My tan would fade; would that make me less desirable for Helen Broadway? Was I desirable to Helen Broadway? Did I want to be? This kind of stop-start thinking was appropriate to the movement of the traffic, which was heavy and impatient. I was weary from the gear and clutch pedal work when I got back to town. The soft-top should be an automatic, I found myself thinking.

A weaker man, one less dedicated to his craft, might have heeded the over-heated engine and the ache in his bones and headed for home and a drink. But not Hardy-with a client’s cheque in the pocket and a puzzler in the brain he goes on and on, like Christopher Columbus. I found myself sliding into this nonsense as the city skyline came in view. Maybe it was the motor fumes, maybe I couldn’t handle a can of light beer and a glass of white wine in the middle of a working day anymore. Disturbing thoughts to be pushed aside as I ploughed on to police headquarters to have a chat with my favourite law-enforcement officer, Detective Sergeant Frank Parker. We could talk about under-convicted villains and the corruption of youth. Besides, Frank might ask me over to his pub for a drink.

Frank Parker had impressed me with his flair and imagination when we’d first met a little over a year ago. By that I mean that he didn’t arrest me on principle, and didn’t try to prove that he was tougher than me or better at staying up late at night answering meaningless questions in unpleasant surroundings. I’d helped him and he’d helped me on that occasion; we had a drink together from time to time, and there was an understanding between us that one would help the other again if the time came. This looked like it, for me.

I parked near the police building in a section they keep set aside for impounded vehicles. I’ve never had any trouble in this spot-coming or going-and I’ve never known why. I told the cop on the desk which bars the way to the stairs and lifts who I wanted to see, and he looked at me oddly.