‘Have you got any theory on that?’
‘What d’you mean?’
‘What do you think happened to him?’
The shrug and the snigger. ‘Dunno and don’t care. Sarah reckons he went off to be a soldier’s fortune, whatever the fuck that is.’
‘Soldier of fortune. A mercenary, fighting for money.’
Ronny had nothing to say to that one way or the other. We drove on in silence for a while as the rain eased.
‘What do you do, Ronny?’
‘Nothing much. Stop here.’
I pulled over and he got out. It looked for a second as if he intended to slam the door, but he glanced in at me and thought better of it.
It was late in the day. Bryce Grammar was in North Narrabeen and I was more or less on the spot. No reason to cross the harbour back to an empty house that might, if the rain had been falling in Glebe, be leaking. I booked into a Mona Vale motel-another charge on my client-ate a meal at a nearby Vietnamese restaurant and returned to watch some TV and make notes and squiggles on what I was beginning to think of-after Ronny’s slack-minded reference to Justin’s grandfather and great-grandfather-as the Hampshire saga. My recall for conversation wasn’t perfect but it was pretty good. A remark of Ronny’s stuck in my mind: Are you the mother’s new bloke? New?
Something had happened to send Justin Hampshire- focused, solid student set on a solid career, protector of his sister, adept sportsman-off in a spin. What? His mother had suggested disappointment at learning of his father’s indifferent military career and desertion. Possible, but it seemed a bit thin. Where he was certainly had to do with why he went. Angela Pettigrew’s acceptance of the possibility that her son could be dead worried me. Did mothers have an instinct about such things? How would I know?
I worked the mini-bar a bit-not a client expense-and wished I’d brought the Hughes book as bedtime reading. I read bits and pieces of the Serle biography of Monash instead and that was useful. Someone-Justin?-had underlined certain passages about the AIF’s heroic and sacrificial struggles at the Somme.
4
I didn’t sleep well. I had one of those nights when you wake up every hour or so for no reason you can fathom-not snoring, no outside noise, no bladder pressure. At four am I gave up, turned on the television and switched it off after flicking through the channels. Radio National was replaying a program on experimental music. I was reminded of the remark a music critic had made about a revival of the musical Jesus Christ, Superstar: ‘If you missed it the first time, here’s a chance to miss it again’.
I made a cup of coffee, read for a bit and then put the book down. Of course I found myself thinking about the case, going over the twists and turns. I wasn’t sure exactly how many missing person cases I’d worked on or what my strike rate was, but I knew it was in positive territory. This had the feel of a hard one-the background, the family circumstances, the deceptions and disappointments provided complex motives for the disappearance and equally complex directions for the detective to follow.
The welcome morning light started to creep into the room and the feeling I always get in those conditions-a mixture of loneliness and relief at being my own master-left me in a meditative mood. A question that had been wafting around, half-formed, came into focus. Why had Angela Pettigrew married Paul Hampshire? She appeared to have come from a more favourable background, was more physically attractive or interesting, and certainly smarter.
You could have fitted the whole of Maroubra High-buildings, playground, assembly area, the lot-four or five times into the space occupied by Bryce Grammar. The grass on the playing fields was green; the artificial turf on the tennis courts had that eerie shine; the paths were gravel and there were parking areas for both students and staff. The flowerbeds were out of Home amp; Garden, and the buildings, though not very old, had already acquired a becoming amount of ivy in all the right places.
The classroom buildings were at a distance and I could see some blazered students walking around and sitting under shade. There was no one batting, bowling or hitting-it was evidently a serious time of the day on a serious day of the week. I went up some imposing sandstone steps into the carpeted quietness of the administration building and found the office of the registrar. His secretary was a cheerful, plump, middle-aged woman who asked me to wait while she took my note of authority in to the boss. That occupied enough time for me to look around and get some idea of what the registrar actually did to need a secretary and a day and a bit before he could see someone. The photographs of men and women in suits told the story-he lobbied and raised money from old boys and anyone else he could put the touch on.
The secretary came back minus the letter and ushered me past her cubicle to a door with ‘A R McKenzie-Brown, Registrar’ on a laminated card in a slot. Bit of a worry those slots-a name that can be slotted in can easily be slotted out. To my surprise the occupant opened the door at her knock and thanked her before stepping aside and beckoning me in. A lot of self-important executive types like to be seen working at their desks when you arrive. Looking busy. Not McKenzie-Brown. He was a tall, lean type in his early forties-shirt-sleeves, loosened tie, cigarette in hand. He offered me the other hand.
‘Mr Hardy, hello. Come in and have a seat. Belinda’ll have coffee here in a moment whether you want it or not, because I want it.’
I shook his hand. Was it an act? Hard to tell, but if so it was a good one. Couldn’t help but like him-provisionally I sat down; he stubbed out the cigarette and shuffled a pile of papers on his desk.
‘Belinda will make a copy of the note from Ms Pettigrew-I see she’s reverted to her maiden name-for our records. I’m sure you’ll want the original for yours. Now, I’ve assembled as many reports and assessments and such as I could lay my hands on. They’re pretty uniform actually. Justin was an excellent student and you’ll see the phrase “A pleasure to have in the class” or something like it pretty often. Ah, here’s the coffee. I’ll just get on with a few things while you look this over.’
Belinda brought in two mugs of coffee, a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. McKenzie-Brown thanked her and handed her the Pettigrew note. I tasted the coffee-strong and good, didn’t need milk or sugar. McKenzie-Brown took both and stirred vigorously.
It didn’t take long to get the measure of Justin Hampshire’s performance-he was consistently in the top few in every subject. Particularly good at history and agricultural science, which seemed like an odd combination, but what do I know? He won prizes, played cricket and tennis in the school teams, led the student group on skiing trips. He’d been his class monitor pretty well all the way through and was vice-head prefect in his final year. Interesting, impressive, but not very useful.
I finished reading and aligned the papers as McKenzie-Brown looked up.
‘A terrible loss,’ he said, ‘if that’s what occurred. I mean.. .’
‘Yeah. What about school cadets?’
He offered me his cigarettes and lit one when I refused. ‘No cadet unit. Parents are mostly of the conservative persuasion, of course.’ He smiled, letting me know he wasn’t necessarily of the same mind. ‘But some of the women are forceful on the committee and there are a few… liberals. The idea has come up from time to time but it has always been voted down.’
‘How do the students feel?’
‘A school isn’t a democracy, Mr Hardy, as you no doubt are aware. But I did make a note from one of the school magazines that Justin took the affirmative in a debate on the proposition that there should be a cadet unit. Argued the case strongly, apparently, and his team won.’
‘Why did you make a note of it?’
He leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘I’m no psychologist, no detective. I’m just a chalkie turned administrator more or less against his will, but when I looked through the material you’ve seen, it seemed to me there was something bland and conformist about the boy. As if…’