Open File by Peter Corris

school he refused to support him. When he learned of his conviction he did nothing. When he found out about his son’s illness he applied for another posting and left the country. Pierre would have been deported on the expiry of his sentence, but that’s not going to happen.’
    ‘His mother? Surely . . . ?’
    The nun shook her head. ‘A member of the order met her. “Hard as iron”, was her judgement.’
    The room bore out what she’d said. It was painted in light colours, the prints on the walls looked optimistic and the cross set up above the door was unobtrusive. The roomheld three beds—one was empty, someone was sleeping in another and in the third, closest to the window, a bearded man was sitting, propped up by pillows.
    ‘Your visitor, Pierre,’ the nun said.
    ‘
En français
,’ he said. ‘You must practise, sister.’
    ‘He’s teaching me,’ she said, ‘but I’m a bad pupil. I’ll leave you to it. Ring if you get tired, Pierre.’
    I approached the bed and held out my hand. He took it and the bones in his hand almost crackled, although I’d put no strength in the grip. His face was skeletal, whittled down to a shell and only given any substance by the beard. He looked at the scrap of notepaper in his other hand.
    ‘Cliff Hardy, private detective.’ His accent wasn’t heavy but it managed to give the words a flavour.
    ‘That’s right, Mr Fontaine.’
    ‘Pierre, please. Take a chair. I am pleased to meet you but you should not be flattered. I would be pleased to meet
anyone
. The gaolers did not tell me why you wanted to see me. They think the dying have no more interest in life. They are quite wrong. We have more interest than ever before. You would be surprised. We read the newspapers from cover to cover and through again. We watch the television news on all the channels.’
    I pulled up a chair, being careful not to let it scrape and disturb the sleeper.
    ‘Don’t be concerned,’ Fontaine said. ‘He’s dying fast.’
    He pointed to the other bed; his arm inside the pyjama jacket was stick-thin. ‘Sebastian went last night. The prettiest boy he had been. He spent the last hours looking at pictures of himself taken one year ago.’
    For someone who looked so frail his voice was strong and for someone nearing death he spoke with an edge of humour I couldn’t help admiring. I told him about being hired to find Justin Hampshire and that I’d learned of their association at the school.
    ‘Find Justin?
Pourquoi
? Why?’
    ‘He went missing. He hasn’t been seen for two years.’
    ‘Ah.’
    ‘You spent some time with him just before you ran into trouble, right?’
    He nodded and the action hurt him. The look that passed over his face was like a cloud across the moon. He coughed and that hurt as well. I poured water from the jug on the bedside cabinet and handed it to him. He sipped and nodded his thanks.
    ‘Not afraid a cough’ll pass the virus?’
    I shook my head.
    ‘Some think this.
Merde
. Yes, Justin and I were friends for a little time. Not lovers, you understand. He wasn’t gay.’
    ‘Was he taking drugs?’
    ‘Mr Hardy, I would laugh except that it would hurt me too much. No.’
    ‘Look, Pierre, I’ve been told that Justin was a loner. Apart from the people he skied and surfed and snow-boarded with, he didn’t have any real friends. I don’t see you as the sporting type.’
    He smiled; he was already tiring, and this time the smile seemed to stretch the skin on his face to splitting point and force his dark eyes deeper into his skull.
    ‘You want to know why he . . . what is the expression? Took me up?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘He was clever, you know that of course. He was paying me to teach him French. I did. He learned some quite quickly.’
    ‘Why?’
    There was a long pause and I could almost see his brain working, going back to a time when there were possibilities, a future. Then the sad shadow returned.
    ‘He said he wanted to join the Foreign Legion.’
    I