There had to be some kind of bulletin out on me and my car. The cops had checked the licence plate, then checked with HQ and it couldn’t have been just a parking fine or to tell me that Glen had been in a car accident because one had touched his gun. The hunt would be on seriously now that I’d skipped out on that pair. The question was, what had I done? I couldn’t think of anything in recent times. That left only one explanation-Paula Wilberforce had done something she shouldn’t have with my. 38.
I got the driver to drop me at the bottom of Glebe Point Road and I climbed to the top of one of the blocks of flats behind my street, one of those that impede my view of Blackwattle Bay. I had a clear sight up and down the street and I knew by heart the cars that usually parked there at this time of the day. The grey Laser was definitely out of place. No food for the cat tonight. I needed a drink and a place to sit and think. I knew I should go to the cops myself but something about those two with their shiny boots and pistols made me think twice. My profession wasn’t in good odour with the constabulary at the best of times and these times were not that good. A couple of PEAs had been in the news lately, both acquitted of conspiracy charges on account of tainted police evidence.
My office was out, obviously. The only other place I could think of was Glen’s flat, which they might visit but where they probably wouldn’t kick the door down. I hopped on a bus that took me to Parramatta Road and caught another one up as far as Norton Street. Glen’s flat was close to Fort Street High School and a few stragglers dawdled along the streets dressed in motley versions of the school uniform and carrying khaki bags that looked as if they had done service in World War II. Caution was becoming second nature. I skulked at one end of the street watching the human and vehicular traffic. Nothing out of the ordinary- no-one hanging about in front of Glen’s block, no occupied parked cars, no helicopters overhead.
I had a key to Glen’s place as she had to mine, the only difference being that I’d never used it. The block was on three levels, one below the street, Glen had told me she was in the street-level section which was reached by a kind of bridge running above the basement flats to the pavement. There was no security door. I went across the bridge and into the dark lobby and quickly up a flight of stairs. No-one lurking or challenging. I went in and felt safe for the first time in a couple of hours. My first need was for a drink. Glen’s indifference to alcohol is a source of wonder to me. She simply doesn’t care whether she has any or not. But she was well enough supplied with what she favours when she does drink-gin and white wine. I poured a generous slug of gin over ice and sat down to do some thinking.
The cold gin relaxed me. The telephone rang twice but I didn’t answer it. I took a look out of the window from time to time but the street was quiet. I wandered around the flat, feeling like an intruder. I recognised some of the things Glen had brought from her house at Whitebridge-a pine table, a leather couch and a couple of paintings. The pictures reminded me of the photograph in my pocket. I sat down at the table and smoothed it out. At first I thought it was some kind of abstract study, but as I looked closer I could make out a face and the upper part of a man’s naked body. The features were almost obliterated, either by the film being wrongly exposed or a deliberate artistic device. The slashes of paint across the surface didn’t help.
I had another drink and stared at the picture. I wondered if I’d be able to recognise the person if I met him. Large or small, young or old, fair or dark, it was hard to say. There was no sense of perspective. The face was arresting though with a suggestion of… what? Strength? Madness? For whatever reason, the photograph had clearly meant something to whoever had painted in the studio of the Lindfield house. Who was that? Paula Wilberforce herself? I had no way to know. I refolded the picture and put it back in my jacket which was now hanging over a chair. It was getting cold in the flat. I turned on an electric radiator and began to feel drowsy. No good. I turned the radiator off and tried to get on with my thinking.
Nothing much came except a decision that what I did next would be governed by what Paula Wilberforce had done. Reactive thinking, but the best I could do. I contemplated another drink but decided that contacting Glen in Goulburn would be a better idea.
7
Glen answered immediately. ‘Cliff, what in God’s name have you been doing?’
‘For the last couple of hours I’ve been hiding from your colleagues. Have they been on to you?’
‘I’ll say. I was plucked out of a meeting and practically given the third degree about you.’
‘I’m sorry, love. What’s it all about?’
It was a key question and everything would depend on how she answered it. I swilled the dregs of the gin and melted ice and the pause seemed to go on forever.
‘All they told me is that there’s been a shooting. Someone was wounded. Your car was seen nearby.’
‘Wounded? Not killed?’
‘Wounded. Cliff…’
‘Who? Where?’
‘Christ, Cliff, I tell you I don’t know. An old man. In Randwick somewhere. What…’
I told her about it in as much detail as I could muster there and then. It was a relief to tell it. ‘I hope the old guy’s OK,’ I said. ‘What about the gun?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘If she’s still got it I’m in the shit.’
‘Cliff, you have to go in. Why don’t you ring Frank Parker? He’ll smooth things out for you. Where are you calling from?’
My mind was racing: even if Frank Parker could ensure me a reasonable hearing it was likely that my licence would be suspended. I would probably be watched. What chance would I have of finding Paula Wilberforce then? And there was the matter of the bullets posted to Mount Victoria. She might even have seen where the package was going. I couldn’t explain all that to the cops, nor could I sit back and let things take their course. ‘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.