Lola was in that grey area of the sex business-not flush enough to be in the phone book, but a notch above the streetwalker with the arrangement at a motel. The bathroom was quintessentially feminine except for a few traces of shaved whiskers in the basin.

I slid open the closet doors, probed drawers and shelves. The only thing out of place professionally was a heavy suitcase at the back of a broom cupboard. I pulled it out and released the clasps-no locks. It contained all of Cleve that had remained in the world-some clothes, some shoes, shaving gear, some papers and some photographs in a big manilla envelope. The envelope was old and sealed with old, crisp sellotape until I slit it. I took the envelope and left the flat.

One question occupied my mind as I went down the stairs. Why hadn’t the police examined Cleve Harvey’s effects?

In the office I dealt with a few phone and email messages, keeping business afloat. I emptied Cleve Harvey’s envelope out onto the desk and sifted through the contents: several papers relating to his release after prison sentences; a decree nisi divorce from a marriage to one Rachel Fremantle; a shooter’s licence long expired; a collection of parking fine notices apparently unpaid; and a faded membership ticket for the Painters and Dockers Union.

The bulk of the material consisted of newspaper clippings. Between prison stretches Cleve had been quite a star in his day-a wood-chopping champion, a circus strongman, a long-distance swimmer, a movie and television stuntman, a Commonwealth Games trap-shooting medallist. He’d attracted notice for a one-round knockout of a Rugby League heavy in an off-season exhibition fight to raise money for Police amp; Community Youth Clubs in NSW.