‘Mr Hardy?’ Hickie gestured for me to stand and enter. It was a constrained gesture because he didn’t have much room to make it in. I stepped past him into a room that might have been larger than the outer one, but not by much. Hickie was a medium-sized man wearing a white shirt, striped tie, and the vest and trousers of a three-piece suit. The coat hung on the back of his chair and was crushed flat at the collar where he had leaned against it. He wasn’t as young as I’d guessed, about thirty. He had plenty of brown hair and was good-looking enough not to have to worry about it. Intelligence and anxiety warred in his features.

I shook his extended hand and he waved me into a chair. If I had turned the chair around and stuck my legs out I could probably have put my feet on the bookcase that held his legal texts. He went behind his desk, sat down and did some more suit coat crushing.

‘Cy Sackville gave me your number,’ I said. ‘And some details. I’d be grateful for a few more.’

‘I imagine you would. It’s a curious bit of business.’

I jerked my thumb over my shoulder at the bookcase. ‘Not much about it in those.’

He smiled. ‘That’s right. Sorry to be so formal about it, but could I see some identification?’

I handed over my enquiry agent licence, which carries an unflattering photo. He scrutinised it closely, looked at me and handed it back.

‘Thanks. Sackville spoke very highly of you. He said you’d had some legal training.’

‘He’s being ironic. He probably means time spent being questioned by the cops. I wouldn’t call what I had training. I did a couple of years of law. Failed Contract, disliked Torts.’