Peter Corris: Lugarno

‘Not to worry, Ros. We’ll do our business right here.’

‘I’ll leave you to it. Don’t excite yourself, Vivian.’

Viv took a gulp of his red. ‘She thinks you equal excitement. She doesn’t know it’s mostly humdrum stuff.’

‘Don’t disabuse her. You’re something at the Lachlan Law School, right?’

He thumped himself on the chest. Viv is a little guy but trim and the broad chest of the lifesaver he once had was not turned to flab. Sandy hair, half-glasses. ‘Adjunct Professor. As soon as I got the appointment I emailed all the arseholes who taught me and said I’d never make it through the degree.’

‘In victory, malice,’ I said. ‘Right on. How far inside the system does that put you?’

‘I’m top dog in charge of one particular section.’

‘And that is?’

He drank some wine and nibbled on a biscuit. ‘I’d like to say civil liberties research or international covenants, but it’s more humble — professional placement. I told you something about this once when you were thinking about getting a law degree.’

‘Yeah, and they told me I’d get credit for one and a half units for the stuff I’d done at New South Wales.’

‘Cliff, it was twenty years ago, and you didn’t do all that well. And it was more than one and a half units as I recall. And now that you’ve been convicted of a serious felony and done time…’

‘Yeah, yeah. Anyway, does this give you access to student records?’

‘I should’ve known. No way.’

I gave him the facts and he kept a sceptical face while I recited them, only showing some expression when I mentioned the secretary.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Ms Gwen Carroll. No, she wouldn’t fancy you at all’

‘Why’s that particularly?’

‘Never mind. Go on.’

I gave him the rest and he relented. He got up and gestured for me to follow him. I did, with my glass topped up. We went into his study and he turned his computer on.

‘What’s this?’ I said.

‘I can access the student records from home by remote access. It’s one of the perks.’

The screen glowed and images on it flickered into life. ‘What are the others?’

‘Room, computer, free email and Internet, photocopying, library.’

‘I could use all that.’

‘Yeah, but I don’t get paid.’ He seated himself in front of the computer and began tapping the keys. ‘OK, full name and student number.’

I gave them and he tapped the keys and clicked the mouse. ‘Here he is — Hewitt, Ramsay Stefan…’

‘Stefan?’

‘That’s what it says. You want the address?’

‘Yeah. Hold on, does the file have his student ID photo?’

‘Sure does. The way things are at universities these days the teachers are lucky to know half their students by sight before the semester’s over. Have a look — this’s him.’

I craned over Viv’s shoulder to look at the small photograph on the screen. It was Ramsay Hewitt all right. He had the long jaw and lean features and pale eyes, but the scruffy beard was gone and he wore a blue business shirt and a burgundy tie. His once dirty, stringy hair was cut and styled and fair, very fair.

‘Model citizen,’ Viv said.

‘Can you print that page out?’

‘I shouldn’t.’

‘I’ll crop it down to the picture. No one will ever know.’

Viv did some more clicking and the page shuffled through the printer. I took it out and swore.

Peter Corris

CH24 — Lugarno

‘What?’

‘The address — it’s a post office box in Strathfield.’

Viv clicked a couple of times and the screen went blank. ‘Are you going to stake it out, like in the movies?’

‘No, I’m going to send him a threatening letter made up of newspaper headlines.’

He got up and stretched. ‘Ask a silly question.’

Before I left I asked Viv again what he’d meant by the crack about the secretary not liking me. We were standing by the front door and he leaned back against the wall as if he was doing an isometric exercise. Maybe he was.

‘Our Gwen’s a strange one. Word is she has money and doesn’t need the job, but she’s got a thing for lawyers, especially fair-haired ones.’ He ran his hand over his own sandy crop. ‘Not like this, I mean thick and fair like, say, Greg Norman when he was young.’

‘Staff or students?’

‘Well, she’d taken notice of your guy, hadn’t she?’

That gave me something to think about on my careful drive home. People can change but they mostly don’t, at least not very much. Not as much as Ramsay Hewitt appeared to have done — from hippie greenie activist to would-be lawyer. A semester of university fees wasn’t cheap nor was the sort of grooming he appeared to be going in for. As the politicians say: ‘Where was the money coming from?’ With the Scotch before my light dinner, a glass or two with it and a couple with Viv, I was probably somewhere near the limit. But the roads are quiet on a Tuesday night. The Falcon protested in second gear a couple of times, otherwise, no trouble.

The Perfect Storm got me off to sleep in the sense that I had to finish it and by then it was late and I was tired. I made a mental note to catch the movie — it was hard to see how they could fuck it up, but interesting to see if they managed it. There must have been a cool change during the night because I woke up cold under the sheet, pulled up a blanket and slept deeply after that. Too deeply. The ringing of the door bell dragged me up from well down and I was surprised to see that it was close to nine o’clock when I surfaced.

I hauled the pants of the tracksuit I sleep in when it’s cold up from the pile of clothing detritus that lives in the corner of the bedroom between clean-ups, pulled them on, and went down the stairs to the front door. Pulling on the pants hurt my bruised mid-section and so did going down the stairs.

‘Mr Hardy?’

A new-breed cop, no question — lean face, blue business shirt, white linen jacket, no tie. I didn’t need the open ID folder to confirm it and didn’t even look at it.

‘Come in.’

‘Just like that?’

‘I’ve had more cops through this door than good-looking women. I don’t like it much, but that’s the way it is. I’m just up and need coffee. You?’

I retreated and he came in and closed the door quietly behind him. Nice manners. New breed. ‘Thank you. Hard night?’

‘Up late reading.’

He took that with a grin and followed me down to the kitchen where I put the coffee on to perk before going upstairs to put on some clothes. The physique these days isn’t so impressive that I can stand around half naked with well-dressed cops and feel in charge. He was sitting relaxed at the breakfast bench when I returned. If he was thirty that was all but he had a knowing look to him that they get after attending traffic accidents and domestics and telling lies in court. The coffee came through and I poured two mugs full. I got milk from the fridge and pushed the bowl of raw sugar towards him.

‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I missed the name. And what’s this about?’

He wrapped his hands around the mug the way I do myself, whether the morning is cold or not. This morning wasn’t particularly, but it’s a comforting thing to do.

‘Stankowski, Detective Constable. Major Crimes, southern area.’

I raised my mug in a salute. ‘And…?’

‘Do you know a person named Jason Jorgensen?’

‘Well, I’ve met him. It was just yesterday, so I wouldn’t claim to know him.’

‘What was your business with him?’

I tried the coffee — too hot for a good slurp but OK for a judicious sip. ‘Come on, Constable. You obviously know the game I’m in. You can’t expect an answer.’