by Peter Corris
I retreated to the front garden in some confusion. It was a little after eight a.m.; the well-heeled residents of this neighbourhood had gone off to work in their BMWs or were hunkered over their computers dealing stocks. I stood beside the carefully tended flower beds wondering what to do next when the front door opened and a woman stepped out onto the verandah.
‘Just what do you think you’re doing prowling around like that?’
She was tall and striking looking, like a ten-years-younger Germaine Greer. Her hair was a deep brown mane falling around her handsome face to her wide shoulders. She wore a loose red blouse of some material that shimmered, wide-legged white beach pants and sandals with medium heels. I took this in as I walked towards the porch, getting my credentials from my pants pocket. It never does to be defensive first off. ‘I rang the bell,’ I said, being economical with the truth, ‘several times.’
‘That doesn’t give you the right to march about my property.’
I was on the steps now and extending the natty leather folder Tess had given me. ‘I’m making enquires about …’
‘You’re not a policeman.’
She was good, very good. No explanation like—I was in the shower or out the back, just straight into the attack.
‘I’m a private detective,’ I said. ‘And you are …?’
‘Not someone likely to have any business with you.’
I stepped up to the porch. In her heels she almost reached my 184 centimetres. She stood still and balanced, unafraid. She was expertly made up and wore a gold chain around her neck, no wedding ring. ‘I’m looking for Ramsay Hewitt.’
‘Look elsewhere. There’s no one of that name here.’
I don’t mind an occasional points loss, but I don’t fancy being KO’d. I moved a bit closer. ‘He wrote a letter giving this as his address.’
I thought I saw a flicker in the dark amber eyes but I might’ve been wrong. She wasn’t on the ropes. ‘Whoever he may be, he must have been mistaken.’
Good jab. She swivelled nicely, stepped back through the doorway and closed the door behind her. She didn’t even slam it. A definite win on points.
My original intention had been to head for the Georges River area after picking up Ramsay Hewitt’s trail in Strathfield but after the encounter with the woman there I changed my mind. Despite myself, I’d got really interested in finding Ramsay. Lachlan University was once a Johnny-come-lately, but since they started turning teachers colleges and colleges of advanced education and technical institutes into universities it had acquired status. And with the unstoppable sprawl of Sydney proceeding apace, North Ryde doesn’t seem so far out.
I parked about a kilometre from where I wanted to be, the way you have to, and followed a confusing set of signs to the administration block. When I first went out to Lachlan, twenty years ago, it looked more like a construction site than a seat of learning. The raw concrete block buildings sat in the muddy paddocks like alien structures built on another planet and dropped there. Now, time and expert gardening had softened the harsh outlines and blended the buildings into what had become a friendly landscape.
I presented myself at the Student Records counter and told a bored-looking clerk that I wanted information about a student. The clerk was pale, prematurely balding and smelled of clove cigarettes.
‘Name?’
I gave it.
‘Number?’
I recited it.
His fingers, with the nails bitten down, danced over the keys. ‘What information?’
‘Current address.’
His smirk was almost a laugh. ‘No way.’
I showed him my licence folder. ‘I’m a private detective working for his sister. He’s missing and she’s worried.’
‘Name?’
‘I already told you.’
He sighed, making me want to reach over and detach a few of his teeth. ‘Her name.’
‘Tess … Teresa Hewitt.’
Keys clicked. ‘OK. She paid his fees first time round, right? Lucky guy.’
‘What d’you mean, first time round?’
‘Are you really a private eye?’
I wanted to say, Do you really work in university administration? but I held back and just nodded.
He read from the screen, at a guess the only kind of reading he ever did, ‘Ramsay Hewitt withdrew from Ag Sci and is now enrolled in the Law School.’
‘Who paid his fees?’
My footwork was a bit too fast for him, ‘He did,’ he said, and instantly regretted it.
4
I wandered over to the Law School and tried my story, my credentials and charm on the faculty secretary. Sceptical must’ve been her middle name.
‘I can give you no information whatever, Mr … Hardy.’
‘Not even what courses he’s doing and the names of a couple of his teachers?’
‘Absolutely not.’
She wore one of those blouses with a sort of fake tie at the neck and you can’t expect much of someone who dresses like that. ‘What would I need to do to get that sort of information?’
She sat behind her big, busy desk, tapped a pen on the surface and seemed to be trying to will the phone to ring. ‘I can’t imagine.’
‘I guess I’ll just have to hack into your records.’
She looked at me through her modish glasses, moving her head just enough to eye me up and down. She took in my slightly greying hair, broken nose but mended teeth, faded denim shirt, drill trousers and scuffed shoes. I didn’t look like a computer whiz and she knew it. ‘You could try. Our records are very secure and are equipped with a program that identifies anyone trying to access them illegitimately. That, as perhaps you know, is a criminal offence.’
‘I’m glad to hear you’re so well up on it. If he turns up dead today it’ll be a comfort to know that his records were secure.’
