‘I try to avoid doctors and politicians. I deal with lawyers a lot. Some are okay. I don’t mind journalists. I like beekeepers.’

‘Really? Do you know many beekeepers?’

‘Not many.’

‘How do you feel about cars?’

‘They’re necessary.’

‘Guns?’

‘Useful-sometimes, rarely.’

‘What is the role of the private enquiry agent in the general scheme of law and order, in your opinion?’

‘Big question.’

‘You must have thought about it.’

‘Yeah. I’d say we’re at the end of a chain, a sort of last resort. People have been let down by ringing other numbers in the phone book.’

‘That sounds rather… negative.’

‘I don’t think so. It means the private detective can turn people away, exploit them or help them. His choice.’

‘And which do you do?’

‘Apparently, it’s not for me to say. It’s for your committee to decide.’

‘Mmm. You’re not married, Mr Hardy?’

‘Divorced.’

‘Children?’

‘No.’

‘Well, I think that’s all I need, Mr Hardy. Thank you. I’ll hand you over to the other members of the committee.’

‘Thank you, Dr Campbell and… uh, I like your dress.’

Copper

Senior Detective Sergeant Martin Oldcastle said, ‘I can’t tell you how much I hate doing this, Hardy.’

I looked at him-fifty-four and beginning to show it in face and body, hair retreating and almost completely grey, thick-lensed glasses. ‘That’s great,’ I said. ‘Really encourages me to take the job and give it my best.’

‘You know what I mean. Jesus. I’ve been in the force for nearly forty years. Loved it. Now I feel that every bloody copper in Australia’s out to get me, ‘cept Mickey, of course.’

Oldcastle had blown the whistle on a clutch of policemen, a few senior, most junior, to himself.