‘Mr Hardy.’

‘Mrs Singer.’ Her grip was dry and firm. It was a nice hand to shake.

‘Marion,’ she said. ‘I’m the client, I’ll buy the drinks. I was having a gin and tonic’

‘I’ll have the same. Thanks.’

She raised her hand and a waiter came over to take the order. I guessed her age at about fifty, perhaps a bit more, but the few extra years weren’t showing. She wore a blue linen suit with a white blouse. Her hair was somewhere between blonde and grey and it suited her strong-featured face. She had big eyes, brown, a curved nose and one of those mouths that seems to have a line drawn around it, defining it. As I feared, she was smoking. Her brand was Kent, though, which wasn’t too hard to resist.

‘What do you think of Bondi?’ It wasn’t a question I’d expected, so for the second time she had the advantage of me.

‘I like it,’ I said. ‘I’m proud of it.’

She smiled at me and gave a bit of the smile to the waiter. She stubbed out her Kent and drank some gin.

‘What do you know about me, Mr Hardy?’

I took a short pull on the drink. ‘Married to John Singer,’ I said. ‘Sorry, that might be offensive, talking about you in terms of your husband. Habit. I don’t know anything about you, Mrs Singer, except that you phoned me up this morning, mentioned an old client of mine and arranged this meeting.’

She laughed. ‘I’m not offended. I’m proud to have been married to John. What do you know about him, then?’

‘John Singer disappeared from Bondi beach about two years ago.’ I swung around and pointed to one of the big, shaded windows. ‘Out there. He was a businessman, successful. Bit of a black marketeer just after the war, then involved with vending machines, pinballs after that. He had interests in taxis and hotels, probably other things too, but the pinballs were the hard core at the end.’