She permitted herself a small, thin-lipped smile. ‘As I saw Mr Hewitt about an hour ago I think that’s unlikely.’
‘You saw him? Where?’
She shook her head and the phone rang as if on cue. She picked it up and began making notes. It wasn’t my day for succeeding with mature women—another loss on points.
I left the office and walked around the four levels that comprised the Law School without much hope of spotting my man. The students for the most part were neatly dressed in clean pressed clothes, some with jackets and even a few with ties. That was the men; the women’s tailoring was even smarter. Going up! their clothes said. The Ramsay I knew would stand out in this crowd like a taxi driver in a tuxedo. When I’d last seen him a year or so back he’d had stringy, shoulder-length hair, a scruffy beard and wore jeans, T-shirts and bomber jackets, none of them clean. But this Ramsay, the one who had some connection with an up-market house in Strathfield and paid his own way might look very different. In that case I might not recognise him.
My two goes at trying to locate Tess’s brother had struck dead ends, but interesting ones. I felt sure the woman at Strathfield had lied to me. The Law School secretary hadn’t, but why would she be able to identify Ramsay Hewitt, who was just a first-year student, among hundreds of others? It could be that his change of enrolment had drawn attention to him, but I fancy I heard a note of special interest in her voice. At least I’d be able to tell Tess he was alive and well as of a few hours ago, but I was intrigued and wanted to know more.
Still, it needed thought. I knew that my solicitor, Viv Garner, had some connection with the Lachlan Law School and that might be an avenue of approach. For the moment it was no panic and mark time.
Advocates say that golf courses act as the lungs of a city, so Sydney must have a pretty fair breathing capacity, because I read somewhere that it has about a hundred of them. Against the benefits of golf courses has to be put their interference with natural watercourses and the chemicals the ground staff have to use to keep them in good nick.
Environmentally, it’s probably line ball, but they give a lot of people a lot of ple
asure so I guess I’m for them. I’ve never been tempted to play golf though. It looks as if you’d have to play often and practise a lot to be any good. I don’t have the time, and I’m too competitive by nature to want to play a game poorly.
The Milperra course was spread over some flattish land not far from the Bankstown airport. With the requisite trees and water and sparkling pale brick clubhouse, it was easy on the eye in a damaged landscape. At a guess, the planes didn’t bother the players. They probably inspired dreams in the young hot-shots of jetting off to play on the US tour and reminded the old timers of packaged golf trips to the Gold Coast without their wives.
I drove through the imposing gateway—lots of black wrought-iron set in crazy stone pillars—and up the immaculate tarmac to a parking area that had shade for the spots set aside for everyone from the President down through the Captain and Committee members to the bar staff, but was a hotplate for everyone else. There weren’t many cars around so I risked parking in the space reserved for the Secretary. If he or she wasn’t there by mid-morning, chances were he or she wasn’t coming. Where do you look for the assistant professional on a quiet day?
‘He’s hitting balls over on the fifteenth,’ said the pudgy man behind the counter in a room that seemed to contain all the golf gear the world would need for the next ten years. As I thought, a game that requires practice, even when you’re good.
‘You want a lesson? I’m the pro here. I’ll give you a lesson. Low handicapper are you?’
He looked as if he’d have trouble getting his stomach out of the way of the club as it came down.
‘No, thanks. I don’t play. Personal business.’
He looked suspicious. ‘He’s already got a sponsor.’
‘Can’t have too many.’
I took a card with a map of the course on the back and set off to find the fifteenth tee, hoping I’d got the lingo right. The day had heated up and I wished I’d bought one of those natty peaked caps they had for sale in the pro shop. I could’ve put it on Marty Price’s bill as a legitimate expense.
The card told me that the fifteenth hole was a 320 par four that ran straight for about two-thirds of its length and then bent sharply to the left. I kept under the trees as much as I could and out of the way of the few players on the course. But the fifteenth tee was unshaded and the tall young man standing on it as I approached cast a long shadow under the high bright sun. I stood under a tree ten metres away and watched him hit a few balls. I know nothing about the game but he seemed to know what he was doing. He took the club back a long way each time, made a clicking connection and finished the way you see them do on TV with weight on the front foot and the back foot toe down.
The only trouble was that all the balls hit the tops of the high trees on the right. Not one landed on the short grass that stretched out in front of him. He shook his head, walked to his cart parked beside the tee and grabbed a water bottle.
I stepped up and pointed. ‘Why don’t you hit them straight down there?’
Jason Jorgensen was a couple of centimetres taller than me and I’d have had ten kilos on him easy. Blue polo shirt, baggy shorts. He was one of those bony Scandinavians—bony of head and body. He’d filled out a bit since the photograph I’d seen was taken, but not much. He swigged twice, screwed the cap back on the bottle and thumped his club on the grass. For a moment I thought he’d reply rudely out of frustration, but good manners or a fear that I might be someone in authority held him back. He managed a tight, big-toothed smile. ‘I’m trying to cut off the dog leg with a high draw. If I could get it right I’d be on in one.’
