He was waiting for me on the front porch of my house when I got home. Big, bulky, suited, self-assured. A cop.

I opened the gate and stood just inside it.

‘Are you Hardy?’

‘What if I am?’

‘Then I want to talk to you.’

I went back onto the footpath, closed the gate and fished out my mobile.

He advanced down the path and almost tripped on one of the pavers a tree root had lifted. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

‘Calling my solicitor. He lives close, can be here in a flash.’

I hadn’t noticed the unfamiliar car parked across the street and a little way down. My peripheral vision isn’t what it used to be. A uniformed policeman got out and began walking towards me.

‘Takes two to tangle,’ I said. ‘And three’s a crowd.’

The plain clothes man waved the uniform away. I heard the car door close. ‘They told me you were a smartarse.’

‘Did they tell you I don’t like being accosted by rude people at the end of a hard day?’

We stood with the gate between us. He was much the same height as me-say, 186 centimetres-and outweighed me by a good ten kilos. Years younger. It’s an old habit- estimating men by the centimetre, kilo and, lately, age, expecting competition or conflict. Doesn’t make for friendliness, but can head off personal injury.

‘Let’s start again,’ he said. ‘You-’

I said, ‘No. We’ll start with you identifying yourself and proving that identity and then telling me why you’re here. Of course, if I’m a terrorist suspect you don’t have to bother with any of that, or anything much-’

‘You’re determined to piss me off

I shrugged and juggled the mobile. ‘I hate bullies. Show me you’re not one.’

He didn’t like it, but he’d been out-boxed and he knew it. He produced his warrant card, identified himself as Detective Sergeant Christopher Wilson, and said he wanted to interview me in connection with a shooting.