I am not,’ I said, ‘a security consultant. I am a private detective. A private enquiry agent if you like, a private eye if you must. But the day I let myself be called a security consultant is the day I become a retired private detective.’

‘Cliff, Cliff.’ Peter January always repeated the name when he wanted something. ‘John, John,’ he’d say to his political opposite number or ‘Michael, Michael,’ to the TV journalist. Now he wanted me to work for him. ‘It’s only a name, comrade,’ he said. ‘What does it matter?’

‘It matters to me,’ I said. ‘Fuehrer’s only a name but somehow I don’t like it.’

January laughed. He laughed easily, probably lied easily too. He was a politician from the groomed, greying hair to the Bally shoes, but he also happened to have some ideas I agreed with-nuclear-free Australia, profit-sharing in the workplace and support for the Balmain Tigers. ‘I’m not really talking to you as a professional, Cliff,’ he said. ‘More as a friend. I’m bloody scared. I need help.’

It was my turn to laugh. ‘Shit, you must be joking. You’re a Minister of the Crown. You’ve got everything laid on. You can get in a car to go to the pub if you like even though it’s only just across the road. You can hire all the muscle and brains you need. Look around you.’

We were in January’s inner office. His electorate takes in more pubs and TAB agencies than any other in Australia. He once told me that it used to have more outdoor toilets per capita than anywhere else in the nation until the gentrification of inner Sydney happened. As befitted the holder of one of the safest seats in the Parliament, and his status as a junior Minister, January had space and staff to fill it. The outer office accommodated six or seven desks, plenty of telephones and a good number of degree-holding workers.