‘Don’t say that. I don’t know what I’m going to say, so how could you?’

She made a defensive gesture. ‘I’m sorry. I’m getting worked up. The police…’

‘I’m nothing like the police.’

‘Of course. Well, they automatically thought I was a kind of poor woman’s Gina Reinhart. But it’s nothing like that. My father had money but not Hancock-style billions. We didn’t get on particularly well and it’s true that he left most of it to her. But I got some and I’m sure the will was kosher. It’s not about money. It’s about…’

I waited for the word, wondering-justice? revenge? vindication?

Suddenly she seemed deflated. She slumped back in her chair. ‘I’m not sure what it’s about. Call it closure.’

‘It won’t be closure if you turn out to be right. There’d be a trial of the person you have in mind, probably media interest, books, perhaps. Think of the Kalajzich case. You’ve already mentioned the Hancock circus.’

‘I know, I know. Call it jealousy then. She’s beautiful and rich and…’

I shook my head. ‘You’re not the type to be jealous of anyone. What’s your status here, senior lecturer?’

‘Associate professor.’

‘You don’t call yourself professor.’

‘I will when I get a chair.’

‘There you are. A successful career woman. I’ve known a few gung-ho academics like you and they all have one thing in common-when they get interested or involved in something they can’t let it go. They have to know.’

‘Prof Harkness was right,’ she said. ‘You’re the man for the job.’

Frederick Farmer had died when his weekender at Wombarra in the Illawarra had burnt to the ground. The house wasn’t new or fancy. It was an old weatherboard on ten acres that had once been mine land and later an orchard. Farmer, despite his wealth, wasn’t interested in high levels of personal comfort. He experimented with varieties of flowers, fished off the rock shelf and played golf at a nearby par 59 course. According to his daughter, he was spending more and more time at the coast and less with his wife, whom he’d come to dislike.