Win, Lose or Draw

by Peter Corris

  I worked through the newspaper coverage and saw the story slowly diminish in importance as other triumphs and tragedies appeared—flaring up as a reporter took an interest, dying away, being revived again to mark six months and a year after the disappearance, and finally stopping altogether.

  David Cork, a reporter for the online news survey The Dark Side, appeared to have stayed with the story the longest. I checked with the list and his name and mobile number were there. I flicked through the previous investigators’ reports and saw that, with one exception, they were useful only in identifying people worth talking to, backgrounding Fonteyn, his son and second wife and the servants but not coming up with anything that cast any light on what happened in broad daylight on that December day. The exception was an investigator’s interview with Juliana’s brother, Foster. His attitude was described as ‘uncooperative and abusive’.

  The names of teachers, friends, a tennis coach and a maths and physics tutor were listed. Juliana got high marks in all subjects except maths and physics, for which she expressed an extreme distaste. I’m with her. I assumed all these people had been interviewed by the police and that contact was my obvious starting point.

  Detective Superintendent Rupert Seymour, head of the Missing Persons Division of the police service, was in charge of the case—a measure of the weight Fonteyn could swing. I didn’t know him but I had a card to play—Frank Parker, a former Deputy Commissioner, stood high in the esteem of the service and was an old friend of mine. Our friendship, bruised and battered by my indiscretions, was still intact, if slightly more distant than it had once been. I was confident Frank could get me access to Seymour.

  It took the best part of two days and several phone calls to set that meeting up. I spent the time working through the file and watching the television reports. I also did some research of my own on Fonteyn. He was English of French Huguenot extraction and had met an Australian student when they were both doing degrees in chemistry at Cambridge. He married her, came to Australia and devised a skin cream that took the cosmetics world by storm.

  Fonteyn had translated that success into an interlocking empire, as I knew from the press coverage at the time of his daughter’s disappearance. My probing revealed that he had topped up his first-class bachelor’s degree with a PhD earned inside two years while simultaneously earning an MBA. He’d rowed for Cambridge and had successfully participated in a mass swim of the English Channel. His then wife, also holding a first-class degree, had been the model for early promotions of his skin cream. Even on the dusty screen of my Mac her image glowed.

  I turned up to the Darlinghurst police headquarters on time, respectably dressed and prepared to be deferential to the big brass. There was no need, as I had just a few minutes with Seymour. He explained that he’d only been nominally in charge of the investigation to placate Fonteyn and that Detective Inspector Tom Cartwright had done the heavy lifting.

  Seymour introduced me to Cartwright and we went from a large, well-appointed office to a smaller, plainer one. Cartwright was in his late forties, tall and spare with a dry, humourless manner. After a short, mock fossick, he produced a file, not as thick as the one I had from Fonteyn, from a drawer, put it on the table in front of him and brought his fist down on it quite hard. Obviously I was not going to see inside it. He’d been briefed on what I wanted.

  ‘You’re wasting your time, Hardy,’ he said.

  ‘Oh? Why d’you say that, Inspector?’

  ‘The father did it.’

  3

  ‘It’s obvious,’ Cartwright said. ‘The man was obsessed with her, worshipped her. He thought she was the reincarnation of his first wife.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  He deliberated whether to answer but eventually did. ‘From the son.’

  ‘Is he a reliable source?’

  ‘And the stepmother.’

  ‘Same question.’

  ‘We got a psychologist in.’

  I’d seen a couple of doctors’ names on Fonteyn’s list. I wondered whether one of them was the psychologist and that made me wonder how much of the police investigation had been made available to Fonteyn or the earlier investigators. I asked Cartwright whether he’d cooperated with them.

  ‘Minimally,’ he said. ‘You seem to be a special case, having Frank Parker’s support, but I can still use my discretion about what I tell you.’

  ‘Fair enough. Just a few questions then. Wasn’t Fonteyn at work all day?’

