She’d recovered and was presenting as a genuine hard case. There were two ways to play it-tough or soft. Mistakenly, I went for tough. ‘I could’ve made it a middy and twenty.’

‘You’re a bastard like Cleve said. I hope he nails you from the bloody grave.’

I had to retreat. ‘Why, Lola?’

She was in full outrage mode now, voice raised, standing up, surprisingly tall. ‘Drink your pissy light and your fuckin’ schooner yourself and fuck off.’

She stalked out, skinny legs in high heels, scrawny bum in a tight skirt, hair flying, shoulder bag scooped up and swinging. Most of the eyes-some amused, some antagonistic-in the bar were on me. I sat tight, didn’t fancy the idea of pursuing her up the street.

I drank half of the middy, picked up my damp fifty and left the bar. My car was a hundred metres away around a corner. I made the turn and became aware of someone close behind me. It was broad daylight at midday in Erskineville, which isn’t the rough place it used to be, but you can’t be too careful. I swung around, balanced, and with my hands ready.

‘Easy,’ the man said. ‘Easy.’

He was tall and thin in jeans and a sweater, sneakers. Not young, not old. After years in the job you develop the knack of noticing the people around you and filing the information. This guy had been in the Belmont bar, pouring a can of Guinness-the kind with the loud rattle and the sound of escaping gas-into a glass, a movement that had caught my eye.

‘Might be able to help youse, mate,’ he said.

I relaxed. ‘Yeah? How?’

‘Seen you talking to Lola and seen her take off. I can tell you where she lives. She’s a good root.’

‘You’d know, would you?’

He grinned, which didn’t improve his pinched, defeated look. ‘I should. Her flat’s just next to mine. When I’m flush I-’

‘Okay.’ I’d put the fifty in my jacket pocket and I fished it out. ‘I don’t mean her any harm. Fact is, I’m sort of more interested in the bloke she lived with.’