Peter Corris: Wet Graves

I’d brought the letters from my house in Glebe to my Darlinghurst office to give myself something official-feeling to do there. The Bankcard account and the electricity bill had gone up on the notice board to wait until I had the money and the inclination to pay them, but the two other envelopes looked more interesting. They were long and made of heavy duty paper, the kind you slit open rather than rip apart with your fingers. Both carried Sydney GPO box numbers to which they should be sent if wrongly delivered, but they had got their man-Mr Clifford A. Hardy. I took a Swiss army knife out of a drawer in the desk and slitted.

The first letter was from the office of the Sheriff of New South Wales informing me that my number had come up. I was a citizen, a ratepayer, a voter and eligible for jury duty. Unless I was disqualified for some reason, I was obliged to fill out the attached form and hold myself ready to serve as a good man and true. I’d met the requirement for going on twenty-five years and had never been invited before. I felt rather pleased about it-responsible, mature, a serious person with a stake in the community.

The other letter was from a Detective Sergeant Lawrence Griffin of the commercial licensing division of the New South Wales police, requiring me to present myself in one week’s time before the Glebe local court sitting as a court of petty sessions, to show why my private enquiry agent’s licence should not be cancelled and why I “should not be disqualified either permanently or temporarily from holding a licence”. I’d been a private detective for a shorter time than I’d been a solid citizen, but long enough. I thought I was in good standing. I’d had my licence threatened by the odd cop before, but that was usually heat-of-the-moment stuff-when they were angry because of something I’d done or said. More often said. But never anything as heavy as this. How could a man fit to serve on a jury not be fit to hold a PIA licence? It was bureaucracy run mad.

“This is unfair,” I said to the old army surplus filing cabinet in the corner of the room. “There’s no justice.”

The filing cabinet didn’t say anything but, as I addressed it, I remembered that I had a copy of the Commercial Agents and Private Enquiry Agents Act of 1963 some-where inside it. So perhaps it was talking to me. Sometimes I think I’m becoming more of a mystic as I get older. I put this to my friend Harry Tickener in the bar of the Journalists’ Club recently and he said it was just age and loneliness. “Get a girlfriend,” Harry said, “get a tenant.”

“I’ve had both,” I said. “They…”

“Don’t last. I know. Have another drink. I’d sooner see you drunk than mystical.”

Certainly, I’d ended up more drunk than mystical that night and good few other nights lately. “Time to open new files,” I said to the cabinet, “new windows on the world.” I remembered that there was a bottle of red wine in the cabinet as well as the Commercial Agents and Private Inquiry Agents Act of 1963, the instrument that ruled my life. I got up to commune with both. The office was gloomy but it was bright outside-an open window would be a good idea, too. I was halfway across the room when a firm knock came on the door. I turned, took two steps and opened the door. “Come in,” I said.

The woman who stood in the doorway was close to six feet tall and strongly built. She wore a tailored blue overall with a red sweater underneath it and shoes with low heels. Her face would have been described in some quarters as “weather-beaten”. In fact she had good features, thick dark hair with some grey in it, and if her brown skin had a few more lines and grooves in it than Vogue recommends, bad luck for Vogue.

“You couldn’t have made it from the desk to the door in that time,” she said. “Not possible.”

“No. You’re right. I was heading for the filing cabinet when you knocked.”

“Do it, then,” she said. “I believe in finishing what you start.”

“Mm.” I agreed with her, of course. Tried to do just that, but momentarily I’d forgotten what I wanted from the cabinet. Couldn’t let that show. I waved at the client’s chair, shuffled forward and reached for the handle of the top drawer. “Please take a seat.”

She strode across the frayed carpet as if she was used to rough ground and lowered herself into the chair. Memory returned when I saw the yellowed edges of the foolscap folders in the drawer and I rummaged through looking for my copy of the Act of the parliament of New South Wales. I found it in the second drawer, a bit dog-eared from being pushed aside rather than from assiduous reading. I pulled it out and slammed the drawer shut. She didn’t react. Good nerves or very preoccupied, I thought. I flipped the slim document onto the desk, sat down and tidied the papers in front of me.

“How can I help you?” I said.

She leaned forward and placed the card on which my name and the words “Private Enquiries” were written on the desk. There was a hole in the card where the drawing pin that held it to the door had been. “This was on the floor,” she said.

“Thank you.”

“Careless, but you don’t go in for waste. I like that.”

I felt I was holding ground, just. “Good.” I pulled a notepad towards me and clicked a biro. “I’m supposed to keep notes on everything I do. Even if we don’t do any business. I usually start by asking for a name.”

She smiled and the lines around her eyes spread. “I suppose if you can’t even get a name there’s not much likelihood of doing business. I’m Louise Madden. I want to find my father, Brian Madden. He went missing two months ago. You can write that down.”

I did. “My fees are a hundred and eighty dollars a day plus expenses,” I said.

She nodded. “You seem rather… formal. I didn’t expect that. I’ve had enough of formality. I was hoping for some energy.”

“I can usually guarantee that.” I straightened the two letters and held them up. “I’ve been hit with a bit of formality myself lately. It must’ve rubbed off. I think I can promise you professionalism and independence.” I felt stuffy and middle-aged as I spoke. I’d given up smoking years ago and the bottle of wine was still in the cabinet, so there were no careless, youthful gestures to be made. I underlined her name on my notepad.

“I landscaped a garden for Roberta Landy-Drake,” Louise Madden said. “A former client of yours. She recommended you.”

That was good news. Mrs Landy-Drake expected a good job and paid handsomely for it. She held the view, unusual for a rich person, that the labourer was worthy of his hire. “That’s a good recommendation for us both,” I said.

“Yes, she’s fun, isn’t she?”

This women was full of surprises. People don’t usually talk about fun in the same breath as their dead dad. Still, attitudes to dead dads differ. I nodded and wrote “Landy-Drake” on my pad. Then I gave Ms Madden my level, professional stare, the look that’s supposed to get them talking.

“My father was last seen in May. He was walking across the harbour bridge.”

“Why?”

“He liked to walk. He walked every-where. It was recreation and exercise for him. No one seems to have understood that.”

“By no one, you mean…”

“The police. The missing persons branch, or whatever it is. They haven’t been helpful. They don’t seem interested. They don’t say so, but I have the feeling they think he jumped, committed suicide, not that they use the word.”

“They try to avoid calling deaths suicides. They say it’s to spare the feelings of the family.”

“I’m his only family. It didn’t spare my feelings. Is there another reason for avoiding the word?”