  Again he paused to consider. ‘He can come and go from his office whenever he likes without anyone necessarily seeing him. His secretary was off sick. He could answer the phone or not as he pleased. There was no one to keep tabs on him for most of the day. Besides …’

  ‘Besides what?’

  Cartwright seemed keen to convince me that I should go away and not bother him. ‘It’s not entirely clear when the kid was last seen. The servants didn’t clock in until mid-morning. The wife had been out late the night before and slept in. So, apart from the father, who said he’d seen her at breakfast, there was no verifiable sighting of her from the evening before when, again according to the father, she went to bed early.’

  ‘This expression “veg out” she’s said to have used. Who supplied that?’

  ‘The father again, allegedly quoting her.’

  ‘What about the son?’

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘When did he last see his sister?’

  He consulted the file. ‘The night before, like the father. The son took off at sparrow-fart the next day. Has his own car.’

  ‘She didn’t phone or text or whatever else they do?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  He shrugged. ‘Apparently not. She wasn’t a great one for the … social media. She read a lot, especially in the holidays, and was serious about her sports She valued her sleep. I wish I could say the same of my kids.’

  ‘What d’you think happened?’

  ‘I don’t like to think.’

  From the way he spoke I could tell that he’d taken the matter seriously; he’d worked at it and it had worked on him.

  ‘You’ve wrapped it up in your own mind, Inspector. You must have a theory.’

  He sighed and leaned back in his chair, bringing his hands to his head to stroke his thinning hair as if he knew the case had eroded and reduced him. ‘Fonteyn has a boat. He’s a strong, fit guy and there’s a very, very big stretch of water right on his doorstep.’

  I absorbed this. ‘What were your impressions of Fonteyn?’

  ‘I only met him once, briefly.’

  I stared at him. ‘But you were the investigator. You must have reported to him on progress, or lack of it, got the list of names and so on.’

  ‘I got the names but I didn’t report to him. I reported to the Super, who reported to Fonteyn.’

  He spoke with some heat. Clearly he’d resented the kid-glove treatment Fonteyn had received.

  ‘Did he do a lie-detector test?’

  ‘He passed it. The guy’s a near genius, I’m told. People like that can beat the polygraph.’

  I nodded. ‘But you met the stepmother?’

  ‘Again, briefly. That was pretty hands-off as well.’

  ‘But your impression?’

  His thin mouth turned down at the corners. ‘Icy, top-drawer type. No time for the girl or her brother. Riding the gravy train.’

  ‘So you think Juliana’s dead?’

  ‘I do. I’m sorry, sounds like she was a good kid for someone born with the silver spoon, but that’s what I think.’

  ‘And you don’t believe we’ll ever know for sure who did it?’

  ‘Not unless she pops up, trussed with Fonteyn’s old school tie.’

  ‘The heat’s off. If he did it why would he hire me at this late stage?’

  He went to the file again and flicked through several documents until he found the one he wanted. He did it impatiently, weary of being question
ed. I’d got everything I’d get from him. ‘Talk to the psychologist, this Dr Anna Rosen. She’ll fill you in.’

  He read off a mobile number and slammed the file shut. I thanked him and left. We didn’t shake hands.

  I was intrigued but not convinced by Cartwright’s certainty. It could’ve been based on frustration at not making progress with the case, or resentment at the subsidiary role he’d been forced to play. It certainly wasn’t based on an assessment of Fonteyn. From the sound of things, he’d not spent much more time with him than I had. I needed more information to get my bearings in the case and there were choices to be made about where to find it.

  When in doubt, have a drink. I’d caught a bus that had dropped me a longish walk from the Darlinghurst HQ because I needed the exercise and parking around there is impossible. I wandered back to Crown Street and found a wine bar that provided sandwiches and light meals. I ordered a BLT and a glass of red and sat looking out at the passing parade—the suits, male and female; the youngsters, pale and dark, some tattooed and pierced, others more conformist; the old, discernibly slower than the young but many looking happier.

  ‘Hello, Cliff. What are you doing in these parts? Reminiscing?’

