Hard Landing

CHAPTER THREE

  Fraser & Co occupied a two-storey office suite half-way along a row of shops. On the ground floor were a reception desk and cubicle farm where toiling solicitors sacrificed the best years of their lives to make Terry Fraser rich. Terry's office was on the first floor, overlooking the street.

  Just before three o'clock, Gary strolled past the young receptionist, Bronwyn, who waved, and through the cubicles and up the stairs.

  Terry's secretary, Olga, sat at a desk just outside his office. She was a 50-year-old Ukrainian immigrant with a stocky build, wispy handlebar moustache and haphazard English. A few years ago, Terry hired a secretary who was sexy and competent. His wife, who was no fool, forced him to sack her and hire Olga, who looked like she drove a tractor to work.

  Terry told Gary he suspected that Olga was planted to spy on him.

  Gary said: "You can't blame Margaret for keeping tabs on you. This is your third marriage."

  "Thanks for your support."

  Gary had given up chatting with Olga because, no matter what they discussed, she always ended up complaining about Russian aggression against her homeland. He had no idea who was right and wrong. "Hello, Olga."

  "Hello, Gaary. Teerry inside with the client. Go in. They waiting."

  "Thanks."

  Gary stepped through the open doorway and found Terry behind his big desk, facing a bird-like woman in her sixties. She wore a sleeveless blue dress and an expensive pearl necklace over a perma-tan. A small Gucci handbag sat on her lap. The Eastern Suburbs was full of ageing women who'd never had a job and spent their days playing tennis or shopping. She looked like one. Her biggest decision each day was how many cups of coffee to drink.

  Terry stood up. "Welcome, Gary. Let me introduce you to Madeline Arnott."

  Gary shook a thin hand. "Hello, I'm Gary Maddox."

  Bits of her face seemed stuck in place. "Pleased to meet you. Terry's told me about you. He said you were an undercover policeman and you're the right man to look for my son, Patrick. He said you shake things up and get results."

  Everybody sat down and Gary said: "So, he's missing?"

  "Yes, he disappeared about a week ago. I'm very worried."

  "How did you know he disappeared?"

  "He usually phones me every day or two, but hasn't for a week. I kept phoning him and got no answer. So, a few days ago, I visited his apartment - I've got a key - and he wasn't there. I've been back twice and he still wasn't there."

  "Any sign he's still sleeping or eating there?"

  None. For instance, he usually throws his dirty clothes in a laundry basket. I checked it. No new clothes."

  "Any idea why he disappeared?"

  Small nervous eyes. "Nope."

  "Have you checked the major hospitals?"

  "Yes, and he's not in any of them."

  "Have you told the police that he's missing?"

  "Yes. I went to Bondi Junction Police Station and saw a detective called Kelly. He wasn't interested. He said lots of people go missing and most turn up, blah, blah, blah, and the police only have limited resources."

  If Gary was still a detective, he'd have told her much the same thing, and meant it. "That's their standard response, I'm afraid."

  "But he said he'd put an alert on the police database and asked for some items with Patrick's DNA - a toothbrush and a comb - in case they, umm, need them."

  The cops would need the DNA to identify Patrick if he turned up dead. "You've done that?"

  "Yes."

  "Terry mentioned that Patrick is an accountant?"

  "Yes, he works in the city for a firm called Merton & Co."

  "Have you spoken to anyone there about him?"

  "Yes, the owner, Robert Merton. I phoned him up. He said the last time he saw Patrick was last Friday evening, because Patrick didn't turn up for work on Monday morning."

  "Did that surprise him?"

  "Yes. He tried to phone Patrick and got no answer. Then he gave up. He assumed Patrick was too sick to call and would turn up eventually."

  "Did he try to contact you?"

  "No. We'd never met and he didn't have my number."

  "OK. What sort of work did you son do at the firm?"

  "He didn't like talking about his job. But I got the impression it was fairly menial. He certainly wasn't a high flier. In fact, I think he felt like a failure."

  "Why?"

  She twisted her hands. "Maybe my husband and I were to blame. You see, Patrick was an only child and we pushed him hard to succeed - maybe too hard. So when he wasn't a big success, he felt like a failure."

  "Maybe he's angry with you about that, or something else, and is avoiding you."

  "I don't think so. He's not that childish."

  Interesting that she didn't entirely absolve her son of childishness. "OK. Then do you have any idea why he disappeared?"

  "None at all, I'm afraid."

  In missing person cases, the joker in the pack was often suicide. Maybe Patrick took a train outside the city, wandered into bushland and topped himself. If so, he would only be found if a bushwalker stumbled upon his rotting corpse. "Is there any chance he might have, umm, harmed himself?"

  She looked shocked. "Suicide? No, of course not. Patrick wasn't - isn't - like that."

  Mothers almost never accepted their children might self-destruct. "You're sure?"

  Her voice choked. "Yes. But I'm terrified that something bad has happened to him. He's my only child. I must know where he is."

