Two-Way Cut

between twenty-six and forty-five.

How would a private detective track Tess? Leah wondered. Open a file, first, listing the twelve key identifiers of a missing person: name, sex, race, age, height, weight, hair, eyes, complexion, blemishes or scars, habits, clothing/accessories. Then ascertain when and where she was last seen, and with whom. Contact morgues, hospitals, prisons and police stations in case the disappearance was involuntary or shed encountered the wrong person. Interview friendsand enemies, for friends might lie in order to protect.

A certain predictability could be counted upon: those missing persons who deliberately cover their tracks (for Leah knew that a depressing number go missing involuntarily, the victim of opportunist killers) nevertheless tend to adopt a similar name, maintain their old habits and interests, wear the same clothes and hairstyles. The things they alter will be obvious: a blonde will dye her hair black, a Sydney resident head for Melbourne.

Finally, we all leave a trail. Vast bureaucracies keep track of births, deaths, marriages, money and property transactions, travel movements. Each time we rent a car, stay in a hotel, use a motel phone, buy a bus ticket, apply for a passport or use a credit card to pay for a taxi or withdraw cash from an automatic teller machine, we generate pieces of paper and electronic records. These map our movements and predict our habits and inclinations.

And overlying all of that, good private detectives try to think their ways into the heads of the people theyre tracking. A girl like Tess? Shes run off with her boyfriend; shes heading interstate; if shes not lying dead in a ditch somewhere, then shell die of an overdose in a scungy motel room or back alley.

And me? Leah thought. What can they predict about me? Thats what I need to keep in front of my eyes, so that I can outwit, anticipate, subvert.

Forty minutes later, she slowed for the outskirts of a prosperous-looking town called Leighton Wells. Tess stirred, pointed. Used car yard.

Leah shook her head. We don’t want to leave a trail. No pieces of paper, no phone calls, no e-mail. I told you that.

Are you for real?

Your brothers found you, didn’t they?

Tess wriggled in her seat and muttered, Whatever.

They cruised through the town. Suddenly Tess pointed. There!

What?

On the nature strip.

Leah braked and reversed the car until they were adjacent to an early model Holden panel van, painted white, standing in a collar of grass. A faded red For Sale sign was propped inside the windscreen, the words $2,500 apply within hand-written in black marker at the bottom. Leah got out for a closer look.

The panel van had clearly been a workhorse in the past, but it was unlikely to be pulled over for a road- worthy inspection: plenty of tread left on the tyres, no obvious rust or external damage beyond a couple of scratches and a small dent in the rear panel, no cracks or pitting in the glass. She glanced at the nearest house. An old man was watching her from a verandah chair.

Leah got back into the Kingswood and drove it into the first side street. Five doors down she found a house with a For Sale sign staked in the blighted front lawn. The place looked empty, neglected, empty soft-drink cans and scraps of paper and plastic collecting along the front fence and caught here and there in the grass around dead and dying shrubs. She parked in the open carport at the side of the house, yanked out the For Sale sign and shoved it under the car.

Then she opened Tess’s door. Come on.

Yeah, right, I just automatically do everything you tell me to do.

Leah said patiently, I’m glad you spotted that old panel van back there. It could save our necks. All we have to do now is spin a good story.

Somewhat mollified, Tess accompanied her back to the main street and the white panel van. They walked around it and a minute later the old man joined them.

Love, I havent got time for tyre kickers.

Leah shook her head. Ive been after one of these.

Tess swung into action. Youve taken good care of it.

The old man jerked his head in acknowledgment. Ive had the old girl for twenty-five years, regularly serviced, never any heavy carrying, just mailbags.

Mailbags?

Yep. I delivered to all the outlying farms.

Youve retired?

Getting too old.

Engine? Leah said. Gearbox, differential?

New engine about four years ago, reconditioned gearbox and diff about three years ago, new brakes last year, recently serviced. A good radio-cassette player no CD, sorry. And you have to admit the price is good. Id have sold her by now if it wasn’t for the flaming drought, although I have to advise you, a young mechanic is interested.

Leah doubted that, but wasn’t about to challenge the old guy and make herself more memorable to him. Id like a test drive.

The old man shot her a keen look. Didnt I see you just now in a Kingswood?

Oh, thats a friends car, she said.

He cocked his head as if to say, So?

Weve just rented that house around the corner.

The old man waited.

I’m a new teacher at the high school, Leah said, hoping that there was a high school.

She saw the old man relax a little, and went on: A friend loaned us the Kingswood so we could move out here

And now you’re getting a pay cheque, you want a car of your own.

Exactly.

His amused but keen gaze switched to Tess, who said, I’m her sister.

He seemed to abandon his scrutiny and fished in his pocket, bringing out an ignition key. Take her for a good spin if you like. But maybe if you could leave me your license for security?

Better still, Tess said, moving close to the old man, who seemed to blush and find her bewitching, why don’t I stay and keep you company?

He grinned. Right you are. If your sister doesn’t come back I can always sell you to the white slave trade or set you to work in my kitchen.

Tess poked him. He giggled. Leah smiled and drove off in the panel van.

Ten minutes later she was saying to the old man, Drives well. Why are you selling?

I told you, too old to deliver mail any more.

But not too old to drive?

Its me eyes and me age and me kids, all conspiring against me.

Leah nodded. She liked the man and felt sorry for him. But meanwhile she had to stay in character. He would expect her to make a bid. Two thousand dollars, she said. Cash.

He pursed his lips. Twenty-four hundred.

A minute later they agreed on $2250. I cant accept a personal cheque, you know. No offense, the old man said.

Cash, Leah said, turning away from him and extracting the money. I went to the bank this morning, she explained, turning back to him. We were going to do the rounds of all the car yards this afternoon. I don’t usually carry this much cash around.

Apparently satisfied, he said, Ill do you a receipt.

Leah had no use for a receipt but didn’t want to raise the old mans suspicions. Thanks, she said, giving a false name and address.

He wrote in laborious capitals on a sheet of note-paper. You’ll hand in all the forms?