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and sacrificial struggles at the Somme.

4
    I didn’t sleep well. I had one of those nights when you wake up every hour or so for no reason you can fathom—not snoring, no outside noise, no bladder pressure. At four am I gave up, turned on the television and switched it off after flicking through the channels. Radio National was replaying a program on experimental music. I was reminded of the remark a music critic had made about a revival of the musical
Jesus Christ, Superstar
: ‘If you missed it the first time, here’s a chance to miss it again’.
    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