She directed me north up the hill and around a couple of turns that brought me out in a street I didn’t know. It ran along the side of a cliff that dropped away down to water, rocks and a little sand. There were four apartment blocks. Chez Singer was in a ten-storey block that boasted the name The Reefs. None of the residents would be victims of life’s shipwrecks. The building soared up and was placed to give a maximum view of the water; the balconies were long and deep and the acres of glass were tinted. I guessed that a title for one of the apartments would change hands for around a quarter of a million. I steered the Falcon towards a car park with more potted plants than Vaucluse House. Mrs Singer turned, looked out the back window and prodded my arm.

‘Bugger it,’ she said. ‘Mac’s here. Stop a bit further on.’

I drove past the entrance to the car park, rolling gently. ‘Who’s Mac?’

‘My business partner, sort of,’ she said. ‘I’ll mail you the photo. Sorry.’ She clutched at her bag, nervously I thought. ‘I’ll have to think of some story if he saw you.’

‘You could say I was your long-lost cousin from New Zealand.’

‘God forbid. Please do your best, Mr Hardy, and keep me informed.’

She got out and walked back to The Reefs. She walked well, head up, tummy in, as befitted someone who filled in her time with tennis and golf. I drove on to the end of the street, past The Main, turned and came back. Through the entrance I saw Mrs Singer talking to a man who stood with one hand almost possessively on her arm. I stopped and looked at them among the potted palms. He was stout, no taller than she, and built wide, like an all-in wrestler.

2

Hey!’ The call came from the other side of the street and a little behind me. It came from a car, not an ordinary car like a Bentley or a Saab, but from a silver Cadillac.