Free Beware of the Dog by Peter Corris Page B

thinking about hopping over a rocky outcrop and sliding down a lightly timbered slope, when I was saved from folly. A Land Rover came chugging in from the road and negotiated the track down to the parking spot in front of the woodpile. A man got out. He was tall and trimly built, wearing country clothes—jeans, boots, heavy sweater—that managed to look at once smart and fashionable. He fitted the description Verity Lamberte had given me of her husband—tall and well-built with greying brown hair, receding at the temples.
    It was his attitude that clinched the identification for me though. He looked utterly at home, completely proprietorial. People who own county land tend to behave as if their title extends over everything they survey—far out to sea if they occupy a coastal headland, to the horizon in the outback. Lamberte clapped his gloved hands together and stamped his feet. His breath plumed in the cold air. He talked animatedly and waved his hands about, while pointing in this direction and that. Then he went around to the other side of the Land Rover and opened the door. The woman he handed down was a tall blonde.

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    At first I thought it was Paula Wilberforce and I almost shouted with surprise. I did make some kind of noise and I pulled back fast behind the nearest large rock. I recovered and took a good look through the glasses. Lamberte and the woman were unloading the back of the Land Rover. She had the Wilberforce build and hair, but her face was fuller and she was a few years older than Paula. The pair looked comfortable together, as if they’d done this sort of thing many times before, which had to make you speculate about what else they’d done before. Lamberte unlocked the back door and they ferried in their cardboard boxes, overnight bags and bundles. Two trips each and they were done. The door closed behind them. A short time later, a puff of smoke issued from the chimney and made me realise how cold and lonely I was.
    There was nothing to be gained by staying where I was. It was only just past seven o’clock, too early to start hanging around the Post Office. I stared at the cabin door willing someone to come out, something to happen. Nothing did. I remembered Verity Lamberte’s statement about Patrick—‘attractive to women and likes to take advantage of it’. I guessedthat was what he was doing right now. He wasn’t likely to come out and start chopping wood. I scrambled back down the rocks, timing myself. It took about four minutes to get down, maybe twice that long to get up. So what? I didn’t know. It was just something to do.
    Anyway, it seemed like a safe time to move the Land Cruiser. I drove back along the fire trail towards the service track. As near as I could judge, I couldn’t be seen from the cabin. When I reached the service road I turned in the other direction and did a little exploring. There were several tracks through this part of the valley and one led up to the highway. So there were two ways in to my spy point. I tried to make finding that out feel like an achievement. I sneezed violently several times as I drove and I could feel a cold building inside my head. Great for surveillance work.
    I drove into town and killed time buying petrol, tissues and a newspaper. There was a small item on the Wilberforce shooting. His condition was unchanged; the police still wanted to interview the driver of a Falcon seen in St Marks Road some time before the shooting. I caught a glimpse of myself in the side mirror as I climbed back into the Cruiser. My hair was wild and I had a heavy growth of dark beard sprinkled with grey. I sneezed, swore and wiped my nose savagely. My eyes were red and wet-looking.
    â€˜You’re getting too old for this,’ I said.
    â€˜I beg your pardon?’ A woman crossing the road looked at me oddly and I realised that I had spoken aloud.
    I sneezed and grinned at her, no doubt a horrible sight.