Open File

by Unknown

  I made a cup of coffee, read for a bit and then put the book down. Of course I found myself thinking about the case, going over the twists and turns. I wasn’t sure exactly how many missing person cases I’d worked on or what my strike rate was, but I knew it was in positive territory. This had the feel of a hard one—the background, the family circumstances, the deceptions and disappointments provided complex motives for the disappearance and equally complex directions for the detective to follow.

  The welcome morning light started to creep into the room and the feeling I always get in those conditions—a mixture of loneliness and relief at being my own master —left me in a meditative mood. A question that had been wafting around, half-formed, came into focus. Why had Angela Pettigrew married Paul Hampshire? She appeared to have come from a more favourable background, was more physically attractive or interesting, and certainly smarter.

  You could have fitted the whole of Maroubra High—buildings, playground, assembly area, the lot—four or five times into the space occupied by Bryce Grammar. The grass on the playing fields was green; the artificial turf on the tennis courts had that eerie shine; the paths were gravel and there were parking areas for both students and staff. The flowerbeds were out of Home & Garden, and the buildings, though not very old, had already acquired a becoming amount of ivy in all the right places.

  The classroom buildings were at a distance and I could see some blazered students walking around and sitting under shade. There was no one batting, bowling or hitting—it was evidently a serious time of the day on a serious day of the week. I went up some imposing sandstone steps into the carpeted quietness of the administration building and found the office of the registrar. His secretary was a cheerful, plump, middle-aged woman who asked me to wait while she took my note of authority in to the boss. That occupied enough time for me to look around and get some idea of what the registrar actually did to need a secretary and a day and a bit before he could see someone. The photographs of men and women in suits told the story—he lobbied and raised money from old boys and anyone else he could put the touch on.

  The secretary came back minus the letter and ushered me past her cubicle to a door with ‘A R McKenzie-Brown, Registrar’ on a laminated card in a slot. Bit of a worry those slots—a name that can be slotted in can easily be slotted out. To my surprise the occupant opened the door at her knock and thanked her before stepping aside and beckoning me in. A lot of self-important executive types like to be seen working at their desks when you arrive. Looking busy. Not McKenzie-Brown. He was a tall, lean type in his early forties—shirt-sleeves, loosened tie, cigarette in hand. He offered me the other hand.

  ‘Mr Hardy, hello. Come in and have a seat. Belinda’ll have coffee here in a moment whether you want it or not, because I want it.’

  I shook his hand. Was it an act? Hard to tell, but if so it was a good one. Couldn’t help but like him—provisionally. I sat down; he stubbed out the cigarette and shuffled a pile of papers on his desk.

  ‘Belinda will make a copy of the note from Ms Pettigrew—I see she’s reverted to her maiden name—for our records. I’m sure you’ll want the original for yours. Now, I’ve assembled as many reports and assessments and such as I could lay my hands on. They’re pretty uniform actually. Justin was an excellent student and you’ll see the phrase “A pleasure to have in the class” or something like it pretty often. Ah, here’s the coffee. I’ll just get on with a few things while you look this over.’

  Belinda brought in two mugs of coffee, a bowl of sugar and a jug of milk. McKenzie-Brown thanked her and handed her the Pettigrew note. I tasted the coffee—strong and good, didn’t need milk or sugar. McKenzie-Brown took both and stirred vigorously.

  It didn’t take long to get the measure of Justin Hampshire’s performance—he was consistently in the top few in every subject. Particularly good at history and agricultural science, which seemed like an odd combination, but what do I know? He won prizes, played cricket and tennis in the school teams, led the student group on skiing trips. He’d been his class monitor pretty well all the way through and was vice-head prefect in his final year. Interesting, impressive, but not very useful.

  I finished reading and aligned the papers as McKenzie-Brown looked up.

  ‘A terrible loss,’ he said, ‘if that’s what occurred. I mean . . .’

  ‘Yeah. What about school cadets?’

