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I was a bit tired after the drive so I sat on a bench in the park under the shade of a tree I couldn’t identify and thought about this discovery, or non-discovery. The boy
had been brought up to venerate a fallen hero antecedent and found he’d been sold a lie. Given what I’d learned about how locked in to the military traditions he’d been, I could imagine the impact on him. But why didn’t he say anything about it to anyone—his sister, his mother, his absent father? Shame perhaps, or anger?

The wind gusted and leaves gathered around my feet and at the base of the arch. The sky clouded over. I wondered whether Justin had sat here before rejoining his party and remaining strangely silent on the return trip, so that even Simmons, not the most sensitive observer, had noticed it.

Bangara had the best south coast features—an estuary formed by Wilson’s Creek, a back beach and a surf beach. The town swells in the holiday period and settles back into sleepiness for the rest of the year. Keen surfers come for the waves at off-season times and there is a certain amount of game fishing for those who can’t afford the prices further south at Bermagui, where Zane Grey fished in the 30s and Lee Marvin did more recently. I cherished the memory of a photo of Marvin, with his trademark grin, carrying a crate of Great Western champagne down to the boat. The only way to fish.

I strolled along the foreshore and one look cured me of a wish to surf. Under the onshore wind the waves were rolling in as if they intended to build one upon another, collapse and wipe out the beach. Of course they didn’t, but they’d throw a bodysurfer around like a cork and there was no fun in that. A swim from the sandy banks of Wilson’s Creek looked like the best bet. The surf club building was
the usual sturdy bricks and mortar, glass and aluminium structure with cement surrounds. I had Paul Hampshire’s photograph of his missing son in my shirt pocket and thought I’d try it on the surfing community. A way to check whether Justin had returned to the scene of his epiphany—a long shot.

Half a dozen people were hanging around the club, four men and two women. They were waxing down boards, smoking, chatting and looking disgruntled at the state of the water. I approached with the photograph and my credentials. Surfers who can’t surf get bored easily and my arrival at least provided them with some interest. They were in their twenties, with one of the women, wearing a lifesaver’s cap and badge on her swimsuit, looking slightly older than the rest. I sympathised about the waves and told them my business, showing the photograph.

‘Surfer, was he?’ one of the men asked.

‘Yeah, good one apparently.’

‘Haven’t seen him around here.’

The others looked at the photograph and shook their heads.

‘Wouldn’t mind, though,’ one of the women said.

The older one, the lifesaver, called her a slut in a good-natured way. The first man I’d dealt with seemed reluctant to leave it at that and asked for the name. I told him and one of the others spoke up.

‘There’s a few of them in the graveyard. I do some gardening up there part-time and I’ve seen the headstones. Don’t know of any around by that name now, but.’

I asked for directions to the graveyard and was told it was across from the park. Perhaps Justin had spent a little more time looking around after all. I thanked them and
drove about until I found the entrance. The graveyard was shielded by a long stand of tall trees that were now casting deep shadows across the headstones. A sign said it closed at sunset. I had about an hour.

Country graveyards tend to be overgrown, but this one was reasonably well cared for, with the grass kept under control and the iron railings showing signs of maintenance. Like the memorial arch, the place was partially protected from the salt-laden winds, but time had taken its toll of the inscriptions. Wandering in graveyards isn’t my favourite occupation but it has a certain interest. Poignant messages catch your eye, with lives tragically abbreviated by disease and drowning, intermingled with encouragingly long ones. As always, the women lived longer than the men.

I found several Hampshires, husbands and wives and children, but they all dated back to the nineteenth century or the early twentieth at the latest. I took a few photographs for no good reason other than to show Paul Hampshire I’d been on the job. He just might be interested, although it was the absence of an inscription on the memorial that should really interest him.

A longish day, kilometres covered and things learned. Call it satisfactory. I went back to the motel, showered and walked into the township to find somewhere to eat. Choices were few, and a bistro attached to the pub seemed the best bet. I ordered a steak and salad, bought a small carafe of red and settled down in a sheltered part of the beer garden to get mellow. The first glass went down slowly and well and I poured another.

‘Hello.’

