Beware of the Dog (7 page)

‘Cliff?'

‘I can't go in,' I said. ‘It's too tricky. I've got something else that can't wait.'

‘Something else, my God! What could be more important than this?'

‘Life and death,' I said.

‘Cliff, are you drunk?'

I almost told her that I'd buy her a new bottle of gin but I managed not to. ‘I'm not drunk. Listen, Glen, I've got things to do …'

‘Are you mad? There's an APB out on you.'

I laughed, maybe I
was
a bit drunk—two very stiff gins on a very empty stomach can do it. ‘I've had those things out on me before. They won't shoot on sight, will they?'

‘Don't joke, Cliff. Where are you?'

‘Sorry. It's better that you don't know.'

‘I want to help. Frank will, too. We can help.'

‘I don't think so. Not just now. When will you be home?'

‘Tonight, of course. I'm coming straight back.' I didn't say anything and it hit her that I wasn't going to be around.

Her voice faltered. ‘I … You don't trust me.'

‘It's not that. You'd have to turn me in. You'd be in the shit yourself if you didn't. This is my trouble.'

‘You're behaving like an idiot.'

‘I've got to go. I'll call you at home later.' I hung up and breathed out slowly. I'd just avoided saying ‘here' instead of ‘at home'. Terrific. Now I had trouble on four fronts—Wilberforce, Lamberte, the New South Wales police and Glenys Withers. Plus I'd given a terrible lecture and didn't have a car. It would have to rate as one of my more inglorious days.

I turned on the TV for the six o'clock news. It had been a slow day and the shooting made an item: ‘A man was shot today at his home in Randwick.' The screen showed the house and some paramedics toting a stretcher towards an ambulance. ‘Neighbours of Sir Phillip Wilberforce, a retired businessman, say they heard muffled noises that seemed to come from inside this large house. Then there was a clearer noise that sounded like a shot. There was some delay before anyone investigated and Sir Phillip was found beside his swimming pool bleeding from a wound. A spokesman for the Prince of Wales Hospital said that, on account of Sir Phillip's age, his condition was being classified as critical. A blue Falcon sedan was observed near the house and police are anxious to interview the driver.' There was a quick take of a police detective staring up at the house and then one of the solarium and one of bloodstains on the tiles around the pool. The ambulance drove away.

It was less than helpful. I still didn't know how badly the old fellow had been hit or whether the police had found the gun. Glen would find those things out for sure and maybe she would tell me.
It wouldn't take long to drive from Goulburn so my bolt-hole had a limited life. I had a shower, made coffee and ate two cheese sandwiches made with stale bread. I looked at the gin and riesling but I was strong. Then I sat down and wrote a note to Glen saying that I loved her and trusted her and needed her help. I thought about telling her about the Lamberte case but decided against it.

I didn't want to leave. Glen's odours, familiar and pleasing, were in the air. I opened her bedroom and looked at the bed. Inviting. I wondered when we'd get a chance to use it, if ever. I sensed that I was on dangerous ground with Glen now and there would be more trouble to come unless things straightened out quickly. The thought struck me that she might have her service pistol here and that I might need it. I swore at myself, closed the bedroom door and left the flat.

I rang Terry Reeves from a public phone, not wanting to use Glen's resources any more than I already had, a worrying state of affairs. Terry had expanded his car rental business since I'd helped him out a few years back when someone had been stealing his cars. Now he also rents four wheel drives, camping and skiing gear and other things for people whose idea of fun is to put themselves through discomfort. He lives in a terrace opposite his business operation so he can watch over it personally. He also has several thousand dollars' worth of alarm systems installed. I'd solved Terry's immediate problem but, last I'd heard, his paranoia had got worse. He stayed open until he was absolutely sure that no one was going to wander in to rent a jackaroo and a tent.

A tired-sounding female receptionist put me through to Terry.

‘Are you still driving that bloody Falcon, Cliff?' he said.

‘Same car, later model, but I'm … ah, temporarily without wheels.'

‘I can sell you a Subaru. Ex-fleet but the cleanest, sweetest …'

‘No, Terry I want to rent something. I'll be over in a cab. Give me half an hour.'

‘Where are you? I'll pick you up.'

