‘Jeff, this is Cliff Hardy.’
He was wearing two pieces of a three-piece suit and had loosened his tie. His thinning dark hair was expensively barbered and his shoes were highly polished. The cut of the pants and waistcoat kept him from looking portly, which he was. His grip was stronger than it needed to be and his palm was moist.
‘Hi. Drink?’
‘Thanks,’ I said. ‘Red wine?’
‘Coming up.’ He went to the corner of the room where there was a bar in vaguely Hawaiian mood-bamboo and wickerwork with two high, spindly-legged stools. Jessie sat down on the lounge and picked up a pink drink from the low table in front of it. Stevenson came back with a glass of red and a can of beer which he popped as he sat down next to his wife. He had a long swig and she took hold of his free hand. As I sat opposite them in the quiet house with my drink in my hand, I saw two things: he was younger than her by a good few years and that was one of her problems; the other problem she was confidently expecting me to solve.
On the table was a folder that had my name written on it; it would be the memorabilia for sure. I took out a notebook and pen and placed them by the folder. I took a sip of the good red.
‘First, does either one of you have any theory, doesn’t matter how way out, about why she left?’
They looked at each other and shook their heads. ‘She’s a normal, healthy, lovely girl,’ Stevenson said.’
‘We never had any trouble with her.’
Jessie nodded and drank some of the pink mixture. ‘I’ve thought about it for hours. Nothing comes, nothing.’
I touched the folder. ‘The photographs and such?’
They nodded in unison and I opened the folder. The photographs ranged over about ten years, chronicling Portia from a gap-toothed kid to a tall, well-proportioned teenager. She had her mother’s features and figure which were good credentials. Her hair shone in the outdoors pictures and there was a sultriness to her when photographed indoors that suggested she knew what it was to be a focus of attention. I murmured ‘Very pretty’ which was probably less than was expected of me, and went on with the other documents. There were a couple of school reports-just this side of glowing; Portia is steady and reliable etc., and a postcard she’d sent from Brisbane. Jessie Stevenson watched me while I read the dutiful message.
‘She stayed with my sister,’ she said. ‘Just for a week.’
I nodded. There was a typed list of names, six females and two males.
‘They’re her closest friends,’ Jeff Stevenson said. ‘The Police talked to them all.’ His wife let go of his hand and stroked his arm. He turned his face to her and gave her a stiff smile. She kept her hand on his arm. The telephone number of the school and the names of some teachers were typed on another sheet. There was a photostat copy of the missing persons report the Stevensons had given to the police. It was an official form, listing ages and occupations, and told me nothing new. I returned the things to the folder and closed it.
‘Did Portia keep a diary?’ I asked.
The look they exchanged was uncertain; maybe they were swingers who feared that their daughter had chronicled the frolicking, but the way Jessie hung on to her husband’s arm suggested she was anything but a swinger.
‘No,’ she said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I just thought with the name-Portia, and everything-and with Jeff being an ad man, there might be a literary leaning in the family. Diaries are useful…’
‘Portia was my mother’s name,’ Jessie said frigidly. Jeff was looking hostile, maybe he thought I’d maligned his profession by suggesting that it had anything to do with literature. I still liked the thought, though.
‘Are her school books here?’
Jessie nodded.
‘May I see them?’
‘The policewoman had a good look,’ Stevenson growled.
‘Even so, I’d like a look if I may. And I’d like to see her room, please.’
Stevenson gently shook off his wife’s hand. ‘That’s okay, of course, you’d want to do that. Drink up, Hardy. Jess’ll show you the room. If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a couple of calls to make.’
He got up slowly and drained his can. He wasn’t much over thirty but something was taking a toll of him-self-indulgence or business worries. There were strain lines in his fleshy face and his colour was too high. He moved rather slowly, like an ex-athlete who has stiffened up. I drank some more of the wine, put the glass on the floor, and followed Jessie back down the passageway.
She pushed open the second door along and flicked the light on. The bedroom was scrupulously tidy, the way no seventeen-year-old could have kept it. The bed was made, the rug was straight, the books were lined up, the cassettes were stacked. The room was already beginning to feel like a mausoleum. I opened a wardrobe and looked at the solid bank of clothes, all neatly placed on hangers.
‘She didn’t take many clothes?’
She shook her head. ‘She was wearing her…’ She choked on it.
‘School uniform, I know. Take it easy, Jessie, Let’s have a look here.’
Portia had one of those student’s desks with a map of the world on it. A few text books were stacked on top of Europe and a pile of exercise books covered Australia. Jessie sank down on the bed and looked at me helplessly. ‘Is there any hope?’ she whispered.
‘Sure.’ I turned over the leaves of the books-domestic science; maths, social studies. They were neat and orderly. Another book had a clipping of Robert Redford pasted to the cover. On the first leaf ‘Personal Development’ was printed in bold letters. I showed it to Jessie.
‘What’s that?’
She shrugged. ‘I’ll just go and see if Jeff wants anything.’ She started to get up but I waved her down.
‘Hang on, won’t be long.’ I turned over the pages; there were poems and essays and questionnaires-all bland and almost impersonal. No outpourings of the heart here. Near the end of the filled-in pages there were marks on the back of one leaf. The scribble was in a different ink from the writing on the other side. I looked at it for a minute; Jessie looked too.
‘Oh,’ she said uninterestedly, ‘I saw that. It’s from a carbon paper put in the wrong way.’
‘No, it isn’t. Is Portia a left-hander, like you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Some left-handers can do mirror-writing automatically, without thinking. Can you?’
‘I used to be able to, when I was a kid. I wouldn’t have tried to in twenty-five… a long time.’
I took the page over to the dressing table and looked at the image in the mirror. In an irregular hand, quite different from the rest of the writing in the book, was written: ‘A woman at last! It was wonderful! I knew it would be. We both want more and more.’
Jessie stood beside me and stared at the mirror. Her shriek bounced off the walls. ‘No! Oh God, no!’
Heavy footsteps shook the floor and Jeff Stevenson flung himself into the room; beer slopped from another can in his hand.
‘What the hell…’
Jessie leapt for him and clung. She buried her head in his shirt front and sobbed. Stevenson bullocked across the room, carrying her with him. He stared at the mirror and then at me. His high colour flamed even higher.
‘Jesus, Jesus, what… what does it mean?’
‘I’d say it means she’s got a boyfriend,’ I said.
‘Sixteen…’ Jessie sobbed.
‘I thought she was seventeen,’ I said.
‘Only just.’ Stevenson patted his wife’s shoulder clumsily. I closed the book and put it back with the others.
‘Let’s go out and talk about it.’ I virtually had to shepherd them out of the room and to the back of the house. Stevenson remembered his beer can and I re-possessed my red wine. We all sat down again and drank-except Jessie, who gripped her husband’s knee.
‘It helps,’ I said. ‘It supplies a reason. It gives us something, someone-to look for. Somebody must know who he is-a friend, someone in a coffee shop, a pub. Kids have got to go somewhere and there are people who know where they go. Cheer up.’