who knew what might happen, what thunderbolts might be thrown? Leave things the way they were, they were fine just like that.
She would go home early, she would collect Ellie from childcare and they would spend what was left of the afternoon together. She needed that refreshment. Otherwise some part of her might start to atrophy; feelings like compassion or empathy might die. Small things like that.
14
Harrigan’s investigations took him across the sprawling western Sydney suburbs to the foothills of the Blue Mountains, then up onto the Great Western Highway that cut across into the interior of the continent. Katoomba was the urban centre of the ribbon of small towns that clustered the length of this road, which, in parallel with the railway line, ran along the spine of the low, forest-covered mountains. He reached there late morning, and looked for parking in the steep, chaotic street near the railway station where the grand old Carrington Hotel stood and where the restaurants and coffee shops were full of holiday-makers and honeymooners.
Harrigan’s appointment was at a solicitor’s office, a shopfront close to the top of the town. He let himself into a neatly if modestly furnished reception area. ‘Mr Lambert’s waiting for you,’ the receptionist said and took him through to a smallish office. Simon Lambert got to his feet to offer his hand. There was a subdued fussiness to his dress, down to the waistcoat and bow tie. Possibly he was as much as sixty. His dark curly hair was turning white.
‘Thanks for making the time to see me,’ Harrigan said.
‘You’re quite well known in this profession. I’m sure you know that. Please sit down. Where would you like to start this conversation?’
‘Dr Amelie Santos. You were her solicitors.’
‘We were. Why is that a concern of yours?’
‘I have a client who’s concerned with the affairs of Frank Wells. I’ve already spoken to Frank. Now I’m seeking some information from you.’
‘Yes, I remember Mr Wells,’ the solicitor said dryly. ‘His existence was a shock to us all. I directed my staff not to deal with him after the first two phone calls. If you’ll excuse my language, he told my receptionist to get fucked. I wasn’t going to have us put up with that.’
‘Did you have any idea that Dr Santos had a son?’
‘None. In fact, until Mr Wells’s solicitor sent us the proof, I didn’t believe it. I thought he was trying it on. I still can’t connect the man I spoke to on the phone with the woman I knew.’
‘You knew nothing about her husband?’
‘Nothing at all, and I certainly would never have asked her.’
‘Did Dr Santos have any kind of companion in her life, even a close friend?’
‘None that I knew of,’ Lambert replied. ‘Her work meant everything to her. I think it’s fair to say it took the place of any personal relationship.’
‘You seem to know her well.’
‘I first met her when she was in her late sixties.’ The solicitor smiled wryly. ‘More than twenty years ago now, when I was a little younger myself. She was planning on retiring up here and she wanted to make her will. Her family had a long-standing connection with the area.’
‘Which was?’
‘Her grandfather built a holiday house at Blackheath in the 1880s. He was a very well-known Sydney barrister in his day. So was his son, Amelie’s father. Apparently neither of them could stand Sydney’s humidity during the summer. The family always came up to the mountains for Christmas. I remember Amelie talking about coming up by steam train. It was a very fond memory for her. She planned to live out her retirement there. As it happened, she didn’t actually fully retire until she was in her seventies. She was considered a very fine doctor. She still had people consulting with her from time to time even in retirement.’
‘Do you know an Ian Blackmore?’ Harrigan asked.
Lambert gave a thin-lipped smile, more chagrin than anything else. ‘Mr Blackmore. No, I’d never heard of him before. When I saw that letter on our letterhead, which we’d obviously never written, I didn’t know what to think.’ He paused. ‘May I ask why you want to know all this?’
‘As well as being the son of Dr Santos, Frank Wells was also the father of a boy called Craig Wells. That boy murdered his mother when he was eighteen. At the time it was believed he also committed suicide. I’m investigating the possibility he may still be alive.’
‘Do you have a description of this man?’
‘No.’
Lambert was silent for a few moments.
‘Presumably such a man would be dangerous,’ he said.
‘Very dangerous. It was a brutal and premeditated murder. If he is still alive, then it means someone else died in his place.’
‘Then I may have some useful information. Amelie did move up here when she retired and she did live in the house at Blackheath. It was an isolated existence for a woman of her age but she gave me to understand she valued her privacy. When she was in her eighties she was forced to accept home care. Visits from the community nurses to help her wash and dress, that sort of thing. Then early one morning one of these nurses arrived to find Amelie lying in her nightgown on her front path. This nurse was convinced it wasn’t a fall. She was very sure Amelie had taken a blow to the side of the head. It left a wound that never really healed.’
‘Did this nurse see anyone else at the house at the time?’
‘No, but she wouldn’t have been paying any attention to that. She was busy calling an ambulance. If there had been someone there, they could have easily got out through the back of the house. Amelie never recovered and she was eventually sent to Meadowbank Aged Care, which is near the Three Sisters here. By this time she was very confused. Her usually clear-headed self was quite gone. The nursing staff didn’t expect her to live very long and they requested she be assessed for mental competency by the local health care service. However, shortly after she was admitted to Meadowbank she began to receive a visitor, a woman.’
‘Who was this woman?’
‘She gave her name as Nadine Patterson, and told the nursing staff she was a friend who had been concerned for Amelie’s welfare for some time.’
‘Did you meet her?’ he asked.
‘Only once. You see, as her solicitor, I had only a limited power of attorney over Amelie’s affairs. Which meant that if Amelie was assessed as mentally competent, then she would remain in control of her assets. However, if she was declared incompetent, then she had a mechanism set up whereby all her assets would remain in trust until she died, when her will would be executed. As it happened, Amelie had left her entire estate to a medical charity, Medicine International. It was a very generous bequest.’
‘Was she mentally competent?’
‘No. Not in my opinion anyway. But the South Western Health Care Service in the form of one Kylie Sutcliffe disagreed.’
‘With what result?’
‘I was called down to Meadowbank one day to make a deed of gift. Amelie was deeding the house at Blackheath, including all its contents, and a very substantial sum of money, virtually all the readily available money she had, to the Shillingworth Trust as it was called.’
‘Are you sure about that name?’ Harrigan asked.
‘Very. Do you know it?’
‘I’ve come across it in my investigations before today. You agreed to do this for her?’
‘In a way, that’s the point I’m making. I seriously thought about challenging it. Nadine Patterson was one of the trustees. It seemed such blatant exploitation. But Amelie, who had regained a certain lucidity by this time, begged me not to. She said to please just let her make the gift and finish with it. She was so distressed that I went
