There had been a fair bit of rain up there and the ground was slushy. Things started to come back to me as I probed around. I’d worn the jacket into town but I’d put the parka on when I got back here because I’d thought I might have a long cold wait up on the rocks. I’d got the binoculars and the whisky from the seat, put them on the ground and taken off the jacket. Then… I remembered. I’d slung the jacket up onto the top of the Cruiser intending to put it away safely. And something had broken the chain of thought. It came back to me-a train whistle from the track across the valley, a long, clear sound that had cut through the chill morning air.
When had they found the Cruiser? I didn’t know. If it had been late in the day they might not have seen the jacket and just checked the vehicle over before driving off. In which direction? I searched both ways on both sides of the track for about twenty minutes before I found it. An overhanging branch must have brushed it off the roof. The jacket had fallen into a bush and lay, scarcely disturbed from the way I’d folded it, in a natural leafy shelter.
It was wet and slimy and a white mildew had formed around the seams. I stood under a tree, water dripping from the groundsheet and felt the jacket. The photograph was still there, not as crisp as before, but still there.
I ran back to the Cruiser, put the jacket on the seat beside Rabbit at Rest and got moving. I needed the wipers now and the heater. My hands and feet had become cold during the search and aches and pains had started up in various places. The warm air circulated around me and I took a few experimental deep breaths. No wheezing, chest clear. It was some minutes before I realised that I’d turned onto the Electricity Commission service track automatically and was now heading for Salisbury Road. I had an impulse to turn around and go back the way I’d come, difficult though the manoeuvre would be on the narrow road. I’ve never understood old soldiers’ desires to visit the battlefields where they’d fought and bled. I never wanted to see mine in Malaya ever again, and I felt the same about the Lambertes’ cabin.
But I kept going and there it was-a collection of blackened foundation pillars, a chimney and fireplace and a set of stone steps that led nowhere at all. The fire had consumed everything combustible. The iron roof had collapsed and lay in a jumbled heap where people had once sat and talked, ate and drunk and made love. I stopped and looked at the ruin through the streaming windscreen and the slapping wiper blades. The barbecue and water tank were intact; the burnt-out 4WD had been removed. Trees on all sides of the house were charred and heavy wheels had churned the ground into a sea of blackened mud. I had a mental flash of the woman gyrating in terror in her high heeled shoes and erotic underwear, and of Patrick Lamberte, big and commanding in his country squire’s outfit, lightly tossing the package he’d picked up at the Post Office. He had looked like a man turning over his cards, confidently expecting an ace. Unaccountably, it was the image of the man that was most disturbing. Although by now I was warm and relatively dry inside the Cruiser, I shivered. I engaged the gear and drove fast down Salisbury Road, away from the death and destruction.
I drove straight through Mount Victoria and down to Katoomba before I felt like stopping. The visibility was bad, the road was slick and it took all my concentration to make the run safely. Good. I was in no fit state for letting my mind drift to other matters, to faces and movements and all the other half-collected impressions. Through my association with Helen Broadway, who read philosophy and Jungian psychology, I was aware of the rag-bag of memories and intuitions that make up our unconscious understanding of the world. I resisted them, always. I preferred to deal with the concrete and known- the facts, hidden and revealed, that defined the world in which work could be done, results achieved. I had a sense that I was moving beyond that world and it alarmed and disturbed me as such feelings always have.
I pulled into a shoppers’ car park off Katoomba Street and carefully unfolded the leather jacket. I slid the photograph out of the jacket pocket and opened it as delicately as if it was a three-hundred-year-old buried treasure map. The thick paper had lain inside the nylon lining of the pocket protected by several layers of leather. It was limp but not damp and the folded sections did not stick together. When I was sure it was intact I refolded it and headed for the Paragon Cafe which is the only eating place I know in Katoomba, apart from the pubs. I wanted to sit somewhere quiet, drink coffee and try to sort out the disturbing images that were flitting around in my brain.
The Paragon was dark and the lunch crowd had gone. Seeing the empty seats and booths and the tables with evidence of meals consumed reminded me that I hadn’t eaten. I was suddenly hungry and it was the first time I’d felt that way since I’d woken up in the hospital. I decided it was a good sign and ordered orange juice, a club sandwich, apple pie and a pot of coffee. I downed the orange juice in a couple of gulps and lowered the plunger in the coffee pot. Good coffee. Two sips and I unfolded the picture again and spread it out on the table.
I had never studied the photograph carefully and what I was looking at now was very different from my memory of it. The face was clearer and the features more distinct. Whereas before it had seemed otherworldly, a shot taken through a screen of some kind, now it looked lifelike and immediate. Perhaps that was because I was in no doubt as to who was the subject of the picture. Unmistakable. Same incipient widow’s peak, strong chin, deep-set eyes. I was looking at a photograph of the late Mr Patrick Lamberte.
12
The waitress put a plate on the table in front of me. She didn’t glance at the photograph. I didn’t look at the sandwich. This was what had been niggling at me-the as yet uncoded knowledge that Lamberte was the subject of the photograph. I poured out the last of the coffee. It was cool but I sipped it anyway as questions flooded my brain. Who was the photographer? Where and when was the picture taken? I’d been half assuming, without any evidence, that Paula Wilberforce herself was both painter and photographer. If so, what connection was there between her and Lamberte? And if not… Suddenly the photograph assumed greater importance. Now it was not only a possible clue to Paula Wilberforce’s whereabouts but evidence of a deep hostility towards Lamberte. And therefore a lead to his murderer.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ The waitress was back, looking concerned.
I’d been sitting with the coffee cup in my hand, not drinking, and staring into space. I looked now at the big, bursting open sandwich-fresh lettuce, Swiss cheese, ham… The sight of it made me feel ill but I forced myself to smile, take a bite and nod appreciatively.
‘Wool-gathering,’ I said, through a mouthful.
She was in her early twenties and had probably never heard the expression. Why would anyone gather wool with several million unsaleable bales sitting in the warehouses? She went away, despairing of her tip, convinced that I was insane. I munched on the sandwich without appetite. Maybe I was wrong. There are lots of men with strong chins, brown hair and widow’s peaks. John McEnroe, for example. William Hurt. And maybe the photographer had been annoyed at the execution of the shot, not the subject. I looked at the picture again and knew I was kidding myself. It was Patrick Lamberte and the portraitist had hated him.