I asked some questions-like had he, Henry McKinley, been off on some up-bush expedition when she’d last heard from him. She said not, that he was city-based, working for a major corporation, about which she had few details. I asked about his age, his health and habits. She said he was fifty-eight, a cyclist, non-smoker and social drinker. As far as she knew he was wholly occupied with his work. His recreations were cycling, photography, archaeology and pen and ink drawing.

‘He was. . he is quite talented,’ Margaret said. ‘Lucinda seems to have some of the same knack. They swapped sketches over the internet.’

Saying that broke her composure somewhat and got through to me. I said I’d contact someone I knew in Sydney and try to get an investigation underway.

‘I can pay,’ Margaret said. ‘Some.’

Amazing the freedom having money in the bank can give you. ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘Let’s see how far we can get.’

We talked some more. She gave me her email address and said she could provide documents, photos.

Getting fit, sitting in the sun, thinking about swimming, reading, watching HBO is all very well, but I knew I was going to miss my former profession and now I had that feeling for real, and very strongly.

Naturally the flat had a computer connected to the internet and a printer and scanner and other hardware unfamiliar to me. I’d kept my email address so as to stay in touch while I was overseas and I sent a message to Margaret McKinley to establish the contact.

I was never much of a web user but now I read some newspapers and blogs from home and was pleased to see that the conservative government was in trouble at the polls. The opposition was scoring better on most counts and the commentators were predicting a close election, with some reading it one way and some the other. I’d be back in time to cast my vote for change. It was well past time.