“I’m Madeline Tarelton,” she said. “You must be Mr Hardy.”

“That’s right, Madeline Tarelton. I don’t suppose you’re his niece, going spare?”

She smiled understanding. “Wife. Come in.”

I followed her down a hundred yards of polished cedar planking in which the nail marks were black the way they always are – something to do with chemical reaction between the metal and the wood I suppose. I’m sure it’s no problem. A cedar staircase ascended to the stars on the left before we reached a living room with an acre of Persian carpet on the floor and several tons of brass weapons and shields on the walls. Ted Tarelton was sitting on a silk upholstered chair reading a form guide and making sure that his cigar ash hit the enamelled dish at his side. He raised an arm in greeting, which I could understand, given the effort it would have taken to lift the whole carcase. He pointed to another chair done out in flowered silk and I sat down. Madeline murmured something about drinks and moved off with a rustling of denim and a light tapping of high cork heels.

“You met Madeline,” Tarelton asserted. “Married her two years ago. She fixed up the house.”

I nodded and rolled a cigarette and waited.

Tarelton folded the form guide this way and that and put it down on the chair beside him. He picked up his cigar from the tray and took a long pull on it. I lit my smoke and breathed some of it in and out and waited. After some tapping of cigar on dish and fiddling with the form guide Tarelton looked directly at me.

“I want you to find my daughter.”

“OK,” I said. “Is she in Newtown?”

Tarelton gave me a sideways look to see if I was kidding him. He decided I wasn’t and displayed some of his intelligence.

“Oh that. No mystery. I rang one of my mates on The News to get a line on a good private man. He heard Tickener talking to you and told me about it. I remembered you from the track.”