  Ruby Thompson lowered her ample backside onto a chair at my table. Ruby was the madam of a Kings Cross brothel whom I’d had hands-off dealings with back when I had my office in St Peters Lane. Ruby was a fund of knowledge about the working girls and in those days, when I was dealing with the ‘faces’ of the area, she was very useful. I never allowed her information to get back to the street and once or twice I did her favours and we became friends.

  ‘No, Ruby. I’ve just come from visiting the cop shop. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Got a drop coming, thanks anyway. How’s things?’

  ‘Tight, as the actress …’

  ‘Don’t. It’s not funny at my age. I heard you’ve got a couple of grandkids.’

  ‘Now how would you know that?’

  ‘Never mind. Boys or girls? How old?’

  ‘Boys, ah, eight, I think, and about three and a bit, roughly.’

  ‘Typical. I’ve got a couple as well. One of them wants to be a doctor, would you believe. Jesus, what I’ve seen of doctors …’

  ‘What you’ve paid them.’

  ‘Yes, well anyway, this one’s got his heart set on being a doctor but he’s weak at maths. That’s what brings me here … oh, thanks, love.’

  A small carafe of white wine and a modest sandwich had arrived. Ruby, a bit over-dressed as always, shook off the silk scarf she’d been wearing over a silk dress with ruffles and shimmering gold flecks, and watched me as I poured her wine.

  ‘Ever the fucking gentleman,’ she said, ‘but never the …’

  ‘Let it go, Rube. We had this out long ago.’

  Ruby swallowed most of the wine and I topped up the glass. She took a bite of her sandwich.

  ‘Yeah, yeah, well I have to hire the kid a maths tutor from the coaching joint in Riley Street. Not cheap, I can tell you.’

  I raised my glass to her.

  ‘Ruby, darling, he’s lucky to have a granny like you.’

  ‘Right. And just think how useful it’ll be to have a bloody doctor in the family.’

  Just a chance remark but, after Ruby made short work of the meal, I reflected that a tutor would be one-on-one with a pupil for at least an hour at least once a week, maybe more. And possibly for a fairly long period, if the need was great. Money wouldn’t have been a problem. Who better to know things other people might not know?

  Fonteyn’s list showed that Juliana’s tutor was Ambrose Hastings. A landline and a mobile number were given for him. I checked the white pages and found he lived in Bondi. I couldn’t see Juliana riding her bike from Vaucluse to Bondi so Hastings must have done his tutoring at the house. Even better; that would give him access to the brother, stepmother and the servants and, possibly, the girl’s room. Then again they might have done their work by the pool or in the games room or the gym, which I was sure would be in the house somewhere. I imagined a billiards table, card-playing set-up, a dartboard, a rower and other exercise machines—things we all need.

  It was 3.00 pm on a Friday. What does a maths tutor do on Friday arvo? I had no idea. I rang the mobile.

  ‘Hastings.’

  ‘Mr Hastings, my name’s Hardy. I’m a private investigator hired by Gerard Fonteyn to look into the disappearance of his daughter. You could call him to …’

  ‘No need, I’ve been through this before. You want to talk to me, I suppose.’

  ‘I do, if you could tell me where and when.’

  ‘Well … I must say that’s better than some of the summonses I’ve had. I’m at home in … Bondi after a rather hard week. You could come here and I could give you some time, I suppose.’

  He gave me the address I already had—a flat in a street a few blocks from Campbell Parade—and I said I’d be there within the hour. Easy. Too easy? There was something about the contact that irked me. Was it the voice? Rounded vowels, private school, or the manner—a been-there-done-that world-weary tone. I puzzled about it on the drive and located my concern just as I bluffed someone out of a parking space near the flat. I’d posed as a stagehand when I’d investigated a theft within a theatre company and I’d worked on films as a bodyguard and armourer. Ambrose Hastings might have been a maths tutor, but the pauses, the amplitude, the emphases, marked him as an actor. When they do it on stage or for the cameras for long enough it rubs off on them.

