‘That’s it. What’ve you got?’

‘Five’ll get you a whiff of it.’

I pulled out my wallet, peeled off five dollars and gave it to him.

‘Thanks.’ He put it under the pillow. ‘You asked the wrong question Slim.’

‘What question?’

‘Him. You shoulda said her.’

‘Who?’

‘The cabbie was a her — blonde, that’s all I saw.’

‘Good, go on!’

‘Well, like I said, he had money, new tens, I got one…’

‘So I heard, and…?’

He’d shot his bolt. He groped around for something to say. ‘Ah, let’s see, he talked pretty good — educated, you know? But the grog had got to his voice.’ He did a fair imitation of a meths drinker’s croak on the last words.

I was depressed by what I was doing and hearing. The room depressed me. I wanted to be eating and drinking somewhere light and airy with someone young and optimistic. It made me impatient that I didn’t know anyone like that.

‘You’ll be tap-dancing in a minute,’ I snarled. ‘Cut out the shit. Did he say anything important? Give you any idea where he lived?’

‘No. He lived out mate. Face was buggered, you know the way they get. There was something though…’

‘His hands?’

‘His hands! Right! Most derros, shit you wouldn’t let them put their hands down your dunny, but his hands were white and smooth like.’

I handed over the floating ten. ‘Do you remember Miss Reid, the companion?’

‘Do I what. Hatchet-faced old bitch.’

I wouldn’t have called her old or particularly hatchet-faced, but he was talking character, not physiognomy.

‘You didn’t get on with her?’

‘Who could?’ He lit a cigarette, needing something to counter the angry memories. ‘The judge couldn’t stand her and I was with him all the way.’

‘What was wrong with her?’