Now the sign says Carlton. I preferred the old sign and the old beer. I parked in Rose Street and walked to the Post Office. I might have been wasting my time. It might not matter to the recipient where the package was posted from, but, then again, it might. It was against the law to put live ammunition, even doctored like this lot, through the post but, like the original sender, I hadn’t included a return address, so who would ever know? I despatched the parcel and got a receipt for the postage-an item for Mrs Lamberte’s account.

‘How long will that take, would you say?’

The pimply-faced youth behind the counter looked at the address. ‘Two days, three at the outside.’

‘Guaranteed?’

‘You can priority pay it if you want.’

A priority sticker would give the parcel a very different appearance. I shook my head and left the Post Office.

That left me with the Granville job. Nothing much to it. Cy Sackville wanted a certain Lionel Peckham to appear as a material witness in a case involving one of his valued clients. Cy had worked out an immunity deal with the prosecution for Peckham, but he couldn’t locate him to inform him of the fact. Cy had explained the complicated legal manoeuvres involved but had lost me in the telling. All that mattered to me was that I was obligated to him for many legal services beyond the bounds of duty and often unpaid for. I had traced Peckham to a junk yard in Granville. All I had to do was front him, show him the letter that guaranteed him immunity and tell him where and when to show up. Easy.

As I cruised past the junk yard I saw at once that it was not going to be so easy. The place was in a cul-de-sac near the railway line and well away from houses and activities carried on by honest citizens. The weed-choked, rusted cyclone fence, the galvanised iron shed set well back from the street and the rusting Ford, Holden and Toyota bodies screamed hot cars, hot parts, hot whatever-you-cared-to-name. That was a worry. More of a worry was the dog.