‘Not that he’ll bother to come and see me.’

The red brick block was small and the flats had no view, but I suppose if you’re at sea most of the time, you can do without views on land. The hungover, fair, fattish young man who answered my knock looked nothing like Mavis or the dark whippet of a boy that was Jason in the photo she had given me.

‘I’m looking for George Wishart.’

‘Why?’

That reply told me I’d found him. People are incurious on the whole. ‘Your mother gave me your address. Your brother’s in trouble.’

‘Too bad.’ He tried to close the door but maybe he was used to bulkheads. I had my foot in the gap and my shoulder pushing against him before he could get set. I shoved the door in and he almost lost balance.

‘Hey,’ he yelped, ‘this is a break-in.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ His fat, vacant face annoyed me. I was also feeling frustrated by the inquiry. That’s a bad combination in my game-meeting someone uncongenial when frustrated. I brushed him aside and looked quickly through the flat: the place was a shit-hole-dirty beds, floors, tables, and a kitchen that was a health hazard.

George was sitting on the arm of a chair smoking a cigarette when I came back into the living room.

‘You didn’t look in the dunny,’ he said.

‘It’s all a dunny. When did you last see Jason?’

His eyes flickered to the telephone standing on top of a pile of current and out-of-date directories. ‘Months ago. Who’re you?’

‘Captain Bligh. He was here, wasn’t he? What did he want-money?’

‘I wouldn’t give the little…’

George was smart enough to see that he’d made a mistake. He flicked ash on the floor. ‘He was in his bloody pyjamas. He wanted to make a phone call. I let him and then I told him to piss off.’

‘Brotherly love. Who did he call?’

‘I dunno. STD. He had the number in his head, then he wrote it down in the book and rang it.’