Peter Corris - Open File

The food came and, as I ate and drank, I stared at the notes I’d made of the faxes. There was a formality about some of the phrases-’busy as I am’, ‘anxious to assist’, but also a defensiveness-’I raised my son to be resourceful’, ‘he may need a period of relief from his mother’s excessive protectiveness’.

I was finishing up when Gunnarson walked into the pub, looked around, spotted me and came over.

‘Thought I might find you here,’ he said.

‘You’ve found him and I’m out of a job.’

‘Funny. No, Hampshire contacted the wife, she contacted social services, who contacted us. He’s way behind on his maintenance payments for the daughter.’ He put a card beside my plate. ‘Here’s the number to report his whereabouts. I’ll leave it up to you.’

‘Why?’

‘Two reasons. I suppose you’ve got a fighting chance of finding the kid and that’d clear a case for me and be good all round. And I’m divorced with an ex from hell. My guess is, that Hampshire bitch would gouge his eyes out and sell them to get square with him.’

He nodded and walked away. I put the card in my pocket and thought about what Gunnarson had said as I strolled back to the car. The last thing I needed was Hampshire under economic stress-bad for him, bad for me, bad, potentially, for Justin. Not a big ethical dilemma, but I needed to hear Angela Pettigrew’s story before making any hard and fast decisions. I filled the tank and kept the receipt to go on Hampshire’s bill. Three days for the cheque to clear-that could have a bearing on things. Hampshire had mentioned investments-I hoped his stocks were rising.

I hadn’t been over to the north side for some time and, as always, they’d shifted the lanes on the bridge so that I had to keep my wits about me to be in position for the turn-offs. Midafternoon and the traffic was light, which made it easier. I picked up Pittwater Road in North Manly and just kept on going, with Joni Mitchell on the cassette player:

I’m gonna see the folks I dig,

I’ll even kiss a sunset pig…

What the hell was a sunset pig?

Pittwater is spectacular country with the beaches, the high bluffs and the islands. A boatie’s paradise and there seemed to be plenty of people around with the money to indulge the passion. Boats of all sizes, from the Greg Norman style craft swinging gently at the deep water moorings to tinnies tied to jetties and rocks, bobbing in the shallows. The water was grey under a heavy sky; the high masts and trees swayed to a strong breeze.

The address was on Captain Hunter Road overlooking McCarrs Creek towards Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park. The road bent slightly at that point and I parked a little further on. The house was a large, rambling weatherboard set high on a big bushy block with a winding, stepped path climbing up to it. The climb would certainly test Paul Hampshire’s wind now, as it did mine, but presumably he was fitter when he first moved in, which must have been more than twenty years ago. At that time, with the distance from Sydney and the rough roads, perhaps the house wasn’t too expensive. It would have more than doubled its value now and be on the rise as the people with the Mercs and the boats moved in.

Near the beginning of the path the hill had been dug into to make a carport. No car. The path was showing signs of wear and tear and sections of the handrail were shaky. I made it up to the deep verandah that ran across the front of the house and looked back. The view-the sky, the water, the bush-smacked you in the eye. I opened the unlatched flywire screen, which had a slight tear in the mesh, and knocked on the door. I’d expected a tall, cool blonde with high cheekbones, maybe because of listening to Joni. The woman who appeared was nothing like that. She was shortish, compact and dark, but she still had the plummy voice. She wasn’t the school’s netball captain or freestyle star-perhaps the top debater and certainly a prefect.

‘Mr Hardy, do come in. We’ll go through to the sunroom. Not that there’s much of it today. Dreadful weather.’

I didn’t think it was so bad, but up here, I guessed you expected the best at all times. We went down polished boards, past a series of rooms on either side of the long hallway, through a flagstoned kitchen to a partially glassed-in balcony that hung out over an overgrown lawn and neglected garden. The floors were swept and the surfaces shone but the outside needed work. Rude of me to notice.

‘Would you care for tea, Mr Hardy?’

Tea? You’d have to hold me down and use a funnel. ‘No, thanks, Ms Pettigrew.’

‘Please sit.’

We sat on padded cane chairs. She wore a blouse and skirt, medium heels. She had good legs. No wedding ring, no jewellery. She had disconcertingly dark eyes that bulged just slightly, making you feel watched more closely than you wanted to be. Her complexion was pale and smooth with just a few lines showing. If she wore makeup it was subtle. She was just short of attractive but certainly interesting-looking and that can be better.

‘I’ve spoken to your former husband, obviously,’ I said, ‘and to the policeman who supervised the investigation into your missing son.’

‘Gunnarson,’ she said. ‘Competent, I thought, but nothing beyond that.’

‘I believe I need your authority to talk to people at the school.’ I took a sheet from my pocket. ‘I typed up something appropriate. Would you mind signing it?’

She glanced at it briefly and signed with the pen I offered.

‘I wanted to ask you about Justin-his habits his character, I suppose. As I said, I’d like to look at what he left behind and to hear any thoughts you might have about what caused him to leave.’

She inclined her head slightly. ‘To leave? That’s an interesting way of putting it. Yes, I rather like that. He left, didn’t he?’

There was a quality to her I couldn’t put my finger on. Call it a lack of frankness, a feeling that much was being held back. But it was impossible to tell whether this related to Justin or to something else. Her degree of composure was disconcerting and I had a sense that she knew I was aware of it and was playing me. I began to get an inkling of what Gunnarson had meant by ‘dragon lady’. I didn’t want to be played. Time to be direct.

‘D’you think he’s still alive, Ms Pettigrew?’

‘Very possibly not, and if so it’s all Paul’s fault, the coward.’

I was about to probe that remark when the front door slammed and I heard laughter and pounding footsteps in the hallway. Angela Pettigrew shot out of her chair as if released by a spring and went quickly through the kitchen to the passage, heels clacking on the boards. I followed and her voice, raised to a shout but still with the rounded vowels, echoed through the space.

‘Sarah! Who do you have with you? Come out of there at once!’

By the time we reached the door it had opened and a young man had come out looking alarmed and disoriented. He turned towards us, realised he was headed the wrong way, pushed Ms Pettigrew aside and made her lose balance. She fell and swore.

A younger female voice screeched, ‘No, Ronny!’

Ronny was big, young and frightened and he made the mistake of throwing a punch at me as he tried to get clear. I blocked his clumsy swing with my left forearm and hooked him low in the ribs with a short right, the way I’d done hundreds of times in the ring. A skilful boxer spots it early and sways away, reducing the impact. Ronny didn’t know the moves and the punch took the wind out of him and rubberised his legs. He went down in a heap as Ms Pettigrew got gamely and smoothly to her feet.

Sarah, all teased blonde hair and eye makeup, stood in the doorway in her bra and school skirt and giggled as I helped steady her mother, who accepted the support momentarily and then brushed me off like a troublesome fly.