Peter Corris - Open File

He put a cigarette in his mouth.

‘You can smoke when you get out and after you answer a few questions. Okay?’

He wanted to ask me what Sarah had told me but with the rain pelting and the cigarettes available he decided to play it cool. Me too.

‘You need to learn a bit about fighting, son. You had a go, which I admire, but you should always keep your head moving and punch for the body. Bigger target.’

The cigarette in his mouth jiggled as he nodded. ‘If you say so.’

‘And you shouldn’t have pushed the woman. I know you were scared-’

‘Who says I’m scared?’

‘I do. You’re scared a lot of the time. I was at your age. How far’re you going?’

‘Mona Vale.’

‘I’ll drop you. Did you know Sarah’s brother, Justin?’

‘Yeah, I knew him. Went to the same fucking school until they chucked me out.’

‘What was he like?’

‘He was an arsehole.’

‘Explain.’

‘Always crapping on about the heroes in his fucking family. Grandfather and great-grandfather dying in battle, how he was going to be an officer and all that shit. Who cares?’

‘What else?’

‘He used to try to protect Sarah from blokes like me. Not that she wanted protection, and when he pissed off, wow, did she cut loose.’

‘Still at school, isn’t she?’

He sniggered and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket to scratch at a new-looking tattoo of an image I couldn’t identify. ‘Not a lot. Look, she basically goes for the drama classes. She wants to be a fucking actress and she’s acting all the time. Anyhow, she wasn’t at school today. We thought her old lady was out till late.’

‘Any more to tell me?’

‘No. Yeah, that car. Man, if I had a car like that what wouldn’t I do, but him-went fucking surfing and skiing and even went down to Canberra to look at some fucking museum. Nerd.’

‘When was this?’

‘Not long before he went, or whatever.’

‘Have you got any theory on that?’

‘What d’you mean?’

‘What do you think happened to him?’

The shrug and the snigger. ‘Dunno and don’t care. Sarah reckons he went off to be a soldier’s fortune, whatever the fuck that is.’

‘Soldier of fortune. A mercenary, fighting for money.’

Ronny had nothing to say to that one way or the other. We drove on in silence for a while as the rain eased.

‘What do you do, Ronny?’

‘Nothing much. Stop here.’

I pulled over and he got out. It looked for a second as if he intended to slam the door, but he glanced in at me and thought better of it.

It was late in the day. Bryce Grammar was in North Narrabeen and I was more or less on the spot. No reason to cross the harbour back to an empty house that might, if the rain had been falling in Glebe, be leaking. I booked into a Mona Vale motel-another charge on my client-ate a meal at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant and returned to watch some TV and make notes and squiggles on what I was beginning to think of-after Ronny’s slack-minded reference to Justin’s grandfather and great-grandfather-as the Hampshire saga. My recall for conversation wasn’t perfect but it was pretty good. A remark of Ronny’s stuck in my mind: Are you the mother’s new bloke? New?

Something had happened to send Justin Hampshire- focused, solid student set on a solid career, protector of his sister, adept sportsman-off in a spin. What? His mother had suggested disappointment at learning of his father’s indifferent military career and desertion. Possible, but it seemed a bit thin. Where he was certainly had to do with why he went. Angela Pettigrew’s acceptance of the possibility that her son could be dead worried me. Did mothers have an instinct about such things? How would I know?

I worked the mini-bar a bit-not a client expense-and wished I’d brought the Hughes book as bedtime reading. I read bits and pieces of the Serle biography of Monash instead and that was useful. Someone-Justin?-had underlined certain passages about the AIF’s heroic and sacrificial struggles at the Somme.

I didn’t sleep well. I had one of those nights when you wake up every hour or so for no reason you can fathom-not snoring, no outside noise, no bladder pressure. At four am I gave up, turned on the television and switched it off after flicking through the channels. Radio National was replaying a program on experimental music. I was reminded of the remark a music critic had made about a revival of the musical Jesus Christ, Superstar: ‘If you missed it the first time, here’s a chance to miss it again’.

I made a cup of coffee, read for a bit and then put the book down. Of course I found myself thinking about the case, going over the twists and turns. I wasn’t sure exactly how many missing person cases I’d worked on or what my strike rate was, but I knew it was in positive territory. This had the feel of a hard one-the background, the family circumstances, the deceptions and disappointments provided complex motives for the disappearance and equally complex directions for the detective to follow.

The welcome morning light started to creep into the room and the feeling I always get in those conditions-a mixture of loneliness and relief at being my own master-left me in a meditative mood. A question that had been wafting around, half-formed, came into focus. Why had Angela Pettigrew married Paul Hampshire? She appeared to have come from a more favourable background, was more physically attractive or interesting, and certainly smarter.

You could have fitted the whole of Maroubra High-buildings, playground, assembly area, the lot-four or five times into the space occupied by Bryce Grammar. The grass on the playing fields was green; the artificial turf on the tennis courts had that eerie shine; the paths were gravel and there were parking areas for both students and staff. The flowerbeds were out of Home amp; Garden, and the buildings, though not very old, had already acquired a becoming amount of ivy in all the right places.

The classroom buildings were at a distance and I could see some blazered students walking around and sitting under shade. There was no one batting, bowling or hitting-it was evidently a serious time of the day on a serious day of the week. I went up some imposing sandstone steps into the carpeted quietness of the administration building and found the office of the registrar. His secretary was a cheerful, plump, middle-aged woman who asked me to wait while she took my note of authority in to the boss. That occupied enough time for me to look around and get some idea of what the registrar actually did to need a secretary and a day and a bit before he could see someone. The photographs of men and women in suits told the story-he lobbied and raised money from old boys and anyone else he could put the touch on.

The secretary came back minus the letter and ushered me past her cubicle to a door with ‘A R McKenzie-Brown, Registrar’ on a laminated card in a slot. Bit of a worry those slots-a name that can be slotted in can easily be slotted out. To my surprise the occupant opened the door at her knock and thanked her before stepping aside and beckoning me in. A lot of self-important executive types like to be seen working at their desks when you arrive. Looking busy. Not McKenzie-Brown. He was a tall, lean type in his early forties-shirt-sleeves, loosened tie, cigarette in hand. He offered me the other hand.

‘Mr Hardy, hello. Come in and have a seat. Belinda’ll have coffee here in a moment whether you want it or not, because I want it.’

I shook his hand. Was it an act? Hard to tell, but if so it was a good one. Couldn’t help but like him-provisionally I sat down; he stubbed out the cigarette and shuffled a pile of papers on his desk.