“Doesn’t look good in the state statistics. Bad for business, bad for tourism.”

“Christ. The hypocrisy,” she said.

The real feelings were starting to seep out now under the layer of toughness. She wasn’t about to pull out tissues and weep but the emotions were working inside her.

At this point in an interview, there’s two ways to go-operate on the emotions, get yourself a case and most likely a lot of confusion and trouble or try to steady things down and see if there’s really a job of work to be done. I’ve gone both ways in my time, but I’m a little too old now for confusion, so I went the other way. “I’ve had a lot of dealings with the police over missing person reports. Their procedures can be puzzling to lay people, Ms Madden,” I said. “Efficiency can look like indifference. If there’s anything I can clarify for you, I’ll…”

“Don’t patronise me, Mr Hardy. I don’t need anything clarified, thank you very much. My father did not commit suicide. Will you help me find out where he is or what’s happened to him?”

“Have you got anything to support your opinion that he didn’t kill himself?”

She nodded vigorously. “I knew the man. He was a happy, easy-going man, in good health, with no problems of any kind. He wasn’t bored. He loved life.”

“Maybe the police mentioned misadventure? Misadventure strictly means accident.”

“Some accident. Have you walked across the bridge lately?”

I hadn’t, but from driving across it more times than I cared to remember, given the toll, I had an impression of a high fence beside the footway. I found myself drawing a rough sketch of the coathanger, complete with crosshatching and the water underneath.

Louise Madden drew a deep breath. “I don’t expect miracles. Roberta said you have friends in the police force. Can you talk to them, find out what they did and see if there’s any more to be done? They must have been left with questions.”