‘No.’
‘You need a lot of luck to bring it off. I had the devil’s own luck in business but none at all in my personal life.’
I sat down again. It was still hot in the solarium. Sweat was rolling off me. A little had collected in the thin folds of fat around the old man’s waist, otherwise he was bone dry.
'You might say I worked harder at the one than the other and that might be true. Who knows? When the pulse of life is throbbing you don’t step back to consider such things.’
‘I suppose not. Tell me, has she ever been suicidal?’
‘Not to my knowledge. Why?’
Peter Corris
CH15 — Beware of the Dog
I considered telling him then what his daughter had of mine. I rejected the idea. Why worry him further? I covered up by saying that it was impossible to stop a genuine suicide and quoting the statistic on the estimated number of missing people who had killed themselves. They’re the ones who do it for themselves, not to make a show, and they don’t care if their bodies are never found.
He listened, then shook his head. ‘Destructive, yes, but not self-destructive. She has an enormous ego. When she was young it sometimes seemed as if there weren’t enough books for her to read, words to learn, places to go.’
‘Maybe you should take your own advice. Just leave her alone.’
‘No. I can’t do that. You seem a capable sort of fellow. Perhaps you could talk some sense into her. Paula never believed that I cared for her. Giving her things obviously didn’t change her opinion. Perhaps hiring your services might.’
Tricky country, that. But I could use the fee and I needed to find her quickly. To have her father’s help and authority was a luxury. I said I’d accept his offer.
‘Good. In the study desk you’ll find a cheque book. Bring it out here please, and we’ll get things on a business footing.’
I got the cheque book. The stubs suggested that the account was in the black to the tune of ten grand. He lowered it by one. He was showing signs of fatigue but he gave me a quick run-down on Paula which didn’t add much to what I already knew. She wasn’t close to any of her half or step siblings. She had had a succession of boyfriends when she was younger but no-one important in recent times.
‘Would she have many possessions-books, furniture, clothes?’
‘Heaps, in each category.’
‘Too much to carry around if she’s staying with friends or living in motels?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Where would it all be?’
‘In the Lindfield house, I imagine. To answer your earlier question, Paula has no right to sell it, but I suppose I would agree if it came to the point. I have a set of keys.’
The keys were in the same desk drawer. Very orderly man, Sir Phil. I got his phone number, promised to stay in touch and we shook hands. His dry hand was almost cold in my hot moist one. I wondered what that meant.
Crisscrossing Sydney again by car. Not my favourite occupation but it comes with the job. There was a long delay on the bridge approach due to roadworks and the traffic remained slow and sticky for most of the way through Willoughby. At least I had a client to charge the petrol to. Lindfield looked as self-assured and well paid-up as ever. I parked directly outside the house and marched straight up the path to the front door, jiggling the keys in my hand. The garden was definitely overgrown, with weeds sprouting and several shrubs growing ragged. The neighbours would soon be getting up a committee to complain.
The house had a solid, respectable feel from the heavy front door through to the glassed-in back sun porch. There were three bedrooms. The largest, in the front to the right of the hall, was dark and furnished with the kind of stuff that is old, expensive and depressing. The one opposite it was brighter and had been used as a kind of studio. It had drop cloths covering the carpet and there were framed canvases, pencil and charcoal sketches on heavy paper and enlarged photographs scattered about. The third bedroom, off the kitchen, was empty with a door that stuck on the frayed carpet.
I gave most of the house a quick once-over-the kitchen was old-style, but functional, the bathroom and toilet likewise. The dining room featured more of the heavy, Victorian furniture but was enlivened by a few paintings on the walls. They were landscapes and sea studies, full of light and life. All unsigned.
The occupied bedroom had been cleaned of all signs of use. The drawers in the dresser and bedside table were empty, with fresh paper liners; the wardrobe was the same with only a few wire hangers taking up the space. I looked under the bed and under the mattress. Nothing. There was a film of dust over the surfaces but no-one had written any messages in it. An elaborately carved chair with a straight high back sat in a corner of the room and seemed to reproach me.
I went back to the studio. Here at least, something had gone on. It was past midday and the light was fading in the room but it must have been glorious earlier on. The bleached look of the drop cloths confirmed this. A tall easel had been laid on its side along one wall. I examined it and found that one of its legs was a splintered, fractured ruin. I found a mark on the wall where the easel had probably struck when it was hit or kicked. There were also paint smears, suggesting that a painting had flown off the easel and hit the wall. Which painting? A frame lying face-down was a mess; the wood was broken on two sides and there were signs that a canvas had been cut and ripped out of it. The other framed pictures, more landscapes, showed no signs of disturbance.
They and the sketches were all unmistakably in the style of those on the dining room walls. Some of the drawings were barely begun, others had been left half-finished. I’m no art critic but these looked accomplished. I turned the heavy sheets of paper over, hoping to learn something. The only thing that struck me was the absence of human faces and figures. That seemed odd, but what do I know? A couple of studies of dogs, stretched out at a full run, had the kind of life-like quality and vigour that someone like me who can’t draw can only gape at.
Two things caught my eye simultaneously. A photograph, blown up to poster size, which looked to have been attacked by a paint brush, and movement in front of the house. I picked up the creased and crumpled photograph and moved to the window. I could see clearly through the greenery to the street. A police car had pulled up behind mine. Two officers approached the Falcon. One carried a clipboard. He consulted it and checked my registration number. He nodded to his mate who went back to their car. I couldn’t see what he was doing and I didn’t want to wait around to find out. I had no outstanding traffic infringements so my rego number was on their list for another reason. After a second or two they advanced on Number 12. One made as if to draw his pistol. The other stopped him, but one trigger-prone cop is more than enough.
I shot through the house, checked that I had the keys and that I hadn’t left anything lying around. I bounded down the back steps and flipped the door shut behind me. The back yard was short. I was at the fence in a couple of strides and over it with an agility that surprised me. I found myself in a large garden with a sprinkler system playing. I dodged the sprays and made it across to the fence on the right. Over that without damage. Still no dogs. I skulked through shrubberies and climbed fences in an easterly direction for a couple of hundred metres. Eventually, more by luck than good management, I dropped into a lane that led to a street. I emerged from my multiple trespasses without the faintest idea where I was.
I was panting as I turned into Tryon Road which gave me some idea of my whereabouts. I straightened my clothes and tried to look as if I belonged there. To my surprise, I still had the photograph clutched in my right hand. I folded it and put it in my pocket. Then it was a matter of making my way to a main road and hailing a cab. I tramped for a kilometre or so of more leafy streets before I reached the Pacific Highway. It was getting close to three o’clock, when the taxi drivers change shifts and want to head for home or base. I walked along the road for twenty minutes before I got a driver to stop. I said ‘Glebe’, automatically and only began to think as we approached the Gladesville bridge.