Gibberish to me but I nodded. ‘You shouldn’t say if, you should say when.’
‘You’re right. Thanks. Well, I’d better get on with it.’
I produced my folder and snapped it at him. ‘I want a word with you, Jason. I’m working for Martin Price.’
His attitude and body language suddenly changed and the grip he took on his golf club didn’t have anything to do with hitting balls. ‘Working? Doing what?’
‘Trying to help him keep his daughter out of prison for one thing.’
He was very fair-skinned and the hair sticking out under his cap was white-blond. He was a bit sunburnt from his time on the tee, but the flush on his face wasn’t only due to sun. He swung the club a little and out of some kind of instinct I bent down and picked up one of the balls he’d spilled onto the grass.
‘I’ve got nothing to say to you. Piss off!’ he said.
Not the well-mannered lad now. He advanced a pace and lifted the club. A golf club, swung or thrown with intent, is a very dangerous implement. I stood my ground and watched him carefully. ‘You’re going to talk to me, son. And the way you’re acting makes it all the more likely. Put the club down.’
‘Fuck you!’ He jumped at me, jabbing with the club. I hadn’t expected that but it was a bad move. I grabbed the end and pulled but he was stronger than I expected and jerked it free. It was going to be a swing this time. I ducked under it and threw the ball hard underarm. It took him in the crotch and he yelled, dropped the club and sagged to his knees, covering himself with both hands.
I picked up the golf club and hauled him to his feet. ‘It helps to move around. Let’s get that water bottle and move into the shade.’
I guided him to the cart and fished out the bottle. He was ashen and had bitten his lip or his tongue so that blood ran down his chin. He took a drink and did some groaning. I saw some players moving towards the tee so I eased him into the seat of his cart, collected up his bag and the remaining balls and got in beside him. I’d never driven a golf cart but it wasn’t hard to master. I guided it across to a stand of trees. Beating up on people, that’s your profession, Cyn my ex-wife had said and right then, feeling responsible for causing a teenager to dribble blood and hold his privates, it felt as if she’d been right.
He wiped the blood off his chin and took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I still can’t talk to you.’
‘Can’t talk is it now? That’s a bit different.’
‘It comes to the same thing.’
‘You talked to Martin Price.’
He took another swig and some colour returned to his face. ‘I shouldn’t have. He should forget what I said.’
‘I’m getting a feeling here that you’d say more if you could. What’s stopping you?’
‘I’ve been threatened.’
‘Who by?’
He shook his head. ‘Look, even talking to you could cause a lot of shit. I suppose you asked Reg where I was.’
‘The guy in the pro shop? Sure.’
He took off his cap and scratched at the thick pale hair. ‘Jesus. She … they told me that if I talked to anyone about it they’d tell Reg I was on drugs and he’d get rid of me. He’s prick enough to do it. I need this job and you’ve gone and screwed it up for me.’
‘Much money in it?’
‘Ratshit, but it’s a foot in the door.’
‘Don’t worry. I gave him the impression I was a sports rep interested in you. I could go back and give it a tweak if you like.’
‘You’d do that?’
‘Why not? All I want to do is find out who’s supplying the drugs to Danni Price and to cause them a lot of grief. Nobody else.’
‘I still can’t help you.’
Well, what was I going to do, knock out a few of those big, white teeth? I took out a card and stuck it in the pocket of his shirt. ‘I think you’re in trouble, Jason. You might need help because some shit’s going to fly whether you tell me things or not. And I recommend ice cubes for your knackers.’
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean …’
‘You don’t have to mean it to do it. You’ve got things on your mind, son. That’s probably why you can’t hit the … whatever you call it.’
‘High draw.’
‘Right.’ I got out of the cart. ‘I’ll square it with the pro.’
‘Thanks.’ He fished out the card. ‘Mr Hardy.’
/> ‘Think about it.’
I walked away leaving him staring straight ahead. He was a hard kid to read. Not too bright perhaps, or a good actor. Maybe I’d planted a seed, it was difficult to tell. His slip of the tongue had told me something. She had threatened him; then it was they. Who was she?
Things had picked up in the pro shop by the time I returned, with a couple of groups waiting to pay their money. I fiddled around looking at the equipment and the prices and was confirmed in my feeling that this game wasn’t for me. You only need one implement to play tennis. When the shop was empty I approached the man I was now thinking of as Fat Reg.
‘You see him?’ he said.
‘Yeah. Nice kid. Good swing.’
‘Sometimes, maybe. What firm did you say you were from?’
‘I didn’t say, but you’ll have heard of us. Could you point out Jason’s car?’
‘Why?’
I shrugged. ‘Just interested. You can tell a lot about a man from the car he drives, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Never thought about it. What d’you drive?’
‘A Falcon.’
If he’d known my Falcon was ten years old with a developing rust problem and a suspect second gear he might’ve had doubts about my bona fides, but he seemed pleased to got some definite information from me and pointed out the window. ‘That’s his car, the red Pajero.’
