The Other Side of Sorrow by Peter Corris Page B

Chippendale, Newtown, Marrickville and of course Homebush. He had two convictions for possession of marijuana and one for trafficking in cocaine. He’d served three years on that count, concurrent with a two-year sentence for assault occasioning bodily harm. That was all to do with drugs too.
    His driver’s licence had expired a year ago and, as I’d already learned, he was being proceeded against for failure to pay parking fines and for driving an unroadworthy vehicle. He had drawn unemployment benefits periodically but was not currently doing so. I obtained an address for his surviving parent, his mother, in Petersham and details of three bank accounts, all overdrawn. It was difficult to find much on the credit side of Damien’s ledger.
    Megan Sarah French had been born in Bathurst at St Margaret’s Hospital twenty-three years ago. Her birth date was given as one day after the date Cyn claimed to have had her child. Her adoptive parents were Rex and Dora French of Katoomba. Megan Sarah French had attended the St Josephine Convent in Katoomba. She was a prefect, leader of the debating team and captain of the netball squad that won the country division championship in her final year. She scored 90.5 in the HSC and matriculated at the University of New South Wales. She’d dropped out of a degree course in industrial relations after two years.
    I jotted the information down from the phone calls and arranged the faxes in order as they came in. I drank the whole of a pot of strong coffee and made another as things began to sink in. The confirmation of Cyn’s story seemed to be staring me in the face and I found it hard to adjust to. I’d been hoping, or at least half-hoping, for something to blow the whole idea out of the water, but all I was getting were blocks building towards the same conclusion.
    The data continued to flow. Megan Sarah had enrolled in the same TAFE Environmental Studies course as Talbot and had dropped out at the same time.
Connection.
She’d drawn unemployment benefits at various times and signed on for several re-training programs without completing them.
Not good.
A couple of credit cards had been withdrawn for failure to meet payments. No prosecutions. She held a driver’s licence but no vehicle was registered in her name. She had never lost any points on her licence, and there was nothing outstanding. No criminal convictions.
    It was ambiguous stuff to convey to Cyn and I resolved to edit it. I got the suit wet walking in the rain to the Post Office to consult the Blue Mountains telephone directory. There were three entries for French and one with the initial R. Back in the office, with the suit jacket on a hanger, I rang the most likely number and drew a blank—R was for Robert and he had no knowledge of a Rex. Ditto with the next. The third French was Rex’s brother, Frank, and he was happy to talk to me when I told him I was a private detective.
    â€˜Is the prick in trouble?’ he said.
    â€˜No, I want to talk to him about his daughter, Megan. She’s … ah, missing.’
    â€˜That poor kid.’
    This was the second time that expression had been used. ‘Why d’you say that, Mr French?’
    â€˜Rex and Dora are religious fanatics. First it was Catholicism, strict as buggery. Megan was supposed to be a nun. They tried to beat God into her, made her life a misery and she was a super kid. When she kicked over the traces, wanted to go to university and that, they went nuts.’
    â€˜What did they do to her?’
    â€˜Kicked her out. Then they sold everything they had and joined a bloody cult up here. They get around praying and scratching in the dirt.’
    â€˜I’d like to talk to them.’
    â€˜You’ll have to come up then. There’s no phone out there.’
    He gave me directions to a five-hectare property near Mount Wilson operated by the Society for Harmony and Tranquility.
    I thanked him. ‘Do