The thing is, business is slow. There’s plenty of work around at the nastier end-industrial espionage, bugging, various forms of intimidation-but the bread and butter work of summons serving, bodyguarding and money moving has shrunk. This is one of the reasons Glen encouraged me to take on the lecturing-we were sitting in the backyard at Glebe, catching a few feint rays of June afternoon sun. For no good reason, I was having my third glass of wine after lunch.

‘You’re under-worked,’ Glen said.

‘Is there such a thing?’

‘Not for some people, but there is for you. You’ve got a low boredom threshold.’

‘Are you teaching community policing to the boys and girls in blue, or psychology?’

‘Don’t be snaky, Cliff. Your mortgage on this place must be down to nothing by now. Business is bad. You need something else to occupy your time and energies. I’m only trying to help.’

I put my arm around her as we leaned against the fibro wall of the outside laundry and bathroom. ‘I know you are, love. And you’re right. No kids, credit cards under control and I own the car, such as it is. There is a bit of mortgage left, though. I had to buy Cyn out, remember, and she hiked up the price.’

‘The dreaded Cyn,’ Glen murmured, ‘I wonder if I’ll ever get to meet her?’

‘Don’t see why. I haven’t met her for over ten years.’

There wasn’t much to say to that, but when Glen proposed that I talk to Dan Sanderson about lecturing to his students I couldn’t think of any way to refuse. Glen had a knack of being right in advance of me finding she was right. I was getting used to it.

As I drove to Darlinghurst I was thinking that she’d been right again-after all, I’d enjoyed the time with the students and had been offered another spot. I could have scooted around the streets to Glen’s flat and waited for her but we had our rules.