I got out of the vehicle, admired the craftsmanship of the iron rose on the arch, and pushed the button. After a few minutes, I rang again. Then a man in standard blue security guard uniform came walking down the drive-moon face, fat man’s walk, not in any hurry.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘I’m trying to find about someone who was here about two weeks ago,’ I said.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at the Land Rover and looked back at me blankly.
‘Bloke called Ned Lowey,’ I said.
He nodded. ‘I heard about him. He was here. Hold on, tell you when.’ He went off to my right, out of sight. When he came back, he had a black and red ledger, open. He riffed though it, then said, ‘Tuesday 9 July, nine twenty am.’
I said, ‘What was it about?’
Still expressionless, he said, ‘Wouldn’t know, mate. Had an appointment with the director at nine-thirty am.’
‘How do you get to see the director?’
‘Ask. Want me to?’
I nodded.
‘Name and purpose of visit.’
I gave him my name and said, ‘Inquiry about Ned Lowey’s visit.’
He wrote it in the book and went off again. He was away no more than two minutes. ‘Better put the dog in the cab,’ he said. ‘Park in front of the main building. Turn right as you go in the front door. Down the passage. There’s a sign says Director’s Office.’
I opened the passenger window and whistled. The dog jumped onto the cab roof. His back legs appeared, scrambled their way over the windowsill, and then the whole animal dropped into the cab. The guard shook his head and opened the gate.
No inmates were to be seen, only a man on a ride-on mower in the distance. The main building was stone, someone’s house once, a mixture of castle and Gothic cathedral with a hint of French chateau, set in immaculate parkland. It could have been an expensive country hotel but it had the feeling of all places of involuntary residence: the silence, the smell of disinfectant, the disciplined look of everything, the little extra chill in the air.
The secretary was a pale, thin woman in her thirties with very little make-up. Her bare and unwelcoming office was cold and she had her jacket on.
‘Please take a seat,’ she said. She tugged an earlobe. Blunt nails. ‘Dr Carrier will see you shortly.’
It was a ten-minute wait in an upright chair, probably an instructional technique. The secretary pecked at the computer. There wasn’t anything to read, nothing on the walls to look at. I thought about Ned. Had the director kept him sitting here, too? On this very chair? Finally, the secretary received some kind of a signal.
‘Please go through,’ she said.
The director’s office was everything the secretary’s wasn’t, a comfortable sitting room rather than a place of business. A fire burned in a cast-iron grate under a wooden mantelpiece, there were paintings and photographs on the walls and chintz armchairs on either side of a deep window.
A woman sat behind an elegant writing table. She was in her mid-forties, tall, and groomed for Olympic dressage: black suit with white silk cravat, dark hair pulled back severely, discreet make-up.
‘Mr Faraday,’ she said. She came around the table and put out her right hand. ‘Marcia Carrier. Let’s sit somewhere comfortable.’ There was an air of confidence about her. You could imagine her talking to prime ministers as an equal.
We shook hands and sat down in the armchairs. She had long, slim legs.
‘I understand it’s to do with Mr Lowey,’ she said. ‘What a shock. A terrible thing. Are you family?’
‘Just a friend,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you can tell me why he came to see you?’
She smiled, put her head on one side in a puzzled way. ‘Why he came to see me? Is this somehow connected with what happened?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It was about work,’ she said.
I waited.
‘He’d done some work for us before. A long time ago. I confess I didn’t remember him. He was inquiring about the prospect of future work.’
‘You hire the casual workers yourself?’
‘Oh no.’ She shook her head. ‘Our maintenance person does that. But Mr Lowey asked to see me.’ She smiled, an engaging smile. ‘I try to see anyone who wants to see me.’
‘So he was looking for work?’
‘Basically.’
‘He did quite a lot of work here in 1985. Can you tell me why you didn’t use him again?’
She shrugged, puzzled frown. ‘I really can’t say. Lots of people work here. The maintenance person may have had some reason. Then again, we didn’t use many outside contractors from ’86 to ’91. Budget cuts every year.’
I looked out of the window. You could see bare trees, gunmetal clouds boiling in the west. ‘Did you know that he went to the police about something to do with this place?’ I said.
Her eyes widened. ‘No.’ She appeared genuinely surprised. ‘You mean in 1985 or now?’
‘In 1985.’
‘Do you know what about?’
I shook my head.
‘Well,’ she said, ‘he certainly didn’t mention anything a few weeks ago. I can’t imagine what it could have been.’
‘You had no inquiries from the police in 1985?’
‘The local police? I’d have to check the records. I can’t recall having anything to do with them.’
‘There wasn’t anyone missing?’
‘Missing?’
I said, ‘I presume some of your charges do a runner occasionally.’
She laughed. It brought her face alive. She was very attractive. ‘They do from time to time, and we notify the Department of Community Services and they handle the business of looking for them. They generally find them in a few days, back in their old haunts.’