Just great, Cliff, I thought. Canny Pom goes missing off the beach, wife grieves mildly because she doesn’t know him all that well. It sounded like two days on the street, two hundred dollars and lunch money. Still, maybe I could get some swimming in. I told her I’d do what I could and she wrote me a cheque. I noticed she didn’t write my name on the stub.

‘I’ll need a photograph,’ I said.

‘Oh yes. I’ve got one here of John on the yacht. He’s got a few days growth, but…’ She dug in the bag, which rustled and clinked the way women’s bags do. ‘Damn! I thought I had it.’

‘I suppose I could get a newspaper photo.’

‘You’d be lucky. John didn’t go in for publicity.’ She looked at her digital watch. ‘I wanted to meet you here because it’s quiet and I didn’t want to broadcast my business. My flat’s a bit public’ She put her cigarettes and matches away. ‘But I feel a bit better just from talking about it.’

She pulled out her purse and a sheet of typing paper came out with it. She looked at it like an actress studying her lines. ‘Here’s a list of some of John’s interests, the places where he spent some time. It might help.’

I took the paper and she put money on the table.

‘Run me home,’ she said. ‘I’ll get the photo.’

I escorted her out to my Falcon with a touch of pride. My last case but one had been a moderately fat job and I’d had some money to spend on the car-mechanical overhaul, paint, fresh upholstery in the front. The last case was better forgotten, a foul-up that had cost me money. All the more reason to open the car door smartly for Mrs Marion Singer and not to shut it too roughly after she’d glided her nice, neat legs inside. It costs nothing to be a gentleman, as old Jack Dempsey used to say.