I got a contract form out of a desk drawer and slid it across. 'I'm in.'

'Good. You'll be deductible, too.'

'How's that?'

'Everything a writer does is deductible. If you play golf and write about it, you can deduct your membership fees.'

'What if you play poker, bet on the horses and write about that. Can you deduct your losses?'

'That might be iffy. Where do I sign?'

I had her work and mobile phone numbers and email address on her card. I gave her my card with the same information and my address in Glebe. She gave me her street address and wrote me a cheque. I took notes on her investigation so far-Billie's last known address, her car registration, description when last seen and habits. Billie smoked as though the world was about to be hit by a tobacco famine, drank as if prohibition was coming back, and was known to take every mind-altering drug in the pharmacopoeia.

'Given that,' I said, 'she could be dead.'

'No way. Tough as an old boot. Forty if she's a day and, like I said, doesn't look anything like it with a bit of makeup and the light in the right place. And, to repeat myself now that you're really listening, there's something else I know about her that I suspect not many do and you should.'

'She bungy jumps?'

'I hope you're taking this seriously, Cliff.'

'My way of taking things seriously is not to take them too seriously until I have to.'

She thought that over, chewing hard, and nodded. 'Okay. Billie's got a child. A son.'

'Eddie's?'

'I doubt it. From what I hear and from photos, Eddie resembled a chook.'

That was true. Eddie was sharp-featured with a noticeably small head.