‘Mandy’s going out of her brain. I think she blames me in some way. Pauline can’t practise or study and I can’t think of a fucking thing to do!’
‘I could look into it for you, Wes. I’ve got a private enquiry agent’s licence. Might be able to help.’
He lifted his head and seemed to almost rise out of his seat as if reaching for a rung on a ladder. ‘God,’ he said. ‘A private detective. I’ve been thinking of you as the ex-boxer security guard coming good again. You’re a bloody private detective, are you? Would you take it on, Cliff? Please?’
2
Wesley Scott wasn’t wealthy but he was prosperous. The gym fees weren’t cheap and he had a full list of customers; he did private massages at hefty rates for some well-connected people, like judges and politicians; he was on the training staff of a pro basketball team and he was often called in as a consultant by other sporting organisations. He explained all this to me after I’d told him that my fees were two hundred dollars a day and expenses.
‘I can afford you,’ he said. ‘And hiring you makes it feel like I’m doing something. Mandy’ll feel the same.’
‘I’d be happy to put in some time on it for friendship’s sake.’
‘No way! And now that you’ve given me the idea, if you don’t agree I’ll hire another detective.’
That was the clincher. I got what details I could-a copy of the missing person’s report Wesley had lodged with the police, Clinton’s address in Helensburgh, the name of the person he shared the house with, the make and colour of his car, something on the courses he was doing and a note from Wesley authorising me to inspect his son’s belongings. I told Wesley I’d fax him a contract which he could sign and fax back.