‘What? You can't knock off yet. It's only just gone seven.'

‘I'm getting help with all that. Trying not to be so obsessive.'

‘You? Not obsessive?'

‘Yeah. I'm having therapy. C'mon Cliff, give me a break I'm trying to re-focus.'

‘Jesus. I'm in Petersham. New Canterbury Road, comer of Crystal Street.'

‘What're you doing there?'

‘Terry …'

‘Okay. Stay put. I'm in a white Commodore.'

A lot of cars went past as I waited near the corner. It was dark and the warmth of the day had vanished. A cold wind blew along Crystal Street carrying fast food aromas, exhaust fumes and dust. I was wearing a leather jacket, Levis, a green corduroy shirt, cracked and battered Italian leather shoes. My heavy dark beard had sprouted since the none-too-close shave of that morning. I looked and felt like a suspicious character. A police car cruised by and I had to steel myself not to shrink back into the shadows.

The white Commodore pulled up on the other side
of the road, paused, and did a showy U-turn to end up immediately in front of where I was skulking. I leapt forward, wrenched open the door and dived in.

‘Shit, Terry,' I said. ‘Why don't you try to make yourself conspicuous?'

He gunned the motor, waiting for another car to pull out around him. ‘Sorry, Cliff. I just feel so good.'

I was pushed back against the well-padded seat as he accelerated away. ‘Terry,' I said, ‘take it easy. You're a respectable businessman driving an accessory to Christ knows what.'

He made the next turn on the amber light with screaming tyres. ‘I don't care. I've got to feel loose.'

‘Fuck loose,' I said, ‘I've got to feel safe.'

‘Put your seat belt on, then.'

He drove in his expert, if sporty, manner through Stanmore towards Surry Hills.

‘I heard you were shacked up with a female copper,' he said as he passed the railway and entered Eddy Avenue.

‘Right,' I said.

Like most of my male friends, Terry had met and admired Helen Broadway. ‘The only cure for one woman is another woman,' he said.

‘Right,' I said again.

‘I want you to meet Wanda.'

‘Wanda?'

‘My therapist put me on to her. It's fantastic. She's helped me enormously.'

I leaned back against the padded seat and closed my eyes. ‘Good, Terry,' I said. ‘I'm happy for you. I hope she hasn't turned you into a totally solid citizen.'

‘What's the trouble, Cliff?'

‘You wouldn't want to know. But if you can fix me up with a four-wheel drive, a tent and a primus stove it'd be a big help.'

‘Serious problems can't be solved by material things, mate.'

‘Terry,' I said. ‘Don't. Just don't.'

Wanda turned out to be a big blonde woman of about Terry's age or a few years older. Everything about her shrieked ‘Mum', but Terry seemed to lap it up. He told her about how I'd cracked the stolen car racket and how I had a penchant for old Falcons with defective heaters and no cassette player. Wanda smiled indulgently at me and touched Terry every chance she got. They fed me on Wanda's vegetable soup and home-made bread and then Terry took me across to the lot.

The staff had finally knocked off. It took Terry ten minutes to deactivate the alarm system. Wanda hadn't had any effect in that department. His operation had expanded since I'd last seen him. He had a big service area and an imposing customer lounge. There weren't many cars around which I took to be a good thing, business-wise.

‘I can let you have a Land Cruiser, Cliff. How long would you be wanting it?'

‘A week at the most.'

‘That'll be okay. Did you say you wanted camping gear?'

‘A bit. Nothing fancy.'

‘D'you want a mobile phone?'

An hour later I was on the road. I had a one-man
tent, a groundsheet, foam-rubber slab, sleeping bag, parka, thick gloves, tilly lamp, torch, binoculars, a Panasonic camera with zoom lens, primus stove, matches, a thermos full of soup and a half bottle of Johnny Walker red label. The Land Cruiser had a full tank of petrol and was running smoothly. I turned on the radio and caught the nine o'clock news but there was nothing about Sir Phillip Wilberforce. I wondered how he'd made his money and how much there was of it. I could feel the folded photograph in my pocket. It was my only glimmer of a lead in the Wilberforce case. It would be useful to ask Sir Phil about it, Dr John Holmes also, possibly. No chance of that for now.

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.

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.