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more apartments than houses, mostly with garages, so the streets aren’t cluttered. No shops to speak of and no beach. The suburb gives the impression of having nothing to be busy about.
    Apartments command high prices though, given the proximity to more exciting places, especially if a view is part of the deal. Good security. I was buzzed in and instructed to take the lift or the stairs. I’d chosen to walk from where I’d parked, mostly uphill, and I took the stairs to support my fitness regime. Standing outside the security door, I could see that the Darts had the whole package. The unitwas three flights up and on the side of a building that was at the right angle to command a view south to Bondi, north towards Watson’s Bay and east to New Zealand.
    Josephine Dart was tiny, barely 150 centimetres in her high heels. She was perfectly groomed with a helmet of black hair, a pearl necklace and a blue silk dress. Her makeup was discreet, emphasising her large eyes and high cheekbones. She looked like a former ballerina, not that I’d ever met a ballerina, former or otherwise. Her voice was surprisingly strong, coming from such a small frame.
    â€˜Please come in, Mr Hardy. I’ve made coffee. I hope you drink coffee. So many people don’t these days.’
    The short passage gave onto a living room set up to be lived in. There was a leather couch, a couple of matching chairs, a coffee table, a magazine holder, TV and a sound system and bookshelves. None of it was excessively tidy: a few magazines drooped from the holder; there were loose CDs and DVDs sitting beside their racks; some of the books had been shelved flat. The room was dominated by two ceiling to floor windows leading out to a wide balcony. Some cloud had drifted over, muting the light, but the view could only be described as an eyeful.
    â€˜Sit down. I’ll get the coffee.’
    I prowled the bookshelves—an eclectic lot, in no particular order, ranging from sport to philosophy. Lance Armstrong’s
It’s Not About the Bike
sat next to
A Brief History of Time.
There was a strong showing of battered green and orange Penguins.
    Mrs Dart returned with the coffee things on a tray. She pushed the morning paper aside on the coffee table and put the tray down.
    She saw me inspecting the bookshelves.
    â€˜Terry was a great reader, from utter rubbish to quantum physics. I’m middlebrow, I’m afraid—biographies, memoirs and well-written thrillers. How do you take your coffee?’
    I told her I took it black without sugar. She kept making inconsequential remarks as she poured and I judged that she was holding various emotions in—grief, anger, frustration. The coffee was excellent and I said so.
    She sipped and nodded. ‘Somebody killed my husband. I don’t know why. We were childless. He was my life and I can’t just let it go as if …’
    She shook her head and drank some more coffee.
    â€˜I understand,’ I said. ‘You said your husband and Henry McKinley were close?’
    â€˜They were
very
close, like brothers. They shared …’ She broke off and stared out of the window. The cloud had cleared and the view was stunning, but she wasn’t seeing it. She was looking at something else, something inner. It was almost embarrassing to be present and I drank some coffee for protection.
    â€˜They shared almost everything—the same interests—geology, the outdoors, drawing, photography, cycling. I once said they ought to get a tandem bicycle and go riding on the one machine because they rode together so much. A sort of private joke …’
    Geology, drawing, photography—was that a fatal connection?
    I said, ‘You’ll have to tell me everything that happened.’
    She left the room and came back with a folder containing a number of newspaper clippings. The tabloid and the broadsheet had reported on the death of Terence Dart, fifty-seven, of Dover