‘Chatswood,’ I said to the driver. Ten bucks in it for you if you make it before 5.30.’

He didn’t. The real estate agent’s office was closed up tight and, from long experience, I had no hopes of learning anything useful from trying the after hours number.

By this time the driver and I were chatty. ‘Where to now, mate?’ he said.

‘Back to Glebe, thanks. We’ll have to stop at an autobank on the way so’s I can pay you.’

‘No worries. What d’you think of that Alan Jones?’

‘I try not to think about him. Who d’you support?’

‘Penrith, mate.’

‘I might have known.’

The windscreen repairers hadn’t yet arrived when I got back to Glebe. I walked up Glebe Point Road and bought a hamburger and a six-pack of Toohey’s Blue Label. The hamburger was tasteless, or maybe I was tasting only bile. I drank three cans of beer and rang Glen at the hotel where she usually stayed when she was overnight in Goulburn. She’d registered but wasn’t in her room. I stood by the front window looking out at the car. If it sat there all night the radio’d be gone for sure in the morning. I guessed Paula Wilberforce had done her damage while I was under the shower.

I went out and retrieved the toy gun from the front seat. A crude model of a. 357 Magnum, it looked unreal, an obvious toy. But in the woman’s fist, as she stood there with her legs braced and both hands up, TV style, it had looked very real. I tried to feel sorry for her but I couldn’t. If my gun was used in a crime I was in real trouble. I had to find her and it, fast. I ground my teeth and glared at my neighbours’ cars with their intact windows and windscreens. Still no sign of the men with the glass.

I went inside and tried the number for Dr Roger Maurice. It was engaged and I swore. I sat with the phone in my hand, punching the redial button until I got an answer. ‘Dr Maurice, my name’s Cliff Hardy. I…’