I looked up from the pouring to see the woman from the surf club—the slightly older lifesaver. She was carrying a tray with my steak, a napkin, cutlery and salt and pepper shakers on it. I half rose, the way you do, and helped her lay out the fixings.

‘You’re supposed to get the cutlery and the napkin yourself but I made an exception in your case.’

I raised my glass. ‘Thanks. Why?’

‘I’m a Hampshire,’ she said, ‘but I’m from a bit of the family that changed its name quite a while back. We’re Petersens now—that’s with three e’s—but my great-grandad was a Hampshire.’

‘My name’s Cliff Hardy. I’d like to talk to you. You are . . . ?’

She pointed to my plate. ‘Better eat while it’s hot. I’m Kathy Petersen. Gotta get back to work.’

‘When you finish?’

‘Sure, why not. Kitchen closes at nine thirty.’

She walked off with her tray. She was tall and lean, sharp-featured, with a confident style. She wore loose trousers and sneakers and a knee-length blue smock with white piping. Her dark hair was cut short. Studs in both ears; no rings.

The steak was fair, the chips good and the salad very good—gave it seven out of ten overall. It was just after eight o’clock so I had time to kill. I ate slowly and went very quietly with the wine. I knew I was no oil painting, with grey creeping into my hair, an obviously broken nose and faint scar tissue over the eyebrows from my boxing days. I hadn’t shaved since early morning and the stubble wasn’t the careful designer kind, it was just stubble. But she’d seemed interested.

As I’d hoped she would, she came back to collect plates from the few other diners and got to me last.

‘How was it?’

‘Pretty good.’

‘The pub stays open till eleven. I’ll meet you in the lounge bar.’

‘Right. What do you drink, Kathy?’

She laughed. ‘Guess.’

‘Brandy and coke.’

‘Not bad. Brandy and dry.’

I had her drink ready, and a scotch and soda for me, when she arrived. She’d changed into low heels and wore a red blouse that suited her colouring.

‘Well, a detective, eh? Thanks for the drink, I need it after a shift, even though we’re not busy.’

We lifted our glasses. ‘So you save lives and serve food. Pretty useful.’

She laughed. ‘And do relief teaching.’

‘Also useful.’

‘And you find missing people.’

‘Sometimes. Having trouble with this one because it’s a couple of years old.’

Without going into too much detail, I told her a bit about the Hampshire case and its difficulties. She listened as she drank, not quickly, not slowly.

‘You’ll find a couple of Petersens on that arch from World War II and Korea,’ she said. ‘Great-uncles of mine and a cousin, I think.’

‘Do you know why your family name was changed? Or who did it?’

‘I knew you were going to ask that. Afraid I don’t. It was a few generations ago, as I said. Some sort of family scandal,
I seem to remember, but I don’t have the details.’

‘Around the time of the First World War, was it? I’ll get us another drink while you think about it.’

When I got back with the drinks she shook her head. ‘Sorry, not a clue. But I could ask my granny. She’s still got her marbles and she might know.’

‘If it was a fair dinkum scandal she might not be willing to say.’

‘I’m her favourite. I can get around her. She’s in a nursing home in Bega, though. It’ll take me a few days to get to her.’

‘I’d be grateful.’ I slapped my pockets. ‘I haven’t got my cards on me.’

‘Where are they?’

‘At the motel. Feel like a walk?’

She swilled the rest of her drink. ‘Are you married?’

‘No.’

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Not just now.’

‘Gay?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think I’d like to go back there with you and see what happens.’

She went to the toilet and then we walked the kilometre or so to the motel. The night was mild and the walk was companionable. She wasn’t that much shorter than me and when I put my arm around her to steady her over some rough ground, she touched my hand and we locked fingers. We kissed as soon as we got inside and it went on from there—a bit hectic but experienced, not uncontrolled.

Her body was tanned and firm and she liked to be touched. I wasn’t exactly sex-starved but it had been a while and I was aroused and eager. She fished a condom from her blouse on the floor and rolled it on to me. We left the bedside lights burning and didn’t turn them off until much later.

