Half a dozen people were hanging around the club, four men and two women. They were waxing down boards, smoking, chatting and looking disgruntled at the state of the water. I approached with the photograph and my credentials. Surfers who can’t surf get bored easily and my arrival at least provided them with some interest. They were in their twenties, with one of the women, wearing a lifesaver’s cap and badge on her swimsuit, looking slightly older than the rest. I sympathised about the waves and told them my business, showing the photograph.
‘Surfer, was he?’ one of the men asked.
‘Yeah, good one apparently.’
‘Haven’t seen him around here.’
The others looked at the photograph and shook their heads.
‘Wouldn’t mind, though,’ one of the women said.
The older one, the lifesaver, called her a slut in a good-natured way. The first man I’d dealt with seemed reluctant to leave it at that and asked for the name. I told him and one of the others spoke up.
‘There’s a few of them in the graveyard. I do some gardening up there part-time and I’ve seen the headstones. Don’t know of any around by that name now, but.’
I asked for directions to the graveyard and was told it was across from the park. Perhaps Justin had spent a little more time looking around after all. I thanked them and drove about until I found the entrance. The graveyard was shielded by a long stand of tall trees that were now casting deep shadows across the headstones. A sign said it closed at sunset. I had about an hour.
Country graveyards tend to be overgrown, but this one was reasonably well cared for, with the grass kept under control and the iron railings showing signs of maintenance. Like the memorial arch, the place was partially protected from the salt-laden winds, but time had taken its toll of the inscriptions. Wandering in graveyards isn’t my favourite occupation but it has a certain interest. Poignant messages catch your eye, with lives tragically abbreviated by disease and drowning, intermingled with encouragingly long ones. As always, the women lived longer than the men.
I found several Hampshires, husbands and wives and children, but they all dated back to the nineteenth century or the early twentieth at the latest. I took a few photographs for no good reason other than to show Paul Hampshire I’d been on the job. He just might be interested, although it was the absence of an inscription on the memorial that should really interest him.
A longish day, kilometres covered and things learned. Call it satisfactory. I went back to the motel, showered and walked into the township to find somewhere to eat. Choices were few, and a bistro attached to the pub seemed the best bet. I ordered a steak and salad, bought a small carafe of red and settled down in a sheltered part of the beer garden to get mellow. The first glass went down slowly and well and I poured another.
‘Hello.’
I looked up from the pouring to see the woman from the surf club-the slightly older lifesaver. She was carrying a tray with my steak, a napkin, cutlery and salt and pepper shakers on it. I half rose, the way you do, and helped her lay out the fixings.
‘You’re supposed to get the cutlery and the napkin yourself but I made an exception in your case.’
I raised my glass. ‘Thanks. Why?’
‘I’m a Hampshire,’ she said, ‘but I’m from a bit of the family that changed its name quite a while back. We’re Petersens now-that’s with three e’s-but my great-grandad was a Hampshire.’
‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’d like to talk to you. You are…?’
She pointed to my plate. ‘Better eat while it’s hot. I’m Kathy Petersen. Gotta get back to work.’
‘When you finish?’
‘Sure, why not. Kitchen closes at nine thirty.’
She walked off with her tray. She was tall and lean, sharp-featured, with a confident style. She wore loose trousers and sneakers and a knee-length blue smock with white piping. Her dark hair was cut short. Studs in both ears; no rings.
The steak was fair, the chips good and the salad very good-gave it seven out often overall. It was just after eight o’clock so I had time to kill. I ate slowly and went very quietly with the wine. I knew I was no oil painting, with grey creeping into my hair, an obviously broken nose and faint scar tissue over the eyebrows from my boxing days. I hadn’t shaved since early morning and the stubble wasn’t the careful designer kind, it was just stubble. But she’d seemed interested.
As I’d hoped she would, she came back to collect plates from the few other diners and got to me last.
‘How was it?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘The pub stays open till eleven. I’ll meet you in the lounge bar.’
‘Right. What do you drink, Kathy?’
She laughed. ‘Guess.’
‘Brandy and coke.’
‘Not bad. Brandy and dry.’
I had her drink ready, and a scotch and soda for me, when she arrived. She’d changed into low heels and wore a red blouse that suited her colouring.
‘Well, a detective, eh? Thanks for the drink, I need it after a shift, even though we’re not busy.’
We lifted our glasses. ‘So you save lives and serve food. Pretty useful.’
She laughed. ‘And do relief teaching.’
‘Also useful.’
‘And you find missing people.’
‘Sometimes. Having trouble with this one because it’s a couple of years old.’
Without going into too much detail, I told her a bit about the Hampshire case and its difficulties. She listened as she drank, not quickly, not slowly.
‘You’ll find a couple of Petersens on that arch from World War II and Korea,’ she said. ‘Great-uncles of mine and a cousin, I think.’
‘Do you know why your family name was changed? Or who did it?’
‘I knew you were going to ask that. Afraid I don’t. It was a few generations ago, as I said. Some sort of family scandal, I seem to remember, but I don’t have the details.’
‘Around the time of the First World War, was it? I’ll get us another drink while you think about it.’
When I got back with the drinks she shook her head. ‘Sorry, not a clue. But I could ask my granny. She’s still got her marbles and she might know.’
‘If it was a fair dinkum scandal she might not be willing to say.’
‘I’m her favourite. I can get around her. She’s in a nursing home in Bega, though. It’ll take me a few days to get to her.’
‘I’d be grateful.’ I slapped my pockets. ‘I haven’t got my cards on me.’
‘Where are they?’
‘At the motel. Feel like a walk?’
She swilled the rest of her drink. ‘Are you married?’
‘No.’
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Not just now.’
‘Gay?’
‘What do you think?’
‘I think I’d like to go back there with you and see what happens.’
She went to the toilet and then we walked the kilometre or so to the motel. The night was mild and the walk was companionable. She wasn’t that much shorter than me and when I put my arm around her to steady her over some rough ground, she touched my hand and we locked fingers. We kissed as soon as we got inside and it went on from there-a bit hectic but experienced, not uncontrolled.
Her body was tanned and firm and she liked to be touched. I wasn’t exactly sex-starved but it had been a while and I was aroused and eager. She fished a condom from her blouse on the floor and rolled it on to me. We left the bedside lights burning and didn’t turn them off until much later.
7
I’d ordered the standard motel breakfast-sausages, bacon, eggs and tomato with soggy toast and thin coffee-for six thirty, and we shared it. Kathy said she had to be back near her phone by eight in case she was called on to teach.
‘You’ll be heading back to the smoke,’ she said.
‘That’s right.’
‘So, a one-night stand.’
She was clear-eyed and the absence of the little makeup she’d had on the night before didn’t make any difference. She’d put her hair in order with her fingers. A change of clothes and she’d be classroom-ready. I got a card from my wallet and put it in front of her.
‘Try to find some time to come up,’ I said. ‘How about Easter?’