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.’
