I got a hand. Then it was question time. Nothing very tough: Did I carry a gun? Sometimes. Did I ever break the law? Not if I could help it. How many men had I killed? Two, one in defence of someone else’s life, one by accident.

‘You should be asking me if I can name all fifty of the United States of America.’

A blonde woman spoke from the back of the room. ‘You mean the work is often boring and that you have to kill time.’

‘That’s right,’ I said.

Many eyes turned towards her.

‘And can you name all fifty?’

‘Usually,’ I said.

Time was up and the students trooped out of the room. Dan Sanderson, usually a restrained type, shook my hand. ‘That went great, Cliff. Will you do the other class?’

Glen Withers had jacked it all up. Senior Sergeant Glenys Withers, that is. She was taking a break from hands-on policing, and teaching at the Sydney annexe of the Goulburn Police Academy. She had a flat in Petersham and spent three or four nights a week there; the other nights, her visits to Goulburn and my work permitting, she was at my place in Glebe. We were being very cautious about the whole thing-I had yet to sleep at Glen’s flat. She had met Dan in a coffee shop and they got talking about their different teaching jobs-he was a lecturer in the commerce department of the Petersham College-and Glen produced a real live private eye for his students.

I’d enjoyed the lecture. Who wouldn’t? Applause, appreciative young faces. ‘Sure, Dan,’ I said.

‘I could probably get you a few tutorials, too,’ he said. ‘Could be the beginning of a new career for you, Cliff. You’re a natural.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. Once was fine, twice might not be so good and after that…’