She’d left a pot of coffee on a low flame, and I got to work on that while I ran a routine check on Paul Guthrie through the telephone book and The Company Index. He lived in North-bridge, between the golf course and Fig Tree Point. It sounded like a well-preserved and presented address for a client to have. Guthrie Marinas Pty Ltd was at Balgowlah, Double Bay and Newport. The ski lodge and dude ranch were probably called the Alpine this and the Western that. Guthrie Enterprises was listed as a private company; Paul Guthrie, principal.

I rang him at 10.30; he came across eager and energetic; he made sixty-two sound like something to look forward to.

‘Tell you what’, he said. ‘I have to go up to Newport to look a few things over. Like to come up? Go out on a boat?’

‘Is there any point?’

‘Yes, Ray kept a lot of his stuff on a boat up there. I suppose you could look through it. Must be a photo of him there- you’ll need that?’

‘Yes, I will. Anything else?’

He paused. ‘Yes. His girlfriend’s there. Girlfriend that was. She’s a nice kid. I talked to her, of course. Said she hadn’t heard from Ray, didn’t know anything. But it might be worth your while to talk to her.’

‘Okay. I’ll meet you there. I’ve got the address.’

He sounded nonplussed. ‘How’s that?’

‘I looked you up in the book and the commercial directory. You check out just fine, Mr Guthrie. You got my credentials, remember? And Roberta was a little past giving you a reference last night.’

He laughed. ‘That’s smart. I’ll give you some money. What time suits you?’

‘Let’s say at the marina at noon. Nothing’s happened to change your mind about this, has it?’

‘No. Why?’

‘It sometimes happens that way. You act, like by hiring me, and something else happens. Never mind. Noon.’

It was hot and Friday, which meant heavy traffic on the road and a slow, sweaty drive to Newport.