Peter Corris - Open File

Kathy Petersen rang me at home late that afternoon. She’d visited her grandmother and put the question to her.

‘It took quite a while and a few cups of tea laced with brandy to get her talking,’ Kathy said, ‘but she finally told me that the scandal had to do with a Hampshire deserting in World War I. Apparently he jumped ship somewhere on the way to Gallipoli. The army contacted the family and wanted to know if he’d got back to Australia. As far as Grandma knew, he never did. The family disowned him and changed their name. There was something about it in the local paper and the family nearly died of shame.’

‘It fits. Thank you, Grandma, and you, too,’ I said. ‘Justin found no Hampshire on the memorial. Looks like he must have gone to the Mitchell Library where he could’ve looked up the paper.’

‘The poor kid, after all that build-up from his father. So are you getting anywhere, Cliff?’

‘Hard to say. I’ve got someone to see who might be useful.’

‘Is the Easter offer still open?’

‘You bet.’

‘What if you’re still working on this?’

You can never tell but I had a feeling things were coming together pretty quickly. I said I’d be in the clear by Easter.

‘I’ll believe that when it happens. What’ve we got, a few weeks? I hope you find the kid and earn your fee and your time’s your own. Know what? I’ve never seen the Blue Mountains.’

‘I’ll show them to you. You won’t be disappointed. They’re sort of blue, on a good day, when they’re not grey or green.’

You can’t get to see a psychiatrist without a referral from another doctor and then you’re likely to have to wait days, if not weeks, for an appointment. I didn’t have the time. A lot of people in that profession have consulting space in their houses-cuts down the overheads, especially if the wife doubles as a secretary/receptionist, and makes for a comforting atmosphere. Dr Hans Van Der Harr was in the phone book with an address in Mona Vale. It had been a long day, but I fuelled up on coffee, a couple of caffeine pills and two sausage rolls and headed north yet again.

The house was an ordinary-looking bungalow with an obviously built-on structure to one side. A pleasant garden, a car under a carport and another parked behind it. The house overlooked a golf course, which was a pleasant enough aspect, I supposed. Long way to the water though. The light was dimming when I arrived and I stayed in the car for a while, considering my strategy. A door to the added-on section opened and a man came out, hurrying, looking perhaps a little furtive. A patient most likely. He went to a newish Celica parked in the street and sat in it for a minute or more before starting up and driving off.

I got out, went to the door he’d come from and rang the bell, hoping the doctor hadn’t retreated inside the house. The door opened and a tall, blonde, heavily built man stood there with a look of surprise on his face. National and professional stereotyping can lead you astray, but this man looked like a Dutchman and had a beard like Sigmund Freud’s.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘my consulting hours-’

There was no other strategy. I pushed my way in and thrust my card at him. ‘I’m not here for a consultation, doctor. I’m acting for Paul Hampshire, whose wife has been murdered, whose son is missing and whose daughter is now under police protection. We need to talk.’

For a second it looked as though he would resist, but he was older than me and softer, and he decided against it. I went down a short passage past an office to a room that looked likely to be where he plied his trade-soft lighting, a recliner, two easy chairs, books, soothing prints on the walls, a vase of flowers. I sat in one of the chairs and took out my notebook. Van Der Harr hesitated, then did a good job of controlling himself. He sat in the chair furthest from me.

‘I heard about Mrs Hampshire, of course, but-’

‘Pettigrew. Ms Pettigrew.’

‘Why are you so aggressive?’

‘It’s my nature. Tell me everything you can about your sessions with Justin Hampshire.’

‘I’ll do nothing of the sort. That’s totally privileged.’

‘Under the circumstances, your privilege has lapsed. How would you feel about a charge of sexually molesting an underage female?’

His calm demeanour deserted him. He blinked furiously and tugged at his beard. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I’m sure you do, Doctor. You didn’t go to the police when he went missing because you don’t want to have anything to do with them, do you? Well, you don’t have to if you talk to me about Justin. I warn you that I’ve found out a lot about him and I’ll know if you lie to me.’

He made one last effort. ‘This is blackmail.’

‘Right, in a good cause.’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Free-associate for me.’

By now he was a frightened man. He cleared his throat. ‘I saw the young man three times.’

‘I’ll need the dates, but go on for now.’

He told me that Justin had come under protest, at his mother’s insistence. That he was taciturn, resentful, uncooperative.

‘He poured scorn on psychiatry, called me a charlatan. When he finally began to talk he was aggressive, threatening.’

‘Physically?’

‘Yes. He was big and very fit, as you are no doubt aware. He used to clench a rubber ball in his hands, presumably to strengthen them. One time when he became angry he threw it at me. It hit me on the head and it hurt.’

‘What did you say to make him angry?’

‘I suggested that he contact his father and try to talk to him. I believed that his problems all stemmed from that relationship. That incident happened near the end of our last session.’

‘Near the end? What else was said?’

‘He said that if he saw his father again he’d kill him. He had this military fantasy, as you’d know.’

‘Much as I dislike doing it I’ll have to ask your professional opinion. What effect would the complete demolition of that fantasy do to him?’

‘Oh, that would be catastrophic. He could become violent or…’

‘Suicidal?’

‘Possibly.’

‘Vengeful?’

‘Very likely. In fact…’

‘Yes?’

‘He said that his father had enemies and he wished he knew who they were. At first I thought it was a delusion. I still think I was right about the relationship with the father being the source of his trouble and I would have pursued it, but…’

‘Check your records and give me the date of that last session, then I’ll go.’

I followed him into the office. He unlocked a filing cabinet, riffled through the contents and pulled out a folder. I stepped forward and snatched it from him. It had Van Der Harr’s name imprinted on it and Justin’s in bold letters.

‘You can’t take that.’

‘Why not?’

‘My God, you’re nothing but a criminal.’

I gave him the Hardy stare and he wilted. ‘You won’t…’

‘A deals a deal,’ I said. ‘But I’d strongly advise you to keep your grubby hands to yourself.’

The encounter had been potentially useful but unpleasant, leaving a bad taste in my mouth, not through guilt but something like it. I drove home in an edgy mood. Just occasionally I had these sorts of feelings, asking myself if it was all worth it-these manipulations, this playing on people’s weaknesses. The doubts didn’t usually last. Hampshire wasn’t much as men go, but Sarah hadn’t had a fair shake and was worth helping. Above all, the boy was missing and I knew that when I focused on that, the misgivings would fall away.

I got home, poured a drink and sat down with Van Der Harr’s file on Justin. I had to laugh-the psychiatrist’s notes were in Dutch. As a kid I’d had a friend named Hendrik Kip, a Dutch immigrant. With some hesitation he’d told me that the word kip meant chicken. I’d picked up a few expressions and words from him as we rode bikes around Maroubra, swam and smoked furtive cigarettes, but kip means chicken was all that remained and I doubted it’d crop up in the therapist’s record. All I was able to understand was the date of the last session-two days before Justin disappeared.