  Terry expertly pushed a box of tissues across his desk. She tore some out, dabbed her eyes and blew her nose.

  Terry said: "Take your time. We know this is difficult."

  A cherry-eyed stare. "I'm sorry. So much has happened during the last year. First, my husband died and now my son has disappeared. When you're a mother, you know a lot can go wrong, but you don't expect your son will just vanish. It's a nightmare." She straightened up and looked determined. "But let's keep going."

  Gary said: "OK. Did he gamble? Is there a chance he owes someone money?"

  "I don't think so. He was always very careful with his money." She threw up her hands. "But it's only in the last few days that I've realised how little I know about his life. I must find him. Will you look for him?"

  "Yes."

  "What do you charge?"

  He was tempted to charge a flat fee of $15,550 and get rid of his tax debt. "I charge $1,000 a day, plus GST and expenses. You'll get a full breakdown of the expenses with supporting documentation. You also have to pay $3,000 up front. That's non-refundable. That OK?"

  She looked at Terry and raised an eyebrow.

  Terry said: "That's a very good deal. Gary doesn't charge enough. We're very different in that regard."

  She looked back at Gary. "Fine, I'll pay that."

  "Good. Now, I need to know a bit more about your son. Do you have a photo?"

  She fished one out of her handbag and handed it over. "Yes, this is him, taken about a year ago."

  Gary studied a short-haired, thin-faced, undangerous-looking man in his early thirties. "Where is his apartment?"

  "In Drummoyne."

  "Does he have a car?"

  "No, he catches the bus to work."

  "Does he live with anyone?"

  "Just his cat."

  "No girlfriend?"

  "I don't think so. He doesn't tell me much about his private life - thinks I'm too nosey. He's had girlfriends in the past, but I don't think there's anyone special right now. He hasn't had much luck with women, I'm afraid."

  "Do you know much about his social life?"

  "Not much. He's never been very sociable. But I think he met a lot more people after he joined the church."

  "What church?"

  "The Sunrise Mission."

  The Mission was a fast-rising happy-clapper denomination that preached the prosperity bible. It got a lot more publicity than its size warranted. "Do you belong to it?"

  She sniffed. "Of course not. I'm an Angl
ican. So was my husband. In fact, when Patrick was a boy, we took him to the local Anglican church every Sunday. I was quite shocked when he said he'd joined the Sunrise Mission."

  "Did he explain why he joined it?"

  A shrug. "He said he liked its message - that's all. I think he also liked its social atmosphere - the chance to meet lots of other young people."

  "Where did he attend services?"

  "Its headquarters in Pyrmont, I think."

  Gary nodded. "OK. I'll start looking for your son. I'll have to visit his apartment. Can I have the address and a key?"

  She took a piece of paper out of her handbag and handed it over. "I've written his address and mobile phone number on that, as well as my mobile number."

  Gary folded the piece of paper and slipped it inside his jacket. "Thanks."

  "And here are his door key and a swipe card to get into the building." She took those items out of her handbag and handed them over.

  He also tucked them inside his jacket. "Thanks. I also want to chat with Robert Merton. Will he speak to me?"

  "Umm, I don't know. I can phone him now and ask. He gave me his direct number."

  "Please do. Tell him I can meet him anytime tomorrow."

  "Alright." She pulled out her mobile phone and dialled a number. When Merton answered, she explained that she had hired a "private detective" called Gary Maddox to find her son and asked if Merton would speak to him sometime tomorrow. She listened briefly and said: "Thank you".

  She ended the call and looked at Gary. "He said he wants to help and will meet you tomorrow morning at ten."

  "Good."

  She dropped her phone into her bag. "Now, I'll let you get started. I just pray that Patrick is alright."

  She grabbed some more tissues and sobbed into them while the two men looked uncomfortable. Eventually, she rose and asked for Gary's bank account details. He wrote them on a piece of paper and handed it over.

  She put it in her handbag and put on a pair of huge dark glasses that looked like blast shields to stop reality. "Please keep me informed."

  "I will."

  Terry said: "I'll show you out."

  After leading her down to the front entrance, Terry returned. "What do you think? Is he still alive?"

  "Doubt it. Sounds like he wasn't happy with his job or love-life, and used religion to prop himself up. When that didn't work, he went off to a lonely place and topped himself."

  "Maybe - or maybe he's in trouble and on the run."

  "Trouble? How much trouble can an accountant get into?"

  "Lots, believe me. People claim lawyers are dodgy. But we're little angels compared with accountants. Most are only interested in one thing - money. They love handling it, talking about it and acquiring it. Plenty are just well-dressed gangsters."

  "He's supposed to be a strong Christian."

  Terry guffawed. "Maybe. But he joined a church that tells everybody that being poor is a sin. I reckon he owes someone money or has taken someone's money, and that's why he's on the run. Anyway, poke around and see what you can find out. Just try to stay out of trouble."

  "I always do."

  "Yeah, but you don't have much success."