He shook my hand, which is not something we usually do. It seemed to jar me into a more serious mood and I went into the house keen to have a drink and a think.

A person in my game necessarily has contacts in the criminal community-as I suppose it’s called these days. The next morning I put the cases I had on hold and made some phone calls. Then I trawled around several pubs and clubs. Eventually I located Ian ‘Spider’ Herriot, a retired burglar. Spider said that the security upgrade in residential and commercial properties over the past ten years put him out of work. A fall from a roof brought on various disabilities and he wangled a pension that kept him just above the breadline. I met him in the bar of the John Curtin Hotel in George Street-good Labor man, Spider.

It was middies of light for me and schooners of old for Spider for a round or two before we got down to business. Enthusiastic morning drinkers all around.

‘Cleve Harvey,’ I said.

Spider is a failed jockey-short in stature, strong once, but retirement had softened him and smoking had wizened his features. He had the jockey’s high-pitched voice. ‘A prick’s prick,’ he piped.

‘Right. He’s dead.’

Spider raised his glass. ‘The world’s a better place.’

‘I want to get in touch with his woman.’

Spider is an old hand at the information game since his retirement. There was only one thing he wanted to know, and it wasn’t why. ‘How much?’

‘A hundred.’

He drained his glass. ‘Sol Levy’s is just down the way. Throw in a carton of fifties and you’re on.’

That would double the cost but I’d been prepared to shell out two hundred anyway. We walked down to the tobacconist’s and I bought the carton. Spider eyed it as though it was a life jacket floating towards a drowning man.

‘Lola Swift,’ he said.

I juggled the carton as foot traffic parted around us. ‘Address?’