I’d ordered the standard motel breakfast—sausages, bacon, eggs and tomato with soggy toast and thin coffee—for six thirty, and we shared it. Kathy said she had to be back near her phone by eight in case she was called on to teach.

‘You’ll be heading back to the smoke,’ she said.

‘That’s right.’

‘So, a one-night stand.’

She was clear-eyed and the absence of the little makeup she’d had on the night before didn’t make any difference. She’d put her hair in order with her fingers. A change of clothes and she’d be classroom-ready. I got a card from my wallet and put it in front of her.

‘Try to find some time to come up,’ I said. ‘How about Easter?’

‘Mmm, maybe.’

‘Or when I get this done I could come down for a bit, if you . . .’

‘Don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel guilty about a one-night stand. I don’t need consoling.’

‘I’m not consoling you. I’m trying to give myself something to look forward to.’

‘I suspect you’re bad news for women, Cliff. Not that you mean to be, just the way things work out with you.’

She was more right than wrong but I didn’t want that to be the whole story, not after the pleasure we’d shared. ‘We barely know a thing about each other, Kathy. Why don’t you ring me after you talk to your grandmother, whether you find out anything or not. We can talk. As you said, see what happens.’

She’d been wearing her bra and panties with her blouse unbuttoned. She came around the table and kissed me and she had that lovemaking smell that would have got me going again except that she was buttoning up and reaching for her pants.

‘It’s a deal,’ she said.

‘I’ll drive you.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s no distance. I’ll walk and try not to feel too encouraged. Talk to you soon, Cliff.’

She slid into her trousers, pulled on her shoes, scooped up her bag and pantyhose and left.

I went up the coast road to Bateman’s Bay and over the mountain to Canberra. The Falcon ticked a bit on the climb but it does that to show it needs mechanical attention from time to time. I was in a good mood after the time with Kathy and the prospect of more of the same, and the feeling that I was making some kind of progress with the case.

Like a lot of people, I felt ambivalent about Canberra. It was a good idea to put it where it is as a counterweight to Sydney and Melbourne. Because of the concentration of intelligent, well-educated people, it behaves progressively at the ballot box, unlike the rest of the country most of
the time. But the neatness of the layout, the manicured gardens, the sense of being so planned made me wonder if it’d ever feel like a city. Good place to study, make a career, but to live? I wasn’t so sure of that.

As monuments to human folly go, the Canberra war memorial wasn’t so bad, tasteful even. The triumphalism is kept more or less in check, and it feels like a place for reflection rather than celebration, at least in spots. Passing the shell of the miniature Japanese submarine scooped out of Sydney Harbour, I spared a thought for those small young men who’d taken on what was virtually a suicide mission. I tossed some coins into the water in recognition of all the other poor bastards who’d gone through the meat grinder. The honour roll does the job it’s supposed to do without too much fuss.

As I traced the names, I imagined Justin Hampshire here more than two years ago. His Honda in the car park, the money from the sale of his sporting gear running low and his dreams in tatters. The Bangara memorial arch record was confirmed. There were no fallen Hampshires at Gallipoli or the Somme or anywhere else in the war to end all wars. And none in World War II or Korea. As Kathy had said, there were two Petersens, with the distinctive spelling of the name she had made a point of, killed in the Western Desert, no doubt fighting against Rommel, the Desert Fox, and one in Korea. The John Prine lyric about losing Davey in the Korean War and the father still not knowing what for, came to mind. Justin’s family had a military tradition all right, but with the name change it wasn’t one he’d had any way of knowing about.

You’re supposed to feel sad in such places. I did—for all the waste, and for Justin.

No reason to hang around. I didn’t think I was likely to bump into Hawkie or Keating to advise them about what to do for the good of the country. The drive from Canberra to Sydney was forgettable. About the only thing of interest was the low level of water in Lake George. Cattle were grazing in places where once they would have had to swim.

Back in Sydney I used an ATM and found that Hampshire’s cheque had cleared. Encouraging. I drove to Rose Bay and parked, semi-legally, within walking distance of the apartments where Hampshire was staying. I asked for him at the desk and was told he was in. The receptionist buzzed him but got no answer. I took the lift to the third floor and knocked. No response.