Swifty Taylor and the Missing Child – Episode 2

 

Episode 2 – Coffee and Closure

 

At about ten o’clock the next morning, I stood before the mirror in my bathroom. I intently regarded the man in the reflection. His shoulders were still broad enough, and he was now clean-shaven. Simultaneously the man and I approvingly ran our hands across our faces. The aftershave, which had been liberally applied, was doing its best to overpower any lingering hints of Jameson on my breath. But I could not say whether the cologne or the Irish whiskey was winning the olfactory battle. I decided that a long black would greatly assist me in facing the new day, so I dressed quickly and made the journey to the “Cup and Crumb”.

 

 

The rain was falling like it had a grudge, and no amount of apologizing was going to change its mind or lighten its mood. In a Williamstown winter, rain didn’t just fall on your shoulders, it cross-examined you with the sternest of interrogations. I ordered a coffee from the disinterested barista who had me feeling nostalgic for my old friend Ling, the laziest man ever to put froth on a cappuccino.

Was it the money alone that had me accepting cases that looked like aggravation and smelt like vexation? Or was it because I was constantly seeking the comfort of closure?

The Rogers fellow, who – since the moment I accepted his filthy lucre – could now more accurately be described as my client, had left me a small dossier with titbits of information relating to the case. Describing it as a dossier would be generous in the extreme. It was a ragged Manila folder, and it contained no more than three dog-eared pieces of paper. As I sat and sipped what almost passed for a coffee, I attempted to make sense of the hand-written notes which I’d spread out on the table in front of me. Her name was Bella Harris. The enclosed picture of her revealed a 30-something woman with photogenic appeal and something more besides. The corners of her lips turned upwards, hinting that she didn’t believe a word of any line that any man had ever spun her. The type of girl for whom the answer to any difficult question was to put on a red dress and lipstick and ask if that question could be repeated. She looked like trouble, but with nice manners. Even then, I suspected that the photo did not do her an ounce of justice.

 

 

It wasn’t difficult to piece together this part of the jigsaw. From the start, it seemed that old Rogers had fallen hard for his new personal assistant. The scrawled notes that he’d provided claimed that his feelings were reciprocated. But he would say that, wouldn’t he? I had done some research of my own, and discovered that Rogers was a Sydney squillionaire. He owned abattoirs and had made his fortune exporting beef to the Middle East. He’d flown under the radar until he’d stuck up his head and started commenting on politics. He should have just kept schtum, but it seems that the coin he was making just wasn’t enough. Now, news reports were saying that he was selling up, while fighting fires on two fronts. A messy, costly, and very public divorce. And an ugly private affair which no-one knew much about. Not to mention a child who he had never laid eyes on. I sat for a while and considered his situation. What was it with these rich b*stards for whom all the money in the world could not buy happiness?

I sensed a figure approaching my table, so I quickly scooped up the sheets of paper and stuffed them into the folder. A tall, skinny figure with a ghost-like face sat down on the chair across from me. “Take a seat, Caspar,” I said. Caspar Evans was a well-known but very much misunderstood local fellow. It hadn’t always been so, but these days he kept his nose clean and his ear to the ground. On that basis, it was in my professional interest to maintain a loose friendship with him. I was still trying to decide what benefit our relationship was to him. Maybe he just enjoyed my quick wit and charming personality?

“Hello, Swifty,” Caspar said in a voice not much louder than a whisper. “You working on something important?” I thought for a humorous riposte, but like Tantalus before me it remained frustratingly out of reach. “A bit of this and a bit of that.” I admonished myself for such a bland response. Caspar continued talking. I continued to pretend to listen. Like me, he lived alone. Unlike me, he constantly felt the need to use his voice to fill the empty spaces. It was London to a brick that, at night, he had long and deep conversations with himself. Completing a story to which I had immediately and totally tuned out, he said “I hear that your old girlfriend Laura is back”.

 

 

Those final nine words were the only ones that I heard Caspar say. She’s back? Hmm. Closure. Perhaps there was an opportunity to find closure with Laura? One way or the other, I was determined to find out.

 

 

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