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 amp; 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 OK,’ 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 water-pistol.
‘What the hell are you playing at?’
‘I wanted you to feel what the dog felt.’
‘You’re mad.’
‘What the man felt, then.’
‘You followed me all the way out there?’
‘Sure. I told you I wanted to know how you operate. Now I think I understand.’
I could have told her that I’d gone back and made my peace with the dog, but I was too angry. ‘I doubt it. You need help.’
‘Help me then.’
You know what I mean.’
‘Who was that man? What was in the envelope?’
I tossed the toy to her. She caught it deftly, still favouring one leg. ‘Go away, Mrs Wilberforce.’
‘I followed you. I parked just a little way down the street. Shouldn’t you have noticed me? Are you getting too old for what you do?’
I shoved the key in the lock. ‘Go away!’
Her voice changed, taking on the severe, serious tone she’d finally adopted in the interview. ‘Mr Hardy. One more thing.’
I had the door open. ‘What?’
‘I can’t help wondering what was in that parcel you posted. You seemed terribly concerned about it.’
4
The cat with no name greeted me as I came through the door. It followed me down the hall into the kitchen and stood over me until I opened a tin of food for it. The way I felt I’d have opened two tins if it had insisted. I searched my memory for some recollection of Paula Wilberforce at the Post Office, on the road and at Granville- some sub-conscious mental image that I hadn’t bothered to process. Nothing. Her question hit the nail on the head. Here I was, congratulating myself on handling a tricky situation with aplomb, and I hadn’t noticed a crazy woman keeping tabs on me in broad daylight.
The implications of that failure troubled me more than the fact of her attentions. I’d dealt with unstable women before-telephone callers, letter writers, window breakers. They tend to have low stamina and to be pretty easily deflected onto some other grievance. Are you getting too old for this? Maybe you should take Dan Sanderson
