‘Married, right?’

‘Not according to what I have here. Look, Cliff, I shouldn’t really be doing this.’

‘Come on, we’re almost colleagues and my girlfriend’s a policeperson. Just give me her address and phone number and that’ll be it. It’s no big deal, really.’

He gave me the address, in Lindfield. As an afterthought I got the contact number for Dr Roger Maurice at UTS. Then I made a few calls. Paula Wilberforce was the registered owner of a white Honda Civic, KTP 232. Her credit rating was shaky- she was over her limit on Bankcard and teetering on the brink of having her Visacard snipped in half. Her last tax assessment on an income of over $80 000 hadn’t been paid and her telephone and electricity accounts were in arrears. While I was at it, I ran checks on Patrick and Verity Lamberte. An Escort for her, a Saab for him. She was sitting pat, he was seriously over-extended.

I needed sausages, bread and beer for the evening meal I was planning. I went out to the street and stopped to check the mailbox, which I’d neglected to do on the way in. I glanced at my car; the light seemed to be hitting the windscreen oddly. Then I saw that it was shattered, with only cloudy segments of glass clinging around the frame. I swore. The passenger side window in the front was broken as well and the glove box was hanging open. The plastic gun was sitting on the front seat. I felt my stomach lurch as I reached through to feel inside the glove compartment. The. 38 wasn’t there. I leaned back against the car with my head throbbing. Criminal neglect to leave the gun inside the car, especially after you knew she’d seen your every move. And what to do about it?

The right thing to do was to notify the police, but I didn’t think I could face the humiliation and the complications. I could see the grins on the faces of the cops in the Glebe station. Then would come the serious stuff-the warnings, the threats to lift my licence.