Peter Corris: Lugarno

‘I guess I’ll just have to hack into your records.’

She looked at me through her modish glasses, moving her head just enough to eye me up and down. She took in my slightly greying hair, broken nose but mended teeth, faded denim shirt, drill trousers and scuffed shoes. I didn’t look like a computer whiz and she knew it. ‘You could try. Our records are very secure and are equipped with a program that identifies anyone trying to access them illegitimately. That, as perhaps you know, is a criminal offence.’

‘I’m glad to hear you’re so well up on it. If he turns up dead today it’ll be a comfort to know that his records were secure.’

She permitted herself a small, thin-lipped smile. ‘As I saw Mr Hewitt about an hour ago I think that’s unlikely.’

‘You saw him? Where?’

She shook her head and the phone rang as if on cue. She picked it up and began making notes. It wasn’t my day for succeeding with mature women — another loss on points.

I left the office and walked around the four levels that comprised the Law School without much hope of spotting my man. The students for the most part were neatly dressed in clean pressed clothes, some with jackets and even a few with ties. That was the men; the women’s tailoring was even smarter. Going up! their clothes said. The Ramsay I knew would stand out in this crowd like a taxi driver in a tuxedo. When I’d last seen him a year or so back he’d had stringy, shoulder-length hair, a scruffy beard and wore jeans, T-shirts and bomber jackets, none of them clean. But this Ramsay, the one who had some connection with an up-market house in Strathfield and paid his own way might look very different. In that case I might not recognise him.

My two goes at trying to locate Tess’s brother had struck dead ends, but interesting ones. I felt sure the woman at Strathfield had lied to me. The Law School secretary hadn’t, but why would she be able to identify Ramsay Hewitt, who was just a first-year student, among hundreds of others? It could be that his change of enrolment had drawn attention to him, but I fancy I heard a note of special interest in her voice. At least I’d be able to tell Tess he was alive and well as of a few hours ago, but I was intrigued and wanted to know more.

Still, it needed thought. I knew that my solicitor, Viv Garner, had some connection with the Lachlan Law School and that might be an avenue of approach. For the moment it was no panic and mark time.

Advocates say that golf courses act as the lungs of a city, so Sydney must have a pretty fair breathing capacity, because I read somewhere that it has about a hundred of them. Against the benefits of golf courses has to be put their interference with natural watercourses and the chemicals the ground staff have to use to keep them in good nick.

Environmentally, it’s probably line ball, but they give a lot of people a lot of pleasure so I guess I’m for them. I’ve never been tempted to play golf though. It looks as if you’d have to play often and practise a lot to be any good. I don’t have the time, and I’m too competitive by nature to want to play a game poorly.

The Milperra course was spread over some flat-tish land not far from the Bankstown airport. With the requisite trees and water and sparkling pale brick clubhouse, it was easy on the eye in a damaged landscape. At a guess, the planes didn’t bother the players. They probably inspired dreams in the young hot-shots of jetting off to play on the US tour and reminded the old timers of packaged golf trips to the Gold Coast without their wives.

I drove through the imposing gateway — lots of black wrought-iron set in crazy stone pillars — and up the immaculate tarmac to a parking area that had shade for the spots set aside for everyone from the President down through the Captain and Committee members to the bar staff, but was a hotplate for everyone else. There weren’t many cars around so I risked parking in the space reserved for the Secretary. If he or she wasn’t there by mid-morning, chances were he or she wasn’t coming. Where do you look for the assistant professional on a quiet day?

‘He’s hitting balls over on the fifteenth,’ said the pudgy man behind the counter in a room that seemed to contain all the golf gear the world would need for the next ten years. As I thought, a game that requires practice, even when you’re good.

‘You want a lesson? I’m the pro here. I’ll give you a lesson. Low handicapper are you?’

He looked as if he’d have trouble getting his stomach out of the way of the club as it came down.

‘No, thanks. I don’t play. Personal business.’

He looked suspicious. ‘He’s already got a sponsor.’

‘Can’t have too many.’

I took a card with a map of the course on the back and set off to find the fifteenth tee, hoping I’d got the lingo right. The day had heated up and I wished I’d bought one of those natty peaked caps they had for sale in the pro shop. I could’ve put it on Marty Price’s bill as a legitimate expense.

The card told me that the fifteenth hole was a 320 par four that ran straight for about two-thirds of its length and then bent sharply to the left. I kept under the trees as much as I could and out of the way of the few players on the course. But the fifteenth tee was unshaded and the tall young man standing on it as I approached cast a long shadow under the high bright sun. I stood under a tree ten metres away and watched him hit a few balls. I know nothing about the game but he seemed to know what he was doing. He took the club back a long way each time, made a clicking connection and finished the way you see them do on TV with weight on the front foot and the back foot toe down.

The only trouble was that all the balls hit the tops of the high trees on the right. Not one landed on the short grass that stretched out in front of him. He shook his head, walked to his cart parked beside the tee and grabbed a water bottle.

I stepped up and pointed. ‘Why don’t you hit them straight down there?’

Jason Jorgensen was a couple of centimetres taller than me and I’d have had ten kilos on him easy. Blue polo shirt, baggy shorts. He was one of those bony Scandinavians — bony of head and body. He’d filled out a bit since the photograph I’d seen was taken, but not much. He swigged twice, screwed the cap back on the bottle and thumped his club on the grass. For a moment I thought he’d reply rudely out of frustration, but good manners or a fear that I might be someone in authority held him back. He managed a tight, big-toothed smile. I’m trying to cut off the dog leg with a high draw. If I could get it right I’d be on in one.’

Gibberish to me but I nodded. ‘You shouldn’t say if, you should say when.’

‘You’re right. Thanks. Well, I’d better get on with it.’

I produced my folder and snapped it at him. ‘I want a word with you, Jason. I’m working for Martin Price.’

His attitude and body language suddenly changed and the grip he took on his golf club didn’t have anything to do with hitting balls. ‘Working? Doing what?’

‘Trying to help him keep his daughter out of prison for one thing.’

He was very fair-skinned and the hair sticking out under his cap was white-blond. He was a bit sunburnt from his time on the tee, but the flush on his face wasn’t only due to sun. He swung the club a little and out of some kind of instinct I bent down and picked up one of the balls he’d spilled onto the grass.

‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Piss off!’ he said.

Not the well-mannered lad now. He advanced a pace and lifted the club. A golf club, swung or thrown with intent, is a very dangerous implement. I stood my ground and watched him carefully.

‘You’re going to talk to me, son. And the way you’re acting makes it all the more likely. Put the club down.’