She nodded. “You seem rather… formal. I didn’t expect that. I’ve had enough of formality. I was hoping for some energy.”

“I can usually guarantee that.” I straightened the two letters and held them up. “I’ve been hit with a bit of formality myself lately. It must’ve rubbed off. I think I can promise you professionalism and independence.” I felt stuffy and middle-aged as I spoke. I’d given up smoking years ago and the bottle of wine was still in the cabinet, so there were no careless, youthful gestures to be made. I underlined her name on my notepad.

“I landscaped a garden for Roberta Landy-Drake,” Louise Madden said. “A former client of yours. She recommended you.”

That was good news. Mrs Landy-Drake expected a good job and paid handsomely for it. She held the view, unusual for a rich person, that the labourer was worthy of his hire. “That’s a good recommendation for us both,” I said.

“Yes, she’s fun, isn’t she?”

This women was full of surprises. People don’t usually talk about fun in the same breath as their dead dad. Still, attitudes to dead dads differ. I nodded and wrote “Landy-Drake” on my pad. Then I gave Ms Madden my level, professional stare, the look that’s supposed to get them talking.

“My father was last seen in May. He was walking across the harbour bridge.”

“Why?”

“He liked to walk. He walked every-where. It was recreation and exercise for him. No one seems to have understood that.”

“By no one, you mean…”

“The police. The missing persons branch, or whatever it is. They haven’t been helpful. They don’t seem interested. They don’t say so, but I have the feeling they think he jumped, committed suicide, not that they use the word.”

“They try to avoid calling deaths suicides. They say it’s to spare the feelings of the family.”

“I’m his only family. It didn’t spare my feelings. Is there another reason for avoiding the word?”