One Boy Missing(82)

‘How long ago?’

‘Last year.’ He slipped off his boots. ‘So that’s what you’re here about, eh?’

‘Sort of,’ Moy replied.

‘At this time of night?’

‘I just thought it was strange. Alex…that place…up the end of your drive?’

Humphris glared at him. ‘He was probably screwin’ her. That’s one thing he was good at.’

‘Yeah?’ Moy paused. ‘Screwed her…then killed her?’

Humphris tried his key in the door. ‘I don’t know what he got up to.’

The door opened and Humphris switched on the hall light. He looked at Moy. ‘So that’s what you wanted to know about, eh? Naismith?’

Moy stepped between the farmer and his front door. ‘You been out?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where?’

Humphris’ face began to harden. ‘What’s it any business of yours?’

‘Where?’

‘The pub.’

‘And before that?’

Humphris took his time. ‘You got a warrant…to be on my place? In the middle of the night?’

‘Where?’ Moy almost shouted.

‘Home,’ Humphris replied, calmly. ‘All day.’

‘By yourself?’

He smiled. ‘I’m a bachelor.’

‘All day?’

‘Yes. Watched the midday movie. James Stewart.’

Silence.

‘Why? What am I meant to have done?’ Humphris asked.

‘You never met a boy? Patrick Barnes? Or his brother, Tom?’

Humphris shrugged. ‘Don’t know ’em.’

‘They used to live just down that road.’ He indicated.

‘Nup.’

‘And you didn’t go to the show today?’

Humphris took a moment. He looked at both men. ‘Yeah, sorry, popped in for half an hour. Got a price on some new equipment.’

‘Was that before or after James Stewart?’

Humphris glared at him and almost took a step forward. ‘Bit of a smart arse, are you?’

‘What time?’

‘After lunch. One, perhaps. It was only thirty minutes.’

‘And you didn’t see the boy, or talk to him?’

‘What fuckin’ boy?’

‘Patrick Barnes.’

‘Told ya, I don’t know any boy.’ And he stepped forward.

‘I noticed you’ve poured a fresh slab of concrete over there,’ Moy said, indicating the yard of shadows and dark objects.

‘So?’

‘New shed?’

‘It will be.’

Moy took his time. ‘Well, you know, thought maybe he’d wandered up this way.’

Humphris glared at him.

‘These questions, they’re all standard. We’re not accusing you of anything, Mr Humphris.’ He studied the farmer’s face, his red cheeks, his hard chin. ‘You wouldn’t mind if we came in, for a chat?’

‘Christ!’ Humphris growled. ‘It’s late. I’m tired. What’s there to chat about? I know you’ve got a problem, but I’m telling you, I can’t help you.’

Moy stepped back and smiled. ‘We’ll let you get to bed then.’





43

MOY DROPPED LAING at the kindy teacher’s house. The porch light was on and he could see eyes peering out between curtains. ‘She expecting you?’

‘I think she cooked tea.’

He drove along the dark streets, thinking of what Megan would say. Fucked that up too, then? Her arms crossed, her head tilted. Then he’d say something like, At least I tried to help him, and she’d say tried, staring into his eyes, lifting her eyebrows.

He kept looking up driveways, down laneways. Got out and walked the bike track on Gawler Street. Twenty minutes later he was back in Clyde Street. He sat in the car. Unwilling, or unable, to go in. It was as though by opening the front door he was admitting defeat; by putting on the kettle, giving up on Patrick. As though life was about to return to the drab days before the boy’s arrival. He thought about starting the car again, backing out, continuing his search, but it was after two and the events of the previous day had already begun to settle.

He got out and walked up the drive. Noticed the seedlings and a book Patrick had borrowed and sat reading on the porch. Looked down the side of the house. ‘Patrick?’

And there was Thea Miller, standing in her nightie and dressing gown, looking over the untrimmed box hedge. ‘No word?’

‘You heard?’

‘Everyone’s heard.’ She waited. ‘You okay, Bart?’

‘Yeah. He can’t be far.’ He updated her on the search.

‘Anything I can do?’ she asked, finally.

‘No. Thanks. He’s just wandered off.’