Billie was used to this initial process sometimes taking a while. She was patient and she didn’t press for names or personal information before it was necessary. Many people who came to see her were upset by their circumstances and for some the mere prospect of dealing with a private inquiry agent about any matter was distressing enough on its own. As Billie well knew, PIs had a mixed reputation. This fact hadn’t escaped her growing up with a PI dad, and little had changed on that score. She suspected that the American detective pictures that were currently popular did not help – they were full of ultra-masculine shady types, handy with their fists, who said ‘Sweetheart’ while their eyes said something else. Some female clients intentionally sought out private inquiry agents of their own sex, particularly if their problem was a domestic matter that they would find awkward to discuss with a man, or perhaps simply because the prospect of dealing with a Sam Spade type did little to comfort them. This was the bread and butter work of a woman like Billie Walker, and she wondered what story the potential client before her would tell. Cheating husband?
The Bakelite wall clock above the doorway ticked away the minutes until eventually Sam returned with a tray assembled with a teapot, milk jug, two cups, sugar and spoons. He slipped away again without a sound and the door closed with a soft click. For a big man, he knew how to achieve strategic invisibility. After several more ticks of the clock, her tea sitting untouched, the stranger finally spoke.
‘I wanted to see you because . . .’ She was finding something difficult to say. ‘I need . . . a woman’s intuition.’
Billie let that one lie. She didn’t believe in what was often called ‘women’s intuition’, even if it was what some people came to her for. Men’s intuition was simply called knowledge, or at the very least an informed and rational guess. When the little woman in her stomach told her something was wrong, it was informed by a thousand tiny signals and observances of human behaviour. It was deduction at work – some of it conscious, some subconscious, though no less rational than a man’s reasoning. Billie did believe in paying attention to the knowledge in that life-saving gut of hers, but not because she thought it was some mysterious and almost mystical feminine ability. Listening to her gut had been vital in getting her through the war, and it was put to good use in her business. It was something her father, Barry, had done before her. Such instincts were about being observant, about listening – something many women happened to do very well, which was probably where the term had come from. But there was no sense in breaking down the notion of women’s intuition now. In fact, for the moment there was no sense in speaking at all. The stranger in her office was now wringing her hands. Billie watched and waited for her to open up. She was like a kettle building up steam.
‘My son . . . is missing,’ the woman finally said. The words sounded heavy and hard to say. Billie noted a light accent slipping in – was it European?
Not a divorce number then, Billie thought. She’d only just wrapped a rather unfortunate case that had required her to hop four fences to chase a man down, ripping a good pair of silk trousers. She was tempted to swear off divorce cases for however long she could – which likely wouldn’t be long at all if she wanted any paying business before 1947 rolled around.
‘I see,’ Billie responded in a level tone. ‘How old is your boy?’
‘He turned seventeen in August.’
The jury was out on whether his age was in his favour or against it, but Billie was secretly relieved she wouldn’t be looking for a toddler. ‘Has anything like this happened before?’
‘No.’ The woman shook her head adamantly. ‘Adin is a good boy. He’s just . . . gone. He had dinner, went to bed as usual, but then he was gone. His bed hadn’t been slept in.’
No one was ever just gone. There was always a story. He went to bed, but his bed wasn’t slept in. It was unlikely to be abduction, though of course that wasn’t completely out of the question. Had he climbed out a window, gone out on the town and decided not to come back? Or could he have walked out the front door without being detected, perhaps?
‘How long ago was this?’ Billie asked.
‘Two days ago. Well, I knew on Thursday morning that he was gone.’
Billie nodded. It was Friday now, so if he went missing on Wednesday after dinner, that was almost two days. A lot could have happened in that time, but it wasn’t terrible odds. ‘Have you spoken to anyone else about this? The police, perhaps?’
The woman nodded, and her mouth cracked a little, turning down. ‘Yes. I checked with his friends and when they hadn’t seen him I went to see the police. They were not helpful . . .’ Again the voice strained a touch. There was something there. ‘I was at the police station yesterday, and when I was leaving, a Miss Primrose recommended I see you.’
Constable Primrose. She was good like that. Billie had her connections all over Sydney. She passed the woman, now quietly crying, a handkerchief, embroidered with the initials B.W. It was received with a murmured thank you. The woman dabbed the corners of her eyes, and then placed it on the desk, took off her gloves and put them in her lap, her pale hands kneading and turning. She wore a gold ring on her left hand, Billie noted. The spooked impression had not left her entirely, but she was opening up now, easing herself into Billie’s care. Still, Billie gave her time. Finally the woman took a sip of her tea with a not so steady hand, added another lump of sugar and took another sip. After a minute some colour came back into her face and her shoulders dropped an inch.
‘So you would characterise this situation as unusual?’ Billie asked. Teenagers did have a habit of running away.
The woman nodded adamantly again, her eyes still wet. ‘Yes.’ Her tone implied a degree of personal offence.
‘I’m sorry to have to ask you these questions,’ Billie said soothingly, ‘but it is important to get as much of the story as possible in order for me to help you. If we are to find your son promptly, I can make no assumptions.’ She didn’t know what it was like to be a mother, but she imagined losing a child or having one unaccounted for would be very nearly unbearable. It was bad enough with a missing adult, as she knew too well. ‘Where do you think your son might be, if you had to guess? Does he have a girlfriend perhaps?’ Billie’s even-featured face was a picture of care and restraint. A good, compassionate listening face, but there was a veneer of professional composure as well. She’d learned from the best.
‘There is no girlfriend. He’s a good boy. None of his friends have seen him.’
Not when his mother is asking, anyway, Billie thought. She considered things. Missing about two days. No girlfriend the mother knew about. Friends claiming not to have seen him. ‘If I accept this case,’ she said, ‘perhaps you could write down their details for me just the same. I’d like to speak with them myself.’
The ‘if’ hung in the air. ‘Oh, of course.’ The woman fiddled with her reptile bag for a moment, then opened a small fabric purse and pushed a folded ten-pound note across the desk towards Billie. ‘Will this be enough for a retainer?’
‘If you like I can begin inquiries today. The retainer is suitable. I charge ten pounds a day plus expenses.’