Pointing, Joseph Young said, ‘Some criminals are poisoning those trees. Beautiful Norfolk Island pines. I want it stopped.’

He’d phoned me at my office and asked me to come and visit him. He said he’d pay me for my time even if I didn’t take the job. I had nothing much on and a visit to the eastern suburbs is always a pleasure. I’d toyed for years with the notion of selling my Glebe terrace and moving there. Could never seem to do anything about it though.

Young was in a wheelchair, partly paralysed from a car accident. Insurance and compensation had made him comfortable. He was a widower with no dependents and he owned the flat. One of his pleasures was to look out at the stand of trees. He was a Norfolk Islander himself, a Bounty descendant, and the view reminded him of home.

‘I’m sure it’s a crime,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t the council or the police…?’

He waved the point aside. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if a councillor is one of the culprits. As for the police, they’re too busy worrying about imaginary terrorists.’

There was a row of large houses below on more or less flat land. The trees would block their view of the water absolutely. Standing 186 centimetres and on tiptoe, I could just get a glimpse of the far horizon over the top of the trees, or thought I could. Couldn’t have held the pose for long.

Young was a well-preserved seventy, at a guess. Full head of white hair, neat white beard, casual clothes. His olive skin was a legacy of his Polynesian forbears. He saw me craning for the far view and laughed.

‘I suppose you can see the water,’ he said. ‘I could myself before the accident. Stood six foot four and a half. Can’t see it now of course and I don’t give a shit. I want to watch the trees. The water’s overrated in my book. Just sits there. Trees are different-they move.’