‘Oh, yeah. I don’t suppose you’ve got any idea what those shapes in the background are?’
‘Dogs,’ Glen said.
I went back to my notes and doodles. I wondered what they taught at the Petersham College of TAFE about this sort of situation. What was the reading list for Running out of Ideas I and Dead Ends IIA? The cat decided it was time to leave its place by the radiator and walk across my papers.
‘Scratch about a bit,’ I told it. ‘Maybe you can get this stuff into an arrangement that makes sense.’
The cat sat down on top of the mysterious photograph and brushed my pen off the table with its tail.
‘Big help,’ I said.
Frank Parker rang soon after. ‘I did a bit of looking around for you,’ he said. ‘Nothing much came up. One thing, there was Nadia Crosbie who drowned in Queensland a few years back. Is that yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘Seems there was something fishy about that, no pun intended. The local police weren’t entirely satisfied about the circumstances-suspicious person seen in the vicinity, weather conditions, state of the body-that sort of thing. All circumstantial. Nothing came of it. The police up there had other things to worry about at the time. The coroner returned death by misadventure, but I just thought you might like to know.’
I thanked him, recovered my pen and scribbled the date of Nadia Crosbie’s death-2 June 1989- on a piece of paper not covered by cat. The cat got offended and jumped off the table. I looked at the notes again. It was risky being a Wilberforce-Lamberte-Crosbie. It was risky being a Hardy. Safer to be a cat.
I got a glass of wine and had one more shot at it, hoping for the light bulb to glow. It didn’t. Among the scribble a name written in block capitals stood out. Clive Stephenson. Who the hell was he? Then I remembered that he was Patrick Lamberte’s solicitor. His address was in the same building as Cy Sackville, my long-suffering lawyer. Maybe Cy could help me there. That was probably what they taught at TAFE- when in doubt, ring your lawyer.
17
The words of a song were running through my head as I waited to be ushered into the presence of Clive Stephenson with a ‘ph’: ‘In ten years time we’ll have one million lawyers… how much can a poor nation stand?’ Cy Sackville had arranged for me to see Stephenson at very short notice.
‘After a bit of persuasion Clive said he’d find a window in his diary,’ Cy had told me.
‘What?’
“That’s the way he talks. Went to the Chicago Law School. When he looks out at the harbour I think he pretends it’s the Great Lakes.’
‘How should I handle him?’
‘Flatter him. If that doesn’t work, insult him. Clive’s not a subtle guy, but he has got a sense of humour. He owes me a favour or two. He’ll play along with you as far as he can.’
‘What’s his field?’
‘Company law, what else?’
‘Is he interested in due process of law, justice for all, getting to the truth or money?’
‘Hah,’ Cy had said.
Stephenson was older-looking than I had expected, although maybe he was just practising looking like a judge. He wore a dark suit, striped tie and his hair was a distinguished shade of grey at the sides. His office was super-traditional with an American flavour. Everything Clarence Darrow would have had was there, except perhaps for the cuspidor. He sat me down opposite his desk. I refused coffee.
‘How can I help you, Mr Hardy?’ He had a deep voice with an educated Australian accent plus a touch of the mid-west. Pity he wasn’t a barrister.
‘You represent the late Patrick Lamberte?’
He nodded. Saving the voice for when it was most needed.
‘Mrs Lamberte hired me to inquire into certain aspects of her husband’s dealings. I was present when the house at Mount Victoria burnt down.’
‘Tragic business. What exactly were you looking into?’
‘I can’t tell you precisely, but Mrs Lamberte was afraid that her husband intended to harm her. Does that surprise you?’
He shook his head. For a minute I thought he was conserving the voice-box again but I was wrong. ‘It doesn’t surprise me one bit,’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen a couple so divided, so fundamentally hostile to each other.’ He pronounced it ‘hostel’.
‘You think he was capable of killing her?’
‘In certain moods, yes. But Lamberte was a pretty controlled character, really. He was in a lot of financial and personal trouble and wouldn’t have wanted any more.’
‘How much financial trouble?’
He opened his hands. ‘Plenty. But he had a chance of getting out of it.’
‘If his wife didn’t take him for fifty percent?’
‘It wouldn’t have helped.’
‘The Family Court proceedings would have been tricky?’
‘Bloody. Where’s this leading? If you’re working for Mrs Lamberte you’ll find out all about her husband’s affairs in due course. She gets the estate, what there is of it. I’m liaising with Brian Garfield on that.’
‘I’m not exactly working for Mrs Lamberte just now.’
He leaned back in his chair and touched the grey streaks in a way that made me suspect that they were cosmetic. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘I’m actually working for Sir Phillip Wilberforce, trying to locate his daughter. There’s a connection between her and Lamberte.’ I hated myself for the ‘Sir Phillip’, but I forgave myself.
There is no category of human being more monarchist and pro-aristocracy than a Republican American, which is what Stephenson was aping. He was impressed. ‘What kind of a connection. The obvious?’
‘I know Lamberte was sexually active,’ I said. ‘But Paula Wilberforce apparently wasn’t. I suspect it wasn’t about sex, or not altogether. I’m fishing, I admit. Did he ever mention her to you? Does her name appear on any documents you’ve seen?’
He shook his head. ‘No, to both questions. I’d remember the name.’
‘I know very little about him. Were you friends, or what?’
‘He designed my house. That’s how we met.’
‘Good house?’
‘For now. It’s at Bowral. Patrick owned some country property himself and he’d put up a few nice houses on acres, if you know what I mean.’
‘Bowral,’ I said.
He glanced at his Rolex. ‘I’m sorry. I’m afraid I’m going to have to…’
‘You said Bowral. Did Lamberte own land at Bowral? I thought he’d had to sell everything off?’
His carefully controlled face became cagey. ‘Is that what Mrs Lamberte told you?’
I nodded.
‘That’s right, he did. But when he was riding high and the banks were ladling out the money he bought and speculated like Donald Trump. He had property all over the place. I’m not sure of the exact state of his holdings as of now.’
I could hear the bells ringing and feel the synapses being bridged. ‘Now doesn’t matter,’ I said. ‘If you could dig out a list of Lamberte’s property holdings at his peak it could help tremendously’
Stephenson stroked his closely-shaven chin. ‘I don’t know.’
‘How can it hurt? The guy’s dead.’
Stephenson’s grin was wolfish. The sense of humour Cy had alleged to exist flashed into sight. ‘And his account’s way overdue. I’ve got people to see, Mr Hardy, but I’m sure I can oblige you. Why don’t you step outside