  He offered me his cigarettes and lit one when I refused. ‘No cadet unit. Parents are mostly of the conservative persuasion, of course.’ He smiled, letting me know he wasn’t necessarily of the same mind. ‘But some of the women are forceful on the committee and there are a few . . . liberals. The idea has come up from time to time but it has always been voted down.’

  ‘How do the students feel?’

  ‘A school isn’t a democracy, Mr Hardy, as you no doubt are aware. But I did make a note from one of the school magazines that Justin took the affirmative in a debate on the proposition that there should be a cadet unit. Argued the case strongly, apparently, and his team won.’

  ‘Why did you make a note of it?’

  He leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. ‘I’m no psychologist, no detective. I’m just a chalkie turned administrator more or less against his will, but when I looked through the material you’ve seen, it seemed to me there was something bland and conformist about the boy. As if . . .’

  ‘As if he had no personality of his own?’

  ‘That’s perhaps putting it a bit strongly but, yes. I’ve seen it before in intensely religious types. The strong advocacy for the cadets was the only thing that disturbed the pattern.’

  No fool this bloke. I told him I only had two more requests—to find out something about the agricultural science excursion to Bangara on the South Coast and to get an idea of what Justin borrowed from the school library. I held up the Serle book.

  ‘I’m returning this. It’s well overdue.’

  McKenzie-Brown pushed a button on his intercom. ‘Jack Simmons is the ag sci master and Robin Crawford looks after the library. I’ll get on to them, find you a room of some kind and send them to you.’

  I stood and held out my hand. ‘You’re being very helpful. Thank you.’

  We shook. ‘Not the uptight place you expected, eh? It still is in some areas but not here, not over this. Have you got any children, Mr Hardy?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I have three, two girls and a boy. The thought of one of them just vanishing is too much to bear. I did all I could to help the police, but I must say they didn’t make your sort of requests. They didn’t ask about the cadets, for example. I feel encouraged. I hope you have more success.’

  The librarian was the first to arrive in the room, little more than an alcove, that I had been allotted. He was a bustling, busy type who got straight down to business after I handed him the book.

  ‘Thank you. We knew who had it out of course, but under the circumstances we didn’t pursue it. I understand you want to know about Justin Hampshire’s borrowing habits?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Crawford produced a sheaf of cards from the pocket of his reefer jacket. ‘He used the library a lot and never incurred any late fees. The parents pay those at the end of term. He borrowed the usual run of textbooks, a little fiction of the thriller type, but far and away his greatest interest was military history. I think it’s safe to say he read almost everything the library holds on the subject. That’s not such a lot but it ranges over a fair area.’

  ‘The two world wars, the Boer War, Korea, Vietnam . . . ?’

  ‘Oh yes, and more—Sudan, the Malayan Emergency.’

  ‘Any book in particular, taken out more than once, say?’

  ‘Mmm, yes—Bean’s History, of course, some volumes of the Australian Dictionary of Biography, Clarkson’s World War I in Pictures and something I wasn’t at all familiar with, Australian Monumental Art by Brigadier-General Henry Woodhouse. He had it out several times. I took it down to look
at just before I came. Self-published, presented to the school. I suppose you can guess what it dealt with.’

  ‘War memorials,’ I said.

  Jack Simmons looked the part—tall, faded sandy hair, weather-beaten face. Unlike McKenzie-Brown and Crawford, he was tieless; his grey shirt was crumpled and stained under the armpits. He slumped into the chair and looked tired. McKenzie-Brown had told me there was a miniature farm in a corner of the school grounds, and Simmons looked as if he’d been doing something physical there.

  He glanced at his watch. ‘What?’ he said.

  ‘An excursion to Bangara a couple of years ago. Justin Hampshire was in the party.’

  Simmons straightened a little in the chair. ‘He was, and that was the last I ever saw of him.’

  ‘There was a bit of time left at school before the end of the year.’

  ‘He didn’t turn up for his classes.’