  Nothing is cheap in Bondi these days, but Hastings’s block of flats would have to qualify as very downmarket. A small building housing only four flats, it was poorly maintained with the brickwork acned by the salt air and the paint peeling on the wood around the windows. Cement everywhere and the worst feature of all in that area—no parking spaces for the residents. If Hastings had given up acting, notoriously hard to make a living at, he wasn’t doing much better as a tutor.

  Basic intercom security. I buzzed number four and heard the trained voice again.

  ‘Hardy?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Come up.’

  The door release clicked. I went up a flight of concrete steps to the level above and knocked on number four. It opened. The man in the doorway was medium-sized, say 180 centimetres give or take; his dark hair had a pronounced widow’s peak and he sported a close-cropped goatee. He wore a short-sleeved white shirt outside loose grey trousers, sandals. He ushered me in and we shook hands.

  ‘Bloody hot box, this beastly flat,’ he said. ‘Come and sit by the fan. There’s also a bit of a view, which is the place’s only attribute.’

  We went down a short passage into a small living room where a couple of armchairs were drawn up near a coffee table under a decent-sized window. The view was over low-rise buildings to the water with just a glimpse of the rocks to the north. A fan was whirring overhead.

  Hastings pointed to a chair. ‘That’s the least uncomfortable. Would you prefer white wine or beer? I’ve nothing harder.’

  He made it sound like a line from a play where one character is feeling out the possible weakness of another. Two can play at that game.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, ‘whatever you’re having.’

  ‘Right, let’s be chummy.’

  I looked around the room. The other furniture consisted of a dining table with four chairs, a low bookcase and a cabinet holding a TV and DVD player, all shabby like the carpet. The cream-painted walls had faded to a dingy off-white and the only feature of the room that appeared to be well-tended was the scrupulously clean window. Hastings clearly preferred looking out to looking in. There was one muddy painting on a wall well away from the window. I sat down.

  Hastings returned with a bottle of Jacob’s Creek riesling in an ice bucket. And two glasses.

  ‘Stuff heats up fast in here; doesn’t matter so much with good wine but it’s death to the cheaper stuff. Ever notice that?’

  ‘I don’t drink en
ough good wine to know the difference.’

  His laugh surprised me; it was genuine, not stagey. ‘Neither do I these days.’

  He poured the glasses two-thirds full and nestled the bottle back in the ice.

  ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘And what can I do for you?’

  I gave it to him straight, saying that I was still undecided about accepting the case and looking for anything to refute the police view.

  ‘Which is what?’ Hastings said with raised eyebrows.

  I had no compunction in telling him what Cartwright had concluded and giving my opinion that it had affected the investigation by others.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ Hastings said, ‘but hardly surprising. The cop I spoke to couldn’t conceal his envy of Fonteyn and his consequent dislike of him. Sheer prejudice. I hope you don’t share it. Fonteyn is a brilliant man who made the most of his talent. I suppose he had some luck, which is a random thing. Some have it, some don’t.’

  He was clearly talking about himself and I let him talk as we worked our way through the wine. He said that Juliana had no flair for maths or physics but enough native intelligence to be able to reach what he called a competence.

  ‘She was a charming girl, very natural and unassuming despite her talents being in other directions and her manifest advantages. She treated me with respect, as did her father.’

  ‘What about the stepmother?’

  He shook his head. ‘I never laid eyes on her. I gather she led a very active social life.’

  ‘Did you notice any change in Juliana’s behaviour in the time leading up to her disappearance? Her father said she became moody and bad-tempered.’

  He thought for a moment. ‘No, I can’t say I did. But—teenagers! They can be absolute hell-hounds at home and nice as pie when they’re out.’

  He’d had three glasses to my one and a bit and it was having an effect. He frowned, fidgeted and stared out the window.

  ‘Mr Hastings,’ I said. ‘You must’ve spent quite a bit of time with Juliana and at the house. With all the publicity you must have thought about it. Do you have a theory about what happened to her?’