They found my late client, Norman Scholfield, at the bottom of a half-built office block in the city. That is, they found part of him there; the office block is destined to rise twenty-five storeys above our fair city and Norman came off the twentieth which is just a concrete shell. He’d bounced on the scaffolding a few times on the way down and this smeared and scattered him around a little. Still, my card was in pristine condition in his pants pocket, which was why Detective Sergeant Frank Parker was sitting in the client’s chair in my office. The last bum on that chair was the now fairly widely distributed Norman’s, but I didn’t tell Frank that.

‘What did you make of him?’ Parker said.

I shrugged. ‘Man in trouble, real or imagined. He had a delivery to make to an address and he needed protection.’

‘What was he delivering?’

‘Money, what else? Said he was paying off a bet.’

‘You believed that?’

I shrugged again. ‘People pay on bets, happens every day. Times are tough, Frank. He was a nice guy; I liked him. In this business liking the people who hire you is a bonus. He paid up like a gentleman.’

‘I bet he did. Where was the delivery to?’

‘Well, that’s another thing-wasn’t as if it was a meeting in a sewer. How about you answer a question or two before I have to give my grand-mother’s maiden name?’

Frank looked interested; that was what made him more agreeable than the average cop-he had more on his mind than charge sheets and beer. ‘D’you know your grandmother’s maiden name?’

‘One of ‘em, yeah. Come on, Frank. Give a bit.’

‘Norman had a few convictions and a few near misses. Nothing big, nothing very bad-fraud mostly.’ He grinned at me. ‘People found him a nice guy.’

I let that pass.’ I didn’t think he was Fred Nile. So the money was hot?’