The doubt was pretty much dispelled when Robert ‘Bobby’ Forrest turned up to keep the appointment he’d made by phone. Forrest was tall and lean, say 188 centimetres and 80 kilos. He was also remarkably handsome, with fair hair and regular features. Good teeth. His knock lacked authority though, and he was clearly nervous as he took a seat.

‘My father recommended you, Mr Hardy,’ he said.

I sighed. The generation gap with a vengeance. Forrest was in his mid-twenties at a guess. That probably put his dad in his fifties.

‘Who would that be?’

‘Ray Frost. I changed my name for professional reasons. Dad said you handled a delicate matter for him way back when. He said he thought you’d gone out of business, but I found your web page.’

‘I took a break. I’m sorry, I don’t remember the name Ray Frost. Did he tell you what it was about?’

He shook his head. ‘He wouldn’t say. He was a bit of a wild man back then, I gather.’

‘Probably best to leave it then. Anyway, I’m glad I gave satisfaction. What can I do for you?’

I have misgivings about grown men using a diminutive like Bobby, but it happens and probably more in show business than anywhere else. He was wearing sneakers, jeans, a T-shirt and a leather jacket. All good quality and expensive-looking. He fiddled with the zip on the jacket. ‘It’s like, kind of embarrassing.’

I nodded the way the psychiatrists do, trying to look comforting as well as professionally concerned.

‘I’m being stalked.’ He blurted it out.

Another nod. ‘By whom?’