‘That’s a funny way of putting it,’ she said. ‘Are you against pinball machines?’

I shrugged, drank some more gin and wished her cigarette smoke would blow the other way. She’d lit that one while she was talking, the way an experienced smoker can.

‘Not particularly,’ I said. ‘Mindless stuff. Profitable, I suppose. I wish the kids were spending their time better.’

‘Not only kids. Adults, too.’

‘They’re a lost cause. Retards.’

She laughed again. ‘Well, you’ve got it pretty right. I’m impressed that you learned so much so fast. I keep the business going as best I can.’

I nodded. She was buying the drinks; she could do the talking.

‘You must be curious about this meeting?’

‘Very.’

‘John may not be dead.’

I nodded, sceptically this time. Harold Holt might not be dead and Sean Flynn and a few thousand others who probably were. You get a lot of nuts in this business, fantasists. I was suddenly feeling less curious about the meeting and I let it show. She leaned forward across the props of alcohol and tobacco and spoke urgently, with strong need in her voice.

‘A week ago I got a phone call. He said he saw John in Roscoe Street, shabby and sick.’

‘He?’

‘A man’s voice. That’s all he said. Wait, I wrote it down.’ She fished up a leather bag from somewhere, rummaged in it and came up with a sheet of notepaper. She

passed it across. The message was written in capitals: ‘I SAW JOHN IN ROSCOE STREET MRS SINGER. HE LOOKS CROOK.’

‘Not eloquent,’ I said.

‘No, but a big shock. I want you to check into it, of course. See if there’s anything in it.’

‘You didn’t know the voice?’

‘No. It wasn’t a nice voice. Very harsh.’