Did my name mean anything to you when we spoke on the phone, Mr Hardy?’

Her name was Lorraine Master and she was in my Darlinghurst office at 2 pm, as arranged, right on time.

‘I’ve known a few Lorraines and some Masters, but no one putting them together.’

‘Put together’ described her pretty well and that was probably why the remark occurred to me. She was tall with broad shoulders and then everything tapered down. Her eyes, skin and hair were dark and her teeth and tailored suit were snowy white. She had high cheekbones and a broad mouth over a strong chin. She smelt vaguely of some flower, one of the thousands I couldn’t name, and the perfume was working well against the dust and damp spores that flavoured my office. She exuded confidence, but with it there was a note of strain, a tension.

‘I’m Stewart Master’s wife, Stewart Henry Master, that is.’

‘Ah,’ I said. ‘That can’t be easy. What did he get, ten years?’

‘Twelve with ten to serve minimum on account of his record. But he’s innocent.’

Master had been convicted of attempting to import a sizeable quantity of heroin from New Caledonia. He was a career criminal with a long list of prosecutions and quite a few convictions.

‘Stewart never had anything to do with drugs,’ she said. ‘Never! He didn’t use them and he didn’t sell them. He’s a health freak, a body builder.’

He’s in the right place then, I thought. All the time in the world to work on his lats and pecs and everything else.

She was sitting very straight in the client’s chair, which isn’t that easy to do because it has hard spots. That’s deliberate. A private detective doesn’t want clients to get too comfortable. They might decide that it’s just good to talk, get it off the chest, and go on their way. I was on a much better chair behind my desk with things to fiddle with. I fiddled while I spoke.