for support. He was unshaven, in a singlet and trousers, barefoot. His eyes were bloodshot and he smelled of liquor and vomit. There were stains on his singlet and pants.
‘Hello, Hardy.’ His voice was slurred and he wasn’t looking at me.
‘Hello yourself.’ I pushed past him and went into the flat. The serviced apartment needed servicing. It was a mess, with clothes, newspapers, bottles and fast food containers spread around. A sheet of paper by the telephone was covered with numbers and scribble. Hampshire stumbled after me.
‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘You’re a bigger mess. What the fuck’s happened to you?’
He slumped into a chair. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ He pronounced it the American way with the accent on the first syllable. ‘I’m out.’
‘No. What’s got you into this state?’
He rubbed his stubble. No natty bow tie now, no spiffy handkerchief. I saw what it was about the hair now; he wore a toupee, a bit bedraggled.
‘You know I said I had investments, interests in things? Well, I’ve been screwed by an accountant and a lawyer. I’m going to have to figure out a way to take legal action against them. I guess I panicked a bit.’ He waved at the mess. ‘But I’ll get it together. Now, have you made any progress?’
‘Why don’t you get cleaned up and tidy this joint a little. Then I’ll feel more confident about talking to you.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I know who I am. I’m not sure who you are or what you’re worth.’
He seemed about to bluster but stopped himself and looked down at the stains on his singlet. ‘You’re right. I have to get a grip. Give me a few minutes.’
He went away and I heard the shower running. I did some of the tidying myself—dumping the food containers in the kitchen bin, emptying the ashtrays, collecting the bottles and making a stack of the newspapers. Several of the papers were open at the business pages, showing the stock market with some stocks underlined. None I’d ever heard of. From the look of the notepad he’d made dozens of phone calls. A lot of the numbers were covered with scribble, some had crosses beside them; a couple had ticks countermanded by crosses.
I was deliberately holding the notepad when he came back. It was a test. He was shaved and his hair was slickedback. He had on a clean shirt and trousers and wore shoes. He didn’t protest about my snooping.
‘Tell me about Justin.’
I brought him up to date on what I’d discovered and each piece of information seemed to hit him like a brick.
‘My grandmother told me my grandfather was killed in France.’
‘You didn’t think to check?’
‘No. I accepted it. I was . . . proud of it. God help me. I only wished it had been at Gallipoli so that—’
‘You could worship all the harder?’
He nodded.
‘What about your father?’
‘My mother said he was killed in New Guinea.’
‘Kokoda?’
‘She wasn’t specific, but that was . . . the impression she gave me.’
‘And you passed it on to Justin.’
He nodded. ‘You say he found out it wasn’t true in either case?’
‘Yes. Bright kid. And your wife spilled the beans on your less than glorious Vietnam record after you shot through.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I suppose you amped that up a bit.’
‘Yes.’
‘One way and another, you helped to produce a very angry, disappointed and disillusioned young man. It’s no wonder he took off.’
He moaned, but whether for himself or Justin it was hard to tell. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. But where did he go? What did he do?’
I opened my hands. ‘That’s why you hired me, but it’s getting complicated and in more ways than you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
I told him about Justin’s apparent association with a man now serving prison time for drug offences. He shook his head as if unable to take the information in.
‘Why would he have anything to do with a drug pusher?’
‘I’m trying to get to see the guy. I
‘Hello, Hardy.’ His voice was slurred and he wasn’t looking at me.
‘Hello yourself.’ I pushed past him and went into the flat. The serviced apartment needed servicing. It was a mess, with clothes, newspapers, bottles and fast food containers spread around. A sheet of paper by the telephone was covered with numbers and scribble. Hampshire stumbled after me.
‘Sorry about the mess.’
‘You’re a bigger mess. What the fuck’s happened to you?’
He slumped into a chair. ‘Have you got a cigarette?’ He pronounced it the American way with the accent on the first syllable. ‘I’m out.’
‘No. What’s got you into this state?’
He rubbed his stubble. No natty bow tie now, no spiffy handkerchief. I saw what it was about the hair now; he wore a toupee, a bit bedraggled.
‘You know I said I had investments, interests in things? Well, I’ve been screwed by an accountant and a lawyer. I’m going to have to figure out a way to take legal action against them. I guess I panicked a bit.’ He waved at the mess. ‘But I’ll get it together. Now, have you made any progress?’
‘Why don’t you get cleaned up and tidy this joint a little. Then I’ll feel more confident about talking to you.’
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
‘I know who I am. I’m not sure who you are or what you’re worth.’
He seemed about to bluster but stopped himself and looked down at the stains on his singlet. ‘You’re right. I have to get a grip. Give me a few minutes.’
He went away and I heard the shower running. I did some of the tidying myself—dumping the food containers in the kitchen bin, emptying the ashtrays, collecting the bottles and making a stack of the newspapers. Several of the papers were open at the business pages, showing the stock market with some stocks underlined. None I’d ever heard of. From the look of the notepad he’d made dozens of phone calls. A lot of the numbers were covered with scribble, some had crosses beside them; a couple had ticks countermanded by crosses.
I was deliberately holding the notepad when he came back. It was a test. He was shaved and his hair was slickedback. He had on a clean shirt and trousers and wore shoes. He didn’t protest about my snooping.
‘Tell me about Justin.’
I brought him up to date on what I’d discovered and each piece of information seemed to hit him like a brick.
‘My grandmother told me my grandfather was killed in France.’
‘You didn’t think to check?’
‘No. I accepted it. I was . . . proud of it. God help me. I only wished it had been at Gallipoli so that—’
‘You could worship all the harder?’
He nodded.
‘What about your father?’
‘My mother said he was killed in New Guinea.’
‘Kokoda?’
‘She wasn’t specific, but that was . . . the impression she gave me.’
‘And you passed it on to Justin.’
He nodded. ‘You say he found out it wasn’t true in either case?’
‘Yes. Bright kid. And your wife spilled the beans on your less than glorious Vietnam record after you shot through.’
‘Jesus.’
‘I suppose you amped that up a bit.’
‘Yes.’
‘One way and another, you helped to produce a very angry, disappointed and disillusioned young man. It’s no wonder he took off.’
He moaned, but whether for himself or Justin it was hard to tell. ‘I’m sorry. I had no idea. But where did he go? What did he do?’
I opened my hands. ‘That’s why you hired me, but it’s getting complicated and in more ways than you know.’
‘What do you mean?’
I told him about Justin’s apparent association with a man now serving prison time for drug offences. He shook his head as if unable to take the information in.
‘Why would he have anything to do with a drug pusher?’
‘I’m trying to get to see the guy. I
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