  ‘Was that unusual?’

  ‘For him, very. He was an excellent student. Could have gone close to topping the state in my subject.’

  ‘Did you do anything about it?’

  Simmons shook his head. ‘No. There are a lot of pressing problems at that time of year—kids with real difficulties, anxious parents, school assessments to get ready. I suppose I just thought he’d found a better way to use his time. At HSC level the students have a bit of leeway. I was surprised when his excursion report didn’t come in though. But by then . . .’ He spread his big, freckled hands. ‘He was a missing person.’

  ‘Did the police ask you about him?’

  ‘I didn’t speak to any police. Not then, not since. You’re the first person to question me on the matter and I don’t see—’

  ‘Did you notice any difference in Justin on the way back? How did you travel?’

  ‘In a hired people-mover. Different? I don’t know. He was always quiet . . . Come to think of it now, I remember that he didn’t get out at the rest stops when most of the boys did. Stretch their legs, toss a ball about. I think he’d done that in the past, but this time he just sat and read. As I say, he was a serious lad and the exams were looming. I didn’t think anything of it. Why?’

  Simmons wasn’t exactly friendly or forthcoming but I had no reason to clam up on him. ‘As the registrar must have told you, I’m looking into Justin’s disappearance for his father.’

  ‘Belatedly, on his part.’

  ‘You’re right. But I think I’m picking up a pattern of odd behaviour in the time leading up to when he took off. What you’re saying seems to confirm that.’

  ‘I suppose it does. I don’t mean to sound defensive, Mr . . . ?’

  ‘Cliff Hardy.’

  ‘Mr Hardy, but the pattern you’re talking about doesn’t compare in seriousness to some of the behaviour we see at times of stress—like violence or abusive language. I’ve even seen examples of mild and not so mild self-harm. That’s not for public consumption, by the way.’

  ‘Nothing I do is for public consumption, Mr Simmons. I understand what you’re saying. Did the boys have free time while they were down there? I suppose you were looking at a farm or something.’

  ‘Vineyards, actually. Yes, they had the best part of an hour to look around the town. The idea being to see if the agricultural history was reflected in the architecture. It usually is, in one way or another.’

  ‘I see. I’ve got one more question—is there a war memorial at Bangara?’

  His pale, washed-out eyes opened wide in surprise. ‘I have no idea.’

  I went back to the registrar’s area and Belinda gave me the original of Justin’s mother’s note and a warm smile.

  ‘A terrible thing,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. Did you know him?’

  ‘Of course. I know them all, more or less.’

  ‘One thing puzzles me, Mrs . . . ?’

  The smile again. ‘Belinda.’

  ‘Belinda. I don’t hear any mention of friends. Kids at school, they usually pal up, don’t they? With one or two others? Did Justin?’

  She glanced back at McKenzie-Brown’s door, looking troubled. ‘I’m not sure I should . . .’

  ‘As I said to the teachers, nothing I learn is for public consumption—ever!’

  ‘Justin was what they call a loner, but I did notice that he spent some time with Pierre Fontaine. He was an exchange student from France.’

  ‘Where is he now, d’you know?’

  ‘I don’t know. Please don’t ask me any more questions.’

  Belinda had reached the end of her string of indiscretion. She swivelled around in her chair and began typing as though she had the manuscript of War and Peace to finish before she went home and was only halfway through.

  I left the school with a few things to think about. I didn’t remember seeing the name Pierre Fontaine among those the police had talked to initially. In fact only a couple of students had been interviewed and they were sports team mates, confirming Belinda’s judgement—a loner. I really needed to talk to someone of the relevant generation. I didn’t have high hopes of Ronny. Sarah seemed the most potentially useful but I didn’t have much optimism there either.

  I found a phone and called Angela Pettigrew.

  ‘Have you learned anything?’ were her first words.

  ‘I’m getting a fuller picture. I really need to talk to Sarah.’

  ‘To Sarah? Why?’

