Three max, Cliff, I said to myself and plucked a glass of white wine from a tray.

Hank had told me that about a hundred guests were expected and from the look of the ice buckets full of bottles and the portable fridges and the bottles of spirits lined up, they weren't going to be thirsty. Away to the left a trestle table about four metres long was laden with food and three young women in cocktail dresses were standing ready to ladle out the potato salad and smoked salmon. A few of the early twenty were eyeing the tucker but no one wanted to be first hog to the trough. I nodded politely to a few people and tried to look as if I belonged.

I sipped the wine. A dry white-that's about as close to identifying a wine as I can get. Crisp, a pundit might have said. I moved out from under the canvas and looked up at the house. It rose from its manicured garden like a medieval fortress-sandstone rising three levels. A flagpole was just visible and an evening breeze was just strong enough to cause its flag to flutter, showing you quick flashes of stripes and stars.

'Don't worry,' a tall man who'd come out to join me said. 'There's an Aussie flag a bit further around.'

'That's good,' I said. 'Patriotism plus. Are you the host?'

'No way.' He was in immaculate evening clothes, drinking champagne. He glanced down at his empty glass and moved away.

Jonas Clement owned a city FM radio station and a couple of regional stations. He had a stud farm at Camden and substantial interests in a number of racehorses and a successful football club.