I had the addresses and telephone numbers of Michael Hickie, the lawyer, and Felicia Todd, nee Armstrong, the wife. Barnes Todd had apparently lived in Coogee, which didn’t surprise me. I could see him as an ocean-views, early-swimming type. Hickie’s office was in Bondi Junction, which didn’t mean anything in particular. Cy had given me a report on the accident, if that’s what it was: Barnes Todd’s Holden Calais had failed to hold the road coming down Bulli Pass at 1 a.m. on 26 January. The car had fallen a long way and hit a lot of trees and rocks on the way down. It had exploded, and people at first had taken the noise and fire for a bit of Australia Day whoopee.

I crumpled the sandwich wrapper and bag and tossed them into a bin. The tourists were bent over a guidebook, talking intently. The woman in the overcoat had started tossing the peas to the pigeons, which weren’t very interested.

‘Bloody pigeons,’ the woman said, ‘bloody buggers.’

The Japanese man inclined his head politely. ‘I beg your pardon?’

The woman looked as if she might shower him with the peas so I stood and moved around to block her. ‘She’s talking to the pigeons,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry about her. Enjoy your stay.’

‘Thank you,’ the man said. ‘Can you tell us where is Mrs Macquarie’s chair?’

I gave them directions and explained that it wasn’t really a chair, just a rock.

‘This is a very strange country,’ he said.

The woman with the peas had left the bench and was walking towards the street, dropping a pea with every step.