‘That’s right’, I said. ‘You don’t.’

‘Pig-stubborn, mind. But stubborn to a purpose.’

He sucked his can dry and put it down carefully on the deck. He went into the saloon and came out with a big cheque book and a gold pen.

‘I can’t bear to think of that boy ruining his life. I can’t do anything directly about it myself-too old. I don’t trust the police, not in this instance anyway. All I can do is write a bloody cheque and hope you’re as useful as you look and as they say you are.’

‘Before you write it’, I said, ‘you have to ask yourself a few questions you might not like the answers to. Why’s he hanging around with Catchpole and company? What’s his trouble? If you hire me, that’s what you’re going to find out, maybe. The picture of him I get comes from you-he’s stubborn; you won’t just be able to say ‘stop’ to him. I won’t, if I find him. You might not like what happens. Your wife mightn’t like it either.’

He looked at me as if he was sifting the whole of his life inside his head-the good and the bad bits, and wondering how much of each there was still to come. He made a weighing-up gesture with his hands.

‘I accept that’, he said. He opened the cheque book, scribbled, tore out the slip and handed it across.

‘That’s more than I asked for.’

‘You don’t ask enough. You’re not the only one who can check up on a bloke. I checked on you. They say you stick at things and that’s what I want. I want your full attention. You’ve got my resources behind you-if you need a thousand suddenly or whatever, you’ve got it. Understand?’

I nodded and put the cheque away. He seemed to regard money as something to help him get what he wanted rather than as something good in itself or something that conferred a virtue on him. That’s healthy; that’s how I’d regard money-if I had any.