‘I can’t believe it,’ Jessie said. ‘I just can’t believe it.’
‘She is seventeen,’ Stevenson muttered.
‘But not to say a word. Not to bring him home, even. Oh, he must be so unsuitable.’
She was upset and confused and her mixed feelings were showing all too clearly-snobbery was strongly present along with the protectiveness and hurt.
I wrote the message in the exercise book in my notebook, working from memory. I tapped the contents of the folder into neatness. The Stevensons watched me.
‘Now, does this give you any clues? Anything come to mind? Something you mightn’t have thought of before?’
They shook their heads. I put the notebook away. ‘Okay, I’ll take it from here. Sorry, but I’ll have to ask you for a retainer and some sort of letter of authority.’
Stevenson pulled down his waistcoat and sucked in his gut. ‘Yes, of course. I’ll fix it up. Ah, Jess, I could go a cup of coffee; you, Hardy?’
‘No thanks.’
‘I’ll make some fresh, dear.’ Jessie jumped up and headed towards a door behind the bar. Stevenson found his suit jacket hanging on a chair, dug into the breast pocket and pulled out a cheque book.
‘Umm, Hardy, now you come to mention it, I think I do know something that might help. Five hundred do you for now?’
I nodded. He spread the cheque book on the bar and wrote.
‘I’ll get my secretary to knock up an authority. Put it in the post tomorrow. That do you?’
I nodded again and waited for whatever it was he was wanted to tell me. He ripped out the slip and handed it to me.
‘Hardy, I… ah… didn’t know what to make of this. I only heard it today and it didn’t make any sense. But in view of what you found in that notebook… I didn’t want to say anything in front of Jess.’
‘About what?’
‘Well, I put all sorts of feelers out, of course. People on the road come into the agency, you know. I’ve told them about our trouble. And this guy, he travels about a bit. He said he’d seen a girl who looked a bit like Portia over at a truck depot in Ryde. I don’t know, it’s probably nothing. But you know, the trucks go interstate from there
‘What’s the name of the place?’
He told me and I said I’d take a look there as well as re check with the girl’s friends and teachers and do a thorough local snoop. I said I’d be in touch as soon as I needed anything.
‘Or when you need more money,’ he said.
‘Yeah, well it would come to that if there’s an interstate angle.’
‘Interstate?’ Jessie Stevenson came back into the room carrying a tray with a coffee pot, cups and sweet biscuits. Jeff’s waistline was in for another hammering. ‘What about interstate?’
‘Nothing, love. Just talking. Goodnight, Hardy. I’ll show you out.’
I nodded to Jessie’s brave smile and followed him up the passage. Another too-strong handshake, and I was out in the cool evening air.
I drove to the trucking yard in Ryde, taking the long way home. The place was dark and quiet, and a fast food caravan was just closing down as I pulled up. The woman who ran the show was tired and impatient with my questions.
‘Early night,’ she said. ‘D’you mind?’
‘No. What about tomorrow?’
‘Big night, open late. Trucks in ‘n out till all hours.’
‘Save me a hamburger.’
She grunted and slammed down the shutters.
I did the rounds the next day; Castlecrag isn’t known for its low-life hang-outs, but I checked such places as seemed likely to be trysting points. No result. A check of the cab companies that do most of the area’s business drew the same blank. I thought I should wait for Stevenson’s letter of authority before tackling the school, but I phoned the homes of the kids on the list of Portia’s friends and found one of them home with the flu. Her mother permitted me ten minutes with the kid after checking with Jessie.
The house was a sterile barn, too big for the woman and her two daughters who lived there. I gathered that Dad lived somewhere else. Tammy Martin’s bedroom was pretty much like Portia’s, except that she had more posters of younger guys-Michael Jackson, Christopher Atkins and the like. She sat up in bed with a glow of fever in her young cheeks and asked to see my gun.
‘I don’t carry a gun when I’m looking for a seventeen-year-old girl,’ I said.
‘You never know.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothin’. Just dialogue.’
She was bright and wanted to be helpful; she missed Portia and she phoo-phooed the idea that she had a boyfriend.
‘I’d have known,’ she said. ‘We were like that.’ She placed her index and second finger together, but she was wrong. I thanked her, said I hoped she’d get well soon, and left.
It was late afternoon when I got back to the trucking yard. The woman at the fast food bar looked tired already; she nodded sceptically at me when I waved to her. The yard was a big, flat expanse flanked by sheds like small aircraft hangars; a few prime movers and loaded semitrailers stood casting ungainly shadows across the asphalt. A group of drivers leaned on a stack of wooden pallets; they yarned and smoked and looked incuriously at me as I walked across to the office, wedged between two high, wide loading bays. Before I reached the building, one of the drivers detached himself and strolled towards me.
‘Help you, mate?’
I stopped. ‘Well, I wanted to see the boss, foreman or whatever.’ I could see a bespectacled man looking at us through a window in the office.
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to talk to the drivers.’
‘You don’t need to ask permission for that, mate. We’re independents here. You want to talk, come on over and talk.’ He jerked his head at the office. ‘He’s nobody.’
I followed him across to the pallets; there were four men there, all built big and wearing the dusty, greasy uniform of their calling. The man who had approached me simply joined the group and left me to sink or swim.
‘G’day,’ I said. ‘Wondering if one of you blokes could help me.’ I reached into my pocket and took out the most recent photograph of Portia-the one that showed her poised and confident in designer jeans, blouse and stylish jacket, standing in front of the Stevensons’ house. I held up the picture. ‘Seen her?’
One of the men, not the biggest but not the smallest, made a sound like a blocked drain clearing. He spat and reached for the front of my coat. I dropped the photograph.
‘I’ve been waitin’ for youse to turn up.’ He pulled me close and swung a short, clubbing punch at my chin. I pulled free and back and made the punch miss. He swore and came at me again.
‘Easy,’ I said.
‘Go on, Kenny,’ one of the men urged, ‘have a go!’
Kenny bustled forward and swung again. I took it on the shoulder and gave him a quick tap back. He ducked into it and was hit harder on the nose than I’d intended.
‘Fuck you!’ he roared. He came in again, swinging and lunging, and I gave ground until we were clear of the other men and I was sure of my footing. He squared up clumsily and I went under his lead and hammered his left side ribs. He almost overbalanced and I helped him down with a left hook under the ear. He sprawled on the dusty bitumen. The others moved threateningly but I pulled out my licence card and held it up.
‘Hold on,’ I said. ‘This is a misunderstanding. Don’t get excited.’
They hesitated and I crouched down beside Kenny who’d twisted his leg on his descent. I showed him the card.
‘This is a legitimate investigation. What did you mean-about waiting for me?’
Kenny did some swearing then looked across al, the office. ‘That four-eyed nong in there tried to I tribe me to say I’d seen the sheilah. Said someone’d be around askin’. I told him to get fucked and said I’d drop youse. You were a bit good, but.’
I took twenty dollars out of my wallet and put it on his chest. ‘A misunderstanding, mate. What’s his name?’
‘Polly Adams-there ‘e goes!’