Peter Corris: Lugarno

‘Sure. What d’you drink?’

‘Dom Perignon.’

The address Tess had given me for her brother was near the border between Strathfield and Enfield. Like all of the inner city the property values have skyrocketed here and I was surprised that there was a house neglected enough to have become a squat. But there are always deceased estate houses or places with some fatal flaw even in the high-price districts. I expected one of the sorts of places Ramsay had always lived in so far as I knew — a semi with a rusty roof, blotched bricks and a gap-toothed fence with the railway line running a stone’s throw away. Instead I pulled up in a quiet street outside a smart Federation number with a brick and iron fence in good repair, a neat front garden and all the trimmings — tiled path, deep verandah running across half the front and around the side and fresh colonial green paint on the guttering.

The block was wide enough to permit a later modification — a driveway leading to a garage, tastefully blended in to the side of the house.

Squat my arse, I thought, and my dislike for Ramsay Hewitt went up a notch. If there wasn’t a phone inside that house, and more likely a couple of them, I’d take up macrame. Thinking about how Ramsay had lied to Tess made me angry at first and then forced me to reassess my strategy. I’d been expecting to deal with young people scraping along in the social shallows, possibly drug-affected, possibly ideologically driven, possibly hostile. This was a different proposition. I was wearing drill trousers and a faded denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up; I felt I should have been in my best blazer and pleated slacks.

I walked up the pathway, admiring the fancy tiles along the edges, to the mock marble steps leading to the tiled verandah. I was spared the house name on the brass plaque but not the coachman’s lantern. The windows featured elegantly curved steel bars and you’d have needed an oxyacetylene torch to get through the screen door. I pressed the buzzer and waited… and waited some more. If there was anyone home they weren’t answering the front door. I’m not proud; the back door’ll do me any day. I retraced my steps and walked past neat garden beds along a cement path, this time running along the side of the house. But only so far. About two-thirds of the way down I encountered a fence that I hadn’t seen on account of some shrubs branching over in front of it. Some fence. It was thick wire mesh, three metres high with a stout-looking gate, and met the neighbouring house fence which was exactly the same. Job lot. All this place needed was a dragon-filled moat.

I retreated to the front garden in some confusion. It was a little after eight a.m.; the well-heeled residents of this neighbourhood had gone off to work in their BMWs or were hunkered over their computers dealing stocks. I stood beside the carefully tended flower beds wondering what to do next when the front door opened and a woman stepped out onto the verandah.

‘Just what do you think you’re doing prowling around like that?’

She was tall and striking looking, like a ten-years-younger Germaine Greer. Her hair was a deep brown mane falling around her handsome face to her wide shoulders. She wore a loose red blouse of some material that shimmered, wide-legged white beach pants and sandals with medium heels. I took this in as I walked towards the porch, getting my credentials from my pants pocket. It never does to be defensive first off. ‘I rang the bell,’ I said, being economical with the truth, ‘several times.’

‘That doesn’t give you the right to march about my property.’

I was on the steps now and extending the natty leather folder Tess had given me. ‘I’m making enquires about…’

‘You’re not a policeman.’

She was good, very good. No explanation like — I was in the shower or out the back, just straight into the attack.

‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. ‘And you are…?’

‘Not someone likely to have any business with you.’

I stepped up to the porch. In her heels she almost reached my 184 centimetres. She stood still and balanced, unafraid. She was expertly made up and wore a gold chain around her neck, no wedding ring. ‘I’m looking for Ramsay Hewitt.’

‘Look elsewhere. There’s no one of that name here.’

I don’t mind an occasional points loss, but I don’t fancy being KO’d. I moved a bit closer. ‘He wrote a letter giving this as his address.’

I thought I saw a flicker in the dark amber eyes but I might’ve been wrong. She wasn’t on the ropes. ‘Whoever he may be, he must have been mistaken.’

Good jab. She swivelled nicely, stepped back through the doorway and closed the door behind her. She didn’t even slam it. A definite win on points.

My original intention had been to head for the Georges River area after picking up Ramsay Hewitt’s trail in Strathfield but after the encounter with the woman there I changed my mind. Despite myself, I’d got really interested in finding Ramsay. Lachlan University was once a Johnny-come-lately, but since they started turning teachers colleges and colleges of advanced education and technical institutes into universities it had acquired status. And with the unstoppable sprawl of Sydney proceeding apace, North Ryde doesn’t seem so far out.

I parked about a kilometre from where I wanted to be, the way you have to, and followed a confusing set of signs to the administration block. When I first went out to Lachlan, twenty years ago, it looked more like a construction site than a seat of learning. The raw concrete block buildings sat in the muddy paddocks like alien structures built on another planet and dropped there. Now, time and expert gardening had softened the harsh outlines and blended the buildings into what had become a friendly landscape.

I presented myself at the Student Records counter and told a bored-looking clerk that I wanted information about a student. The clerk was pale, prematurely balding and smelled of clove cigarettes.

‘Name?’

I gave it.

‘Number?’

I recited it.

His fingers, with the nails bitten down, danced over the keys. ‘What information?’

‘Current address.’

His smirk was almost a laugh. ‘No way.’

I showed him my licence folder. ‘I’m a private detective working for his sister. He’s missing and she’s worried.’

‘Name?’

‘I already told you.’

He sighed, making me want to reach over and detach a few of his teeth. ‘Her name.’

‘Tess… Teresa Hewitt.’

Keys clicked. ‘OK. She paid his fees first time round, right? Lucky guy.’

“What d’you mean, first time round?’

‘Are you really a private eye?’

I wanted to say, Do you really work in university administration? but I held back and just nodded.

He read from the screen, at a guess the only kind of reading he ever did, ‘Ramsay Hewitt withdrew from Ag Sci and is now enrolled in the Law School.’

‘Who paid his fees?’

My footwork was a bit too fast for him, ‘He did,’ he said, and instantly regretted it.

I wandered over to the Law School and tried my story, my credentials and charm on the faculty secretary. Sceptical must’ve been her middle name.

‘I can give you no information whatever, Mr… Hardy.’

‘Not even what courses he’s doing and the names of a couple of his teachers?’

‘Absolutely not.’

She wore one of those blouses with a sort of fake tie at the neck and you can’t expect much of someone who dresses like that. ‘What would I need to do to get that sort of information?’

She sat behind her big, busy desk, tapped a pen on the surface and seemed to be trying to will the phone to ring. ‘I can’t imagine.’