‘I’m a column gears man’, I said.

She laughed and unlocked the car; I couldn’t find the seat belt, couldn’t fasten it and couldn’t push the seat back. She helped me with one hand and put in a cassette with the other-we took off to a roaring of guitars and electric piano.

Over the music and traffic noise I asked her about the London job. She told me that she’d been booked to be snapped outside the Houses of Parliament with a peer of the realm for a Scotch whisky advertisement, but the peer had died.

‘Tough luck.’

‘Would have been a good trip.’ She dipped a shoulder and flicked the Merc around a bend, changed down and surged up a hill.

‘Have you worked in London before?’

‘London, Paris, New York.’ There was pride in her voice but no conceit. I decided I liked her.

‘Have you been getting any other harassment- phone calls, letters?’

‘Not a thing. Just as you said, a glimpse of someone, a feeling..’

‘You don’t know what it’s about?’

‘Not a clue.’

I didn’t like the sound of it; a good tail, one who just leaves that feeling, is a professional, not a sex-starved creep. Professionals work for money and the people who pay them have reasons. We drove down to Woolloomooloo near the docks; there was a fair bit of traffic and activity and she glanced around nervously as she locked the car.

‘Do you have the feeling now?’ I asked.

‘Not sure.’

‘What are you doing here, an ad for overalls?”

She laughed and we walked towards a dinghy-looking warehouse. ‘You’ll see’

We went up some steps and in through a mouldy door. If the place was a nightmare outside, it was a dream within. The carpet was deep, the walls were white and the lighting was costing someone a fortune. The huge floor area was partitioned off into dressing rooms and elaborate, stylised sets. There were cameras and light fittings everywhere.