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 and ask for Robin?’ He gave me his wise-as-Clarence-Darrow smile and picked up the phone.
‘Robin, would you get the Lamberte file up on screen for Mr Hardy, please? Specifically assets. OK? Many thanks.’
Back in the busy outer office, I deduced that Robin was the woman looking at a VDT while keeping one eye on Stephenson’s door. She raised a hand and beckoned me over. I approached warily. I have mixed feelings about computers; I like them when they save me time and effort, I hate them when they get between me and something I want, like my money on a Saturday afternoon.
Robin was about twenty-two and probably couldn’t remember the pre-computer age. She surrendered her chair to me and pointed at the screen. ‘There you go. Assets.’
She started to move away but I took hold of her arm and held her. ‘I don’t know how to work this thing.’
‘It’s simple.’ She picked up a plastic object the size of a cigarette packet. ‘You can use a mouse or the keyboard.’
‘I haven’t got any cheese and I don’t play the piano.’
She blinked, then smiled hesitantly. ‘A joke, right?’
‘Right. But I still don’t know how to run a computer.’
‘Sit down. Here’s the cursor, see? You move it up and down with these arrow keys and the information scrolls.’
‘Cute,’ I said.
‘Call me if you have a problem.’
She went across the room and whispered in the ear of a young man sitting at a desk. He glanced across at me and they both laughed. I’d like to see them drive an ‘81 Falcon manual.
My assets would have taken up about three lines; Patrick Lamberte’s filled the screen several times over. I scrolled carefully through it. His basic company, Lamberte Holdings, had subsidiaries like Pat Co. and Verity Inc. There was a Shane Trust and a Michelle Pty Ltd. It was hard to tell how solid the assets were without knowing the meaning of the code numbers that accompanied them. If 0026 meant ‘wholly owned and in the black’ Patrick was in good shape, if it meant ‘money owning’ he was down the tubes.
On the third screen-full I found it: Fitzroy House Kennels, owned by the Shane Trust. I looked up and caught Robin watching me. She raised an eyebrow, I nodded and she hurried over. Very economical this computer business. I pointed to the item on the screen. ‘How do I get more information?’
Automatically her hand snaked out and her long-nailed fingers began tapping the keys. The print on the screen changed from white on blue to black on white. Fitzroy House Kennels was located at Lot 5, Wombeyan Road, between Bowral and Mittagong. That was the only part of the text that made sense to me, the rest was columns of figures and more code numbers.