‘Dan Sanderson phoned me, Mr Hardy. I gather you’re having trouble with Paula Wilberforce.’

‘You could say that. What can you tell me about her? I gather she’s a PhD student.’

‘She was. Dropped out a month or so ago.’

‘What was her research topic?’

‘She was supposed to be writing a study of women’s refuges. I never saw any signs that she was serious about it. Tell me, has she.. done any damage?’

‘Yes. Is she sane, do you think?’

‘Far from it. She broke into my room at the university and wrecked it. This was after I pointed out that she hadn’t begun to fulfil the requirements of her course. She’s wealthy, did you know?’

‘Not exactly. I went to her place in Lindfield but it’s up for sale. Big house.’

‘She inherited a lot of money. She’s very dangerous, Mr Hardy. She harassed me for months. I got her to see a student counsellor and his report was, well… disturbing. If she’s transferred her attentions to you, you’ve got a real problem.’

‘Does she have a doctor?’

‘Now that you mention it, yes. I’ve got some of this stuff on disk. I could look it up and give you a ring back in a few minutes if you’d like.’

I thanked him and gave him my number. Another computer man. Gave him an edge. What I didn’t remember, I didn’t know. I looked out the window again. Nothing. At least it wasn’t raining. I had another can of beer.

‘Dr John Holmes,’ Maurice said when he rang back. ‘Psychiatrist.’

‘Woollahra. I know him. Many thanks.’

He wished me the best of luck, with feeling. I’d met Dr Holmes a few years back when I was trying to find a freaked-out writer bent on destroying himself and a few others. I found him, but too late, and Dr Holmes wasn’t a hell of a big help.