been heard of since . . .’
Her pain was palpable now but I had to ask one more question. ‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’
‘No, I was ashamed of the mess we were in and it was just a guess. What good could it do?’
I had the feeling that she wanted to say a lot more but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She lowered her dark head, strands of grey showing at the crown, and pointed. ‘Second door on the right is Justin’s room. Take all the time you need. Thank you again, Mr Hardy. I’m going to lie down.’
I didn’t recognise the music coming from behind Sarah’s door and didn’t want to. Justin’s room wasn’t one of those shrines to the departed you hear about. It had been tidied and I had the impression a good deal of the paraphernalia had been removed. It was basically just a bedroom with posters on the walls—standard teenage stuff—and marks where other stuff had been stuck, perhaps too affecting to be allowed to stay.
There wasn’t much in the desk and didn’t look as if there ever had been—no diary, nothing taped to the underside of a drawer, no hollowed-out cavities. A bookshelf held a few textbooks—history, English, human movement, agricultural science—and there was a well overdue school library copy of Serle’s biography of Monash along with paperbacks of Waugh’s
Put Out More Flags
and a couple of Clancys and Forsyths. Oh for the days of blotters with indiscretions scribbled on them and discarded carbon papers. A calendar for the year Justin went missing was taped to the side of the bookcase, effectively hidden from view. The date of his mother’s missing person report was 18 September. The date the HSC exams were to start was circled in red, but further back, on 1 August, was scribbled ‘Ag Sci Ex’.
I took the Serle book down and something fell out from it—a reader’s ticket to the Mitchell Library. I left the room and knocked quietly on the door almost opposite. No response. I knocked louder and the music stopped.
‘What?’
‘I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of your brother. I want to talk to you.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Any message if I run into Ronny?’
‘Tell him to fuck off, too.’ The music kicked in—loud!
I went back to the sunroom, drained my scotch and left my card near the glass. I had to hope Sarah wouldn’t tear it up.
It was raining, making the steps treacherous. I went down gingerly and hurried to the car. A U-turn and I was back heading south, away from the big houses and boats that are no protection against the worst kinds of trouble. A couple of hundred metres along I spotted Ronny. He was hunched up inside his jacket, with one hand in his pocket and the other thumbing for a ride. Seemed to be favouring his right side a little. I drove a short way past, stopped and opened the door. He got in and grunted his thanks before he identified me. By then I’d reached across him to close the door and had the car moving.
‘Take it easy,’ I said, ‘it’s pissing down. You need a lift and I need to talk to you.’
The rain was lashing the windscreen now, the wipers barely coping. He shoved both hands into his pockets and gave me a stare that was supposed to be hard but ended up sullen. ‘Who are you, then? The mother’s new bloke?’
I told him who I was and what I was doing as I drove carefully on the narrow road. His only response was a shrug. On closer inspection, he was a presentable kid—tall, lean and dark, trying for a beard and not quite making it yet. His clothes were the standard uniform but not bargain basement—New Balance high-tops—and he wore an expensive-looking watch. He examined the interior of the old Falcon and was unimpressed.
‘Have you got a smoke?’ he said.
‘You might find some in the glove-box.’
He opened it up and took out a crumpled packet of Marlboros. ‘Three in it.’
‘You can have ’em,’ I said. ‘And the lighter. Someone left them behind.’
He put a
Her pain was palpable now but I had to ask one more question. ‘Did you tell any of this to the police?’
‘No, I was ashamed of the mess we were in and it was just a guess. What good could it do?’
I had the feeling that she wanted to say a lot more but couldn’t bring herself to do it. She lowered her dark head, strands of grey showing at the crown, and pointed. ‘Second door on the right is Justin’s room. Take all the time you need. Thank you again, Mr Hardy. I’m going to lie down.’
I didn’t recognise the music coming from behind Sarah’s door and didn’t want to. Justin’s room wasn’t one of those shrines to the departed you hear about. It had been tidied and I had the impression a good deal of the paraphernalia had been removed. It was basically just a bedroom with posters on the walls—standard teenage stuff—and marks where other stuff had been stuck, perhaps too affecting to be allowed to stay.
There wasn’t much in the desk and didn’t look as if there ever had been—no diary, nothing taped to the underside of a drawer, no hollowed-out cavities. A bookshelf held a few textbooks—history, English, human movement, agricultural science—and there was a well overdue school library copy of Serle’s biography of Monash along with paperbacks of Waugh’s
Put Out More Flags
and a couple of Clancys and Forsyths. Oh for the days of blotters with indiscretions scribbled on them and discarded carbon papers. A calendar for the year Justin went missing was taped to the side of the bookcase, effectively hidden from view. The date of his mother’s missing person report was 18 September. The date the HSC exams were to start was circled in red, but further back, on 1 August, was scribbled ‘Ag Sci Ex’.
I took the Serle book down and something fell out from it—a reader’s ticket to the Mitchell Library. I left the room and knocked quietly on the door almost opposite. No response. I knocked louder and the music stopped.
‘What?’
‘I’m a private investigator looking into the disappearance of your brother. I want to talk to you.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Any message if I run into Ronny?’
‘Tell him to fuck off, too.’ The music kicked in—loud!
I went back to the sunroom, drained my scotch and left my card near the glass. I had to hope Sarah wouldn’t tear it up.
It was raining, making the steps treacherous. I went down gingerly and hurried to the car. A U-turn and I was back heading south, away from the big houses and boats that are no protection against the worst kinds of trouble. A couple of hundred metres along I spotted Ronny. He was hunched up inside his jacket, with one hand in his pocket and the other thumbing for a ride. Seemed to be favouring his right side a little. I drove a short way past, stopped and opened the door. He got in and grunted his thanks before he identified me. By then I’d reached across him to close the door and had the car moving.
‘Take it easy,’ I said, ‘it’s pissing down. You need a lift and I need to talk to you.’
The rain was lashing the windscreen now, the wipers barely coping. He shoved both hands into his pockets and gave me a stare that was supposed to be hard but ended up sullen. ‘Who are you, then? The mother’s new bloke?’
I told him who I was and what I was doing as I drove carefully on the narrow road. His only response was a shrug. On closer inspection, he was a presentable kid—tall, lean and dark, trying for a beard and not quite making it yet. His clothes were the standard uniform but not bargain basement—New Balance high-tops—and he wore an expensive-looking watch. He examined the interior of the old Falcon and was unimpressed.
‘Have you got a smoke?’ he said.
‘You might find some in the glove-box.’
He opened it up and took out a crumpled packet of Marlboros. ‘Three in it.’
‘You can have ’em,’ I said. ‘And the lighter. Someone left them behind.’
He put a
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