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pot of pens on his desk.
    ‘Chief Superintendent Grieg’s in a foul mood since he got back from leave,’ continued Betts, glass crunching under the soles of his shoes as he walked across the room. ‘Word has it his wife’s left him.’
    ‘Oh? That’s not good news.’
    Fitzjohn sat down heavily behind his desk, his thoughts going back to the previous year and his chance meeting with Grieg and a woman other than Grieg’s wife. Not that he was the least bit interested in Grieg’s personal life, but the encounter was enough to ensure that Grieg stepped carefully in his dealings with Fitzjohn. If Grieg’s wife was out of the picture, what could he now expect from Grieg? More of what he had just experienced, no doubt. Unable to voice his thoughts to his sergeant, Fitzjohn sat back and said, ‘How did you get on with your queries about Van Goren?’
    ‘Silver Service cabs were very helpful, sir. Their records show that they picked the victim up three times last Friday. Once at 2pm from his home in Vaucluse, dropping him at St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst, and then again just before 6pm, taking him to Raymond West’s address on Phillip Street. From there, he took a third taxi to the Observatory, arriving around seven-thirty. I checked with the hospital. Van Goren had just finished a course of radiation treatment and received his prognosis. It wasn’t good, sir. They’d given him a few months to live at the most.’
    ‘Which gels with what Raymond West told us,’ said Fitzjohn.
     
     
    Fitzjohn arrived home that evening by taxi. At the gate, he stopped to extract letters from the box before starting along the garden path. As he did so, he could see a soft light emanating through the stained glass panel in the front door of his cottage. Finding the door ajar, he tentatively pushed it open. ‘Sophie? Is that you?’ As he spoke, his sister Meg appeared at the end of the hallway. Fitzjohn felt a sinking feeling. Ever since his late wife, Edith’s, death eighteen months earlier, Meg had made it her quest in life to inflict her ministrations on him. Of course, it came as no surprise. He was well aware of Meg’s propensity for over-involvement in other people’s lives. This was demonstrated by her daughter Sophie’s move to Sydney to escape her mother’s unwanted attention.
    ‘I didn’t expect you, Meg,’ he said, placing his briefcase and the mail on the hall table.
    ‘That’s because I decided to drop everything and fly up from Melbourne late this afternoon, Alistair.’
    ‘Why would you do that? Is there something wrong?’
    ‘Of course there’s something wrong. Something is very wrong.’
    With growing concern, Fitzjohn walked to where Meg stood in the kitchen doorway. ‘What is it?’
    ‘It’s Sophie.’
    A warning bell went off in Fitzjohn’s head. ‘As far as I know, Sophie’s fine,’ he replied.
    ‘Well, that’s where you’