  ‘I gave a lift to the youngster who was there with her yesterday.’

  ‘Why on earth did you do that?’

  ‘It was raining. Sorry, what I mean, is I’ll get information any way I can. He told me about something Justin said to Sarah. I’d like to talk to her about it. And there’s another—’

  ‘Wait!’

  I hung on to the phone and heard voices loud and soft, near and far, as well as music. Then Ms Pettigrew came back on the line.

  ‘She’s taken the day off. Not for the first time. She says she’ll talk to you but only in person. Really, I don’t know. Is it so important?’

  ‘It could be.’

  ‘Where are you now?’

  I told her and she said I should come back to the house. That didn’t sound like the best of ideas and I said so. She had the answer.

  ‘The dragon mother will absent herself. She’ll be in the garden. It needs work.’

  A lot of things around that place needed work but the arrangement sounded okay. I stopped at a liquor store and bought a can of draft Guinness. A chop in every glass. A kilometre short of the house I opened the can, carefully let it foam into a paper cup and drank it down. Ah, the gift of we Irish to the human race.

  5

  The rain had gone and the steps up to the house had dried out, but the water had caused crumbling in some places and a few of the bricks looked ready to head south. Angela was facing some serious maintenance problems. She opened the door to me, ushered me in without speaking, knocked on Sarah’s door as we went past and continued through to the sunroom. She was wearing jeans, rubber boots and a faded denim shirt. She picked up a straw hat and a can of insect repellent from a table near the door to the wooden steps leading down to the garden.

  ‘She smokes. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘A lot do. The smart ones stop.’

  ‘We live in hope.’ A quick smile and she was off.

  Sarah came into the sunroom wearing white jeans and a black T-shirt with the face of Cold Chisel’s Jimmy Barnes printed on it. She was barefoot but stood several centimetres taller than her mother. The makeup had gone and her long, fair hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was a good-looking young woman with a generous mouth and big eyes that did not bulge in the slightest.

  I met her in the centre of the room and we shook hands.

  ‘Hello,’ she smiled. ‘I’m sorry about what I said to you the other day. Ronny called and said you’d given him a lift. That was nice of you.’

  ‘It was raining pretty hard and he was sloshing along, but I admit I wanted information from him. That’s what I do. Let
’s sit down, Sarah.’

  She sat across the low coffee table from me and looked like the private schoolgirl she was—straight back, knees together. ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Angela told me you’re trying to find Just.’

  ‘That’s right, working for your father.’

  Her ‘Mmm,’ was sceptical.

  ‘I’ve seen a record of the interview you had with the police back then. You didn’t have much to say.’

  ‘I was a kid, and I didn’t know anything.’

  ‘Well, you might have known more than you thought. Justin said something to you about being a soldier of fortune. Ronny told me that.’

  ‘Jesus, that’s right. But I didn’t remember when I was talking to the policewoman. She wasn’t very smart. I don’t think she knew what she was doing, really.’

  ‘So what can you tell me about that?’

  ‘Hang on.’ She got up, hurried out and came back with a packet of Stuyvesant and a lighter. She offered them, I shook my head and she lit up. It was a bit studied but she was getting the hang of it. She moved the squeaky clean ashtray on the table closer and tapped off the minimal amount of ash produced by one draw, the way they do.

  ‘Just was always on about the army and how the Hampshires had fought in every bloody war under the sun. I used to tease him about it and say how America got beaten in Vietnam and how they burnt villages and raped women and that. It made him angry and that’s what I wanted to do. I loved him, but . . .’ She smoked, tapped ash. ‘You know, brothers and sisters, especially after Dad left and Angela went round the bend. It all got a bit, you know, tense. Anyway, this time I said something like that and he just nodded. Then he swore and reckoned he wanted to do it properly, like a soldier of fortune.’

  ‘Did you know what he meant?’

  ‘Not really. I had some rough idea, from a movie or something. I said what about the army, and he said fuck the army.’