‘Clinton doesn’t live at home?’
Wesley shook his head. ‘No, he moved out two years ago when he started university. He’s lived in a few shared houses out that way-Campbelltown, Picton. You know, like students do. Most recently he was living in Helensburgh. But he kept in touch, sort of-phoned, came home for meals and to do his washing. He worked in here from time to time. Hell, when it suited him. You saw him in the gym. And he usually slept at home those nights. He didn’t show up the week before last. Nothing new in that. I phoned and there was no answer. I thought what the hell, he’s gone off with a team, forgot to tell us about it. Or there was a girl involved. He’s always been a more or less steady lad but he loses his head over girls. And remember I told you about that business with his sister. I thought maybe he was making a point. I wasn’t too worried. Next week no show and I phone again. The kid he shares the house with says he hasn’t seen him for three weeks. He’s pissed off about the rent. Shit!’
He banged his fist into his palm with a force that would’ve broken a brick. ‘I should’ve gone down straightaway when he didn’t turn up. Mandy wanted me to go but I was busy and she’s over-protective. She can’t drive for a bit after that whiplash she got a while back. I went yesterday.’
‘Easy,’ I said. ‘What did you find when you got there?’
‘Nothing, sweet f.a. His car’s still there and all his clothes and other stuff as far as I could see. But he’s… ‘ He broke off and rubbed at his eyes with his huge fists. If he’d been doing much of that it explained their bloodshot condition.
‘So what did you do?’
‘I told the police at Helensburgh. They went through all the motions but, you know how it is, a black kid goes missing. They don’t give a fuck.’
‘What about a girlfriend?’
‘First thing I thought of, but that’s it. He hasn’t got one just now. Broke up with the last one nearly a year ago. Nice girl she was. I asked the kid in the house… Christ, I came on a bit heavy I suppose, and I didn’t get anything out of him really. But he didn’t mention a girl’
‘What about his friends at university?’
He looked up again and this time he was seeing me and what I was seeing was despair and guilt etched into his features and movements. ‘He’s twenty years old, Cliff. He’s a man. You haven’t got any kids, have you?’
I shook my head. When I hear about this sort of thing I’m not sorry about it.
‘You don’t know what it’s like. You raise them from the time you can nearly hold them in your two hands.’ He spread his fingers, showing huge pink palms. Wesley Scott was 190 centimetres plus, with hands to match. ‘When they’re young, you know all their friends. Shit, you’re feeding them half the time. Then they grow up to be as big as you and you have to let them go. You don’t know who their friends are any more. They don’t come around on their fucking bikes. They’ve all got cars and you never see them. You’re lucky if you get your own kid’s new address and phone number inside a couple of weeks when he moves house. That’s the way it is.’
I could imagine it and how hard it must be. But my professional instincts were taking over. You can find out, I thought. But only if you know how. I had a raft of questions but it was more a moment for counselling. Without quite meaning it, I said things about how good the police were in these matters and how few adult males who dropped put of sight came to any harm. Wesley shook his head, flicking off these suggestions the way a dog shakes off water.
‘Mandy’s going out of her brain. I think she blames me in some way. Pauline can’t practise or study and I can’t think of a fucking thing to do!’
‘I could look into it for you, Wes. I’ve got a private enquiry agent’s licence. Might be able to help.’
He lifted his head and seemed to almost rise out of his seat as if reaching for a rung on a ladder. ‘God,’ he said. ‘A private detective. I’ve been thinking of you as the ex-boxer security guard coming good again. You’re a bloody private detective, are you? Would you take it on, Cliff? Please?’
2
Wesley Scott wasn’t wealthy but he was prosperous. The gym fees weren’t cheap and he had a full list of customers; he did private massages at hefty rates for some well-connected people, like judges and politicians; he was on the training staff of a pro basketball team and he was often called in as a consultant by other sporting organisations. He explained all this to me after I’d told him that my fees were two hundred dollars a day and expenses.
‘I can afford you,’ he said. ‘And hiring you makes it feel like I’m doing something. Mandy’ll feel the same.’
‘I’d be happy to put in some time on it for friendship’s sake.’
‘No way! And now that you’ve given me the idea, if you don’t agree I’ll hire another detective.’
That was the clincher. I got what details I could-a copy of the missing person’s report Wesley had lodged with the police, Clinton’s address in Helensburgh, the name of the person he shared the house with, the make and colour of his car, something on the courses he was doing and a note from Wesley authorising me to inspect his son’s belongings. I told Wesley I’d fax him a contract which he could sign and fax back. He insisted on writing out the retainer cheque there and then. I didn’t protest; things do become more serious when money changes hands. I asked Wesley if he had a photograph. He rummaged in a drawer and came up with a recent snap taken by Mandy. She’d caught her boy standing with his arms in the air and a wide smile on his handsome face. He wore tight shorts and a sleeveless black jersey with a red diagonal stripe on it. I could see four goalposts in the background, two tall, two shorter.
‘Australian football,’ I said.
Wesley shrugged. ‘The game’s a mystery to me but the boy’s good at it. He plays for Campbelltown in the local competition. Centre half-forward, whatever that means. I’ve watched him play. He kicks goals. He’s just kicked one in the picture there. Strange game-they pass forward and back, no offside. Soccer’s my game. You?’
‘Union, used to be. I’ve lost interest lately.’ I wiped my hands on the towel before picking up the cheque and the photo. ‘What other sports does he play?’
‘You name it. He’s off a five handicap at golf, plays basketball for the university
‘I get the idea. I’ll start as soon as I get cleaned up. I’ll put my numbers on the fax. Ring me anytime, especially if you hear from him. I hope you will.’
‘Okay,’ Wesley said, but the gloom was settling back on him.
‘Look, Wes, is there anything you haven’t told me? Any trouble he might have been in?’
He shook his head. ‘That’s part of the problem. I’ve been thinking about that, thinking back. But he never put a foot wrong. No joy-riding, pot-smoking, getting pissed. He doesn’t drink or smoke. There’s nothing, nothing at all.’
I patted him on the shoulder and headed off, but what he’d said worried me. I don’t believe in paragons of virtue.
I drove home, cleaned up, went to the office and sent the fax. I tidied up a few loose ends and set off for Helensburgh. Not being a skier, I don’t think winter shows off any place to advantage, and it’s certainly not the best time to visit Helensburgh. The town, a mining and logging centre that also services some farms and orchards in the area, sits in the hills to the north of the Illawarra escarpment. In fine weather it might look picturesque from certain angles although it’s basically just a well-treed suburb, but as I drove in it seemed to be huddled down under a thin mist as if getting ready to be rained on.
I located Hillcrest Street and drove slowly along it looking for the right number. The street could have crested a hill once, but the spread of houses, a couple of blocks of units, the bitumen, cement kerbing and guttering and lines of lampposts along the major streets had obliterated the original, topography. A few residents had left decent sized gum trees and wattles on their blocks, but most had embraced the shrub, Clinton Scott’s house was a standard post-World War II fibro box with an iron roof, skimpy front porch and small windows. The slight lurch to the left of the whole structure suggested decayed stumps; the broken-down fence and overgrown garden shrieked cheap rent. I parked and walked through a gate wide enough to admit a car. It was held open by a brick. Tyre tracks showed where a car or cars had been parked but there weren’t any in evidence. The front yard was scruffy, although efforts had been made. At a guess, the grass had been cut roughly with a hand mower fairly recently and some of the more aggressive weeds and thistles had been pulled up and put in a heap.