‘If memory serves,’ I said, ‘she requires a fair bit of evidence-multiple occasions, consistent indulgence, frequent occurrence.’

‘Are you married, Hardy?’

‘Yes.’ Tenuously, I could have added. Cyn and I disagreed about almost everything and fought all the time. We were incompatible but, in our many separations, inconsolable. Neither of us knew what to do about it. My main stratagem was to drink too much; Cyn’s was to work too hard as a junior member of a very forward-looking Balmain architecture firm.

‘Good, you’ll be aware of some of the pressures. Mrs Meadowbank has reached breaking point. Her husband is carrying on an affair with a younger woman. Not the first such indiscretion on his part, we might say. We want Charles Meadowbank followed and photographed. You will make a sworn affidavit logging his movements and stand ready to give evidence in court.’

What was called in the trade a ‘Brownie and bedsheets’ job. I knew they were part of the deal even if I’d hoped to kick off with something more savoury-like bodyguarding Shirley Bassey or helping Frank Packer get his winnings home safely from Randwick. I took out a notebook and wrote down the details-description of Meadowbank, home and business addresses, make and model of car, club memberships. A phone call interrupted Menzies’ flow and I took the opportunity to fish out the makings and roll a cigarette. His cigar, placed in a heavy cut glass ashtray, died. Menzies’ pale blue eyes, somewhat buried in the flesh that comes from good living, watched my movements with distaste.

He hung up after grunting into the phone a few times, in a well-bred way. ‘That’s nasty,’ he said.

I exhaled a cloud of Drum. ‘Smoking? I agree. I plan to give it up when I turn thirty-five. I can’t understand why you still do it at your age.’

Colour flooded his pale, indoors complexion. ‘I am beginning to regret acting on this recommendation.’