There was nothing interesting under the door, where one of the other tenants, an iridologist, shoves my mail. That could mean a lot of things. The iridologist might be sick, or she might be pissed off with me for not availing myself of her services, or there just might not be anything interesting coming my way. The thought depressed me and I sat at my desk watching the sun go down at around 4.30. It was the shortest day of the year, still three hours to seeing Glen and dinner time. There was only one thing to do.
I’d had one glass of red from the office cask and was thinking about a second when the phone rang. I grabbed it with relief.
‘Hardy Investigations. Cliff Hardy speaking.’
‘I thought you might be there. You have a lonely look.’
A woman’s voice. Familiar. Who?
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right number?’
‘I’m sure, Mr Hardy. This is Paula Wilberforce. I looked you up in the book. I’m sorry if I alarmed you this afternoon.’
‘You didn’t alarm me, Mrs Wilberforce.’
‘I think I did. Anyway, I wanted to apologise and to make it clear that nothing you tell me would ever be attributed to you in print. I’m simply asking for help, Mr Hardy. Like one of your clients about whom you spoke so eloquently today.’
Put it down to the early sunset or the wine or the total absence of anything interesting to do beyond the few routine jobs I had on hand-the upshot was that I agreed to allow Paula Wilberforce to interview me in my office the following day at 11.00 a.m.