept very fit in a gym and drank more mineral water than wine. I drank more wine than mineral water but less than I used to, and the long weekend walks we took kept me reasonably springy.

I ate a forkful of spiced beef. ‘Dan wants me to give the talk again. He said he could probably get me steady work.'

Glen lifted one of her dark eyebrows. ‘Interested?'

‘Shit, no. I think the novelty'd soon wear off. Then this crazy woman came up to me …'

‘Hmm, is she what you were thinking about so intently you ordered spiced beef, which you don't like?'

‘No. Something else.'

I told her about Paula Wilberforce and her PhD, making light of it.

‘Watch her,' Glen said. ‘The teacher-student relationship is sexual dynamite.'

‘Know all about it, do you, love?'

‘You bet. I could be having it off with two of the smartest, fittest nineteen-year-olds in Sydney. They're both mad about me.'

‘Well?'

‘Smart and fit isn't everything. What about you? Are you attracted?'

‘Blue eyes aren't everything.' 

‘What?'

‘She's got these intensely blue eyes. Make her look a bit mad. She might be, in fact. I wish I hadn't agreed to see her tomorrow. I've got something much more interesting on.'

‘Are you going to tell me about it?'

‘If it develops. How about swapping me some chicken with nuts for some spiced beef?'

At 9.45 the next morning I was sitting at my desk with a stick-on label, ballpoint pen and masking tape, rewrapping and readdressing the Lamberte ammunition package. An hour before I'd taken the bullets to a gun-freak friend who loads his own ammunition. He'd obliged me by removing the gunpowder from the .357s.

‘Still dangerous, Cliff,' he'd said. ‘Still got a capacity to go off pop.'

I'm no expert forger, but the block capitals on the original label weren't difficult to copy and there were no eccentric spellings or European sevens to worry about. I'd almost finished the job to my satisfaction when Paula Wilberforce walked in without knocking.

‘Hi. What's that?'

I turned the package over so that the label faced down and folded up the original wrapping. ‘You're early,' I said.

She dropped her backpack to the floor and sat down. ‘I like to be early. Catch people napping. Though you seem to have been working very seriously. What is that? It looks like a book. What's the title?'

‘
Etiquette,
by Emily Post.'

She jumped up, turned and left the room, closing the door behind her. Then she knocked and opened the door an inch. ‘Better?'

I said, ‘Come in, Mrs Wilberforce.'

She strode back to the chair. She was wearing the same clothes she'd had on yesterday and her eyes were the same glittering blue. ‘I'm pushy,' she said. ‘I know it. It puts some people off. I hope you won't be one of them.'

‘I can be pushy myself. Let's move this along, Mrs Wilberforce. Have you got a questionnaire or something? I'm rather busy today.'

‘You're not busy. You're sitting here wrapping up a book. There're no files in evidence. There's dust on the furniture and …'
 
she leaned forward, ‘wine stains on the desk. How's the private detective business?'

‘Lousy. Aren't you going to tape this?'

‘I never tape the preliminary session.'

‘There is only going to be one session, Mrs Wilberforce. Busy or not, I don't want to talk about what I do. I only agreed to see you in a moment of weakness. I was flattered by the attention I got yesterday from you and your classmates.'

‘They're not my classmates!' she flared. ‘I'm in an advanced sociology seminar at UTS.'

‘Good for you. But I really don't think I can help you.'

‘You can but you won't. Okay, that's fine. I can make something of that.' She reached into the backpack and took out a miniature tape recorder. ‘We'll do it your way. How long have you been a PEA?'

‘I told you that yesterday. A long time.'

‘Good crack, as I recall. But I mean precisely.' ‘Mrs Wilberforce, I …'

She clicked off the recorder. ‘Okay. Let me spend a day with you. See what your day is like.'

‘No.'

Tears appearing in the blue eyes seemed to enlarge them and make them not blurry but even more penetrating. ‘Please,' she said. Her wide, handsome mouth parted, revealing strong white teeth. A vein throbbed in the smooth tan column of her neck

‘Absolutely not.'

‘Why not?'

‘You guessed right. I'm not actually doing much today. I've got a man to see in Granville, later.' I tapped the package. ‘This has to do with a case but it doesn't require any significant action today.'
Bugger it,
I thought.
Why did I tell her that?

She blinked and wiped the tears away with the back of her hand. ‘Okay,' she said. She turned the recorder on again and proceeded to interview me politely and intelligently for about twenty minutes, asking sensible, not overly intrusive questions and making perceptive responses.

‘Thank you for your time, Mr Hardy.' She spoke without irony or sarcasm. She checked that the recorder had functioned properly, put it away in her bag and stood up. I stood too, and took the hand she extended.

I mumbled something about being glad to help.

‘Are you going to talk to Mr Sanderson's other class?'

‘I guess so. Why?'

‘No reason. Thanks again. Bye.'

I watched her walk to the door. Her thick blonde hair hung halfway down her back and her movements
were graceful. She closed the door and opened it again almost immediately. I caught a flash of her eyes. ‘See you again,' she said.

The box of bullets had been sent from the Post Office on Broadway near the brewery that used to have a big Tooth's sign over the gateway. Now the sign says Carlton. I preferred the old sign and the old beer. I parked in Rose Street and walked to the Post Office. I might have been wasting my time. It might not matter to the recipient where the package was posted from, but, then again, it might. It was against the law to put live ammunition, even doctored like this lot, through the post but, like the original sender, I hadn't included a return address, so who would ever know? I despatched the parcel and got a receipt for the postage—an item for Mrs Lamberte's account.

‘How long will that take, would you say?'

The pimply faced youth behind the counter looked at the address. ‘Two days, three at the outside.'

‘Guaranteed?'

‘You can priority pay it if you want.'

A priority sticker would give the parcel a very different appearance. I shook my head and left the Post Office.

That left me with the Granville job. Nothing much to it. Cy Sackville wanted a certain Lionel Peckham to appear as a material witness in a case involving one of his valued clients. Cy had worked out an immunity deal with the prosecution for Peckham, but he couldn't locate him to inform him of the fact. Cy had explained the complicated legal manoeuvres involved but had lost me in the telling. All that
mattered to me was that I was obligated to him for many legal services beyond the bounds of duty and often unpaid for. I had traced Peckham to a junk yard in Granville. All I had to do was front him, show him the letter that guaranteed him immunity and tell him where and when to show up. Easy.

As I cruised past the junk yard I saw at once that it was not going to be so easy
.
The place was in a cul-de-sac near the railway line and well away from houses and activities carried on by honest citizens. The weed-choked, rusted cyclone fence, the galvanised iron shed set well back from the street and the rusting Ford, Holden and Toyota bodies screamed hot cars, hot parts, hot whatever-you-cared-to-name. That was a worry. More of a worry was the dog.

An Alsatian. Black and a dirty yellow. Very mean. It was chained up near the gate to the lot so that it couldn't quite get out to the pavement. It looked as if it wanted to more than it wanted its next meal and the ribs showing through its scruffy hide suggested meals weren't all that frequent. As cars drove past it strained at the chain. A man walked by on the other side of the street and the dog stretched the chain to its last link as it watched him out of sight.

I parked opposite the gate about thirty metres from the dog. It watched me and I watched it. I also looked into the yard for signs of human life. A big man wearing overalls wandered into view carrying what looked like a gearbox. He answered the description Cy had given me—190 centimetres, one hundred kilos, fortyish, ginger hair. I got out of the car and crossed the road. The dog started to bark when I was still twenty metres
away and it kept on barking until I stood just outside the length of the chain. The man in the overalls looked towards the gate. He put the piece of machinery down and wiped his hands on a rag.

I took out Cy's letter in its pure white envelope and waved it like a flag of truce. ‘Mr Peckham,' I yelled. ‘Good news.'

The dog barked louder.

‘Call him off. I want to talk to you.'

He shook his head. I wondered whether I could hurdle the dog and get beyond the reach of the chain before it recovered. Glen might have made it; I knew I had no chance. I went back to the car and took my .38 Smith & Wesson from the glove box. Back across the street I held the pistol at arm's length. The dog was rearing up, pressing forward. If a link in the chain or the fastening to its collar gave, blood would have to flow. I lifted the gun, then brought it down slowly and pointed it at the dog's head.

‘Don't!'

He hurried forward, making soothing noises to the dog which responded immediately, dropping to its haunches and assuming a sort of His-Master's-Voice position. It stayed there, growling quietly, as he stroked its ears and rubbed the thick fur around its collar. I put the gun in the pocket of my jacket.

‘What d'you fuckin' want?'

‘Mr Peckham?'

‘If I am?'

‘If you are, you've got immunity in the Williamson matter. Signed and sealed.'

‘Says who?'

‘I've got the papers.'

‘You've also got a fuckin' gun.'

‘I'll put it back in the car if you like. Just read this.'

He held out his hand. The dog growled. I tossed the envelope to him. He caught it. The dog looked at me as if I'd denied it a bone. Peckham opened the envelope and scanned the several sheets of paper inside.

‘Looks okay,' he grunted.

‘It's the best offer you're going to get. Phone Sackville now. He'll see you right.'

He nodded and stuffed the papers into the front pocket of his overall. ‘Would you have shot the dog?'

‘Maybe,' I said. ‘What's its name?'

‘Fenech.'

Peckham gave the dog's fur a last scratch and turned his back on both of us. I drove to the nearest shopping centre and bought the biggest tin of dog food I could find. Back outside the junk yard, I opened the tin with my Swiss army knife and used the blade to loosen the contents. Fenech was rampant again. I stood at a safe distance and shot the contents of the tin in its direction. The mess of meat and gristle and cereal hit the ground and Fenech buried his muzzle in it as if he was trying to burrow through it to China.

I drove back to the city feeling that I'd handled the situation reasonably well. Crude but effective. Hire Hardy for results. It was a non-paying job. I owed Cy Sackville more money that I'd ever be able to pay off, but there was some satisfaction in reducing the debt fractionally. As I drove I thought about the Lamberte matter. There were a few questions: how did Verity Lamberte come to know so much about
her estranged husband's movements? What other slants were there on the damaged marriage? What exactly had she meant by ‘lovers, real and imagined'? How serious was Patrick Lamberte's drug problem? Did it put him in touch with suppliers of arms and ammunition?

I was still mulling these questions over when I pulled up outside my house in Glebe, the one with the small mortgage and big need for renovations. I hadn't eaten since the rushed toast and coffee breakfast I'd shared with Glen that morning. She'd driven to Goulburn, had probably had lunch, and here I was at 2.30 p.m. with a rumbling stomach. I was stiff, too, from the driving. I pushed open the gate and brushed past the overgrown creeper that veils the front porch. I had my key out and was squinting in the gloom at the lock.

‘Stand right there.'

I whipped my head to the right. Paula Wilberforce stood on the porch near the party wall three metres away. She had both hands raised and extended straight out in front of her. What she was holding looked like a gun.

‘How do you think the dog felt?'

I wasn't in the mood. Anger rose in me and I felt an adrenalin rush, banishing stiffness and hunger. I side-stepped and rushed her, bent low. I chopped up at her wrists and hacked at her ankles with a short kick. She screeched, dropped the gun and almost collapsed. She hopped to take the pressure off her left leg where my kick had caught her. I bent down and picked up the object she'd dropped. It was a toy gun, plastic, light as a feather. Not even a waterpistol.