The woman didn’t seem sure what to make of that. The sucked-lemon look returned. She sat with her knees pressed together, unmoving. ‘That’s a lot,’ she protested.
Billie had heard that before, more than once. She leaned back in her chair and crossed one leg over the other, and let the tension in the office sit for a while before responding. Once the air was so still it could almost have suffocated a small bird, she gave a tight-lipped smile and said, ‘Frankly no, it isn’t a lot. I give cases my full attention, full time and at all hours, and I need to pay a decent wage to my assistant, who is also worth every shilling, I assure you. My day is not nine to five. In fact, I may get furthest from nine at night to daybreak. Sometimes the work becomes dangerous.’ When the woman opened her mouth to object Billie cut her off, not finished yet. ‘I can’t know whether cases will turn that way until I am further in, and neither can my clients. There are frequently disgruntled husbands and jilted lovers and betrayed friends or business colleagues to contend with – and sometimes far worse. People come to me with things they can’t do or don’t want to do themselves, and often for good reason. And perhaps you haven’t employed a private inquiry agent recently, but you’ll find a lot in my trade who’d happily charge you one hundred pounds or more if they thought they could get it out of you, for a simple case that could be resolved in just a couple of days.’ She crossed her legs the other way and gave the woman a level look. ‘No, ten pounds a day is not a lot,’ she concluded, and waited.
One PI Billie knew of had taken a client for a staggering five hundred pounds, but you couldn’t get that kind of cash out of many clients, and Billie had no interest in working like that in any event. Attempts to regulate the industry had thus far been unsuccessful, though Billie was not totally unsympathetic to the idea despite the red tape it would doubtless bring. For every one of them who left a client disgruntled and without a shilling to their name, the same shilling-less condition caught two investigators like a virus. Shonky investigators were bad for the industry, bad for Billie. And though she was no angel, it also made Billie sick to think of robbing people in their most vulnerable moments.
At least, the ones who didn’t deserve it.
The woman’s face had softened slightly, the sucked-lemon look vanishing and the hands on the reptile handbag loosening a touch. The monologue had worked. ‘What kind of expenses?’ she ventured, now trying even to smile a little as if to appease the investigator across from her.
‘Anything extra that comes up, travel for example, if required, but you’ll be informed first and can give your approval. I like everything on the level and up front.’ Billie still hadn’t touched the ten pounds and it sat there between them, a symbol of uncertainty. ‘Do you have a clear photograph of your son? If I am to proceed I would need an up-to-date photograph and his full name.’
The woman took an envelope from her handbag and passed it over. She seemed to have accepted the terms. Inside was a photograph, bent slightly in the upper corner. ‘His name is Adin Brown. This was taken about a year ago.’
Billie studied the picture. Adin was a good-looking boy, and certainly a healthy enough lad to get into trouble, by the looks of it. His hair was distinctive and curly, with a bit of height at the front. He wore his cotton shirt open a touch, just enough to suggest there were a couple of hairs he wanted to show off. There might be a girlfriend. But then, the mother could be right, too.
The woman, still not having given her name, let out a long sigh, seeming unaware she was even doing it. ‘I never thought I’d hire a lady detective,’ she remarked.
Billie shifted forward in her chair again. ‘Well . . . Mrs Brown, I presume?’ Her visitor nodded. ‘Mrs Brown, life takes us to interesting places. You’ve done the right thing if the police aren’t showing any initiative. When a person goes missing every hour counts. Though I must stress that I am not a detective.’
The woman looked panicked again for a moment, shoulders high, mouth tight and those dark brown eyes showing their whites. ‘You’re not . . . ?’
‘Oh don’t worry, you’ve come to the right place,’ Billie assured her. ‘It’s just that private inquiry agents in this country are prevented by law from using the word detective regarding their work.’ It was, in fact, practically the only legislation pertaining particularly to the trade. The Australian police were more protective of the term than their North American counterparts evidently were. ‘If you could write me that list, that would be a good start. May I ask, does Adin have a place of work?’
‘He works for the fur company, yes.’ She pushed a business card across the table and Billie leaned forward and picked it up:
Mrs Netanya Brown
Brown & Co Fine Furs
Strand Arcade, Sydney
Billie turned the card over a couple of times. That explained the fur all right. The Strand Arcade was north of Billie’s office, but not far. She recognised the company name, though she had never been inside the shop. It was downstairs at the Strand, from memory. There were a handful of successful fur companies in Sydney, the largest of which was a shop on George Street. She wondered how business was after the war. Had the restrictions been fully lifted?
‘It’s a family company,’ Mrs Brown added. ‘Adin works the floor, sometimes does stocktake, looks after the odd jobs.’
‘Do you have a lot of staff on this time of year?’ Though winter sales would probably be more substantial, considering the goods, it was likely to be getting busy not so long before Christmas.
‘Around Christmas we sometimes get one or two temporary sales persons, part-time, but we can’t afford any extra staff at the moment. There is just myself, my husband and Adin.’
‘And where is your husband today?’
‘At the shop.’ She looked at the thin watch on her wrist. ‘He’ll be closing soon. Oh, it’s been such a distressing couple of days.’
‘I understand. Mrs Brown, I’d like to drop into the shop this weekend, if that is acceptable. Perhaps tomorrow in the late morning? I can be discreet.’
She nodded and Billie got her to describe her son’s appearance in detail, run through his usual routines and write down the names and addresses of his close friends.
‘Would I be able to speak with your husband, also?’
Mrs Brown hesitated a little, but nodded. Billie took a mental note.
‘Does your son own a passport?’
Mrs Brown’s eyebrows shot up. ‘No. Are you suggesting he might have left the country?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything; I’m narrowing our search. Does he have access to any money, Mrs Brown? His own, or someone else’s he might use?’
‘Well . . . no. He’s a good boy, I told you.’ Billie noticed she was now gripping the bag in her lap like a woman on a roller-coaster. When it came to these initial meetings, clients were an even split in Billie’s experience – half of them loved pouring out every sordid detail of their lives and their traumas, and the other half were something like this, finding every detail painful or embarrassing to share with a total stranger, paid or otherwise. Mrs Brown didn’t like this conversation.
Billie ignored the constant reinforcement of Adin Brown’s high moral standards. People did not come in just two kinds – good and bad – and in any event Billie wasn’t there to judge. ‘How much would he keep on him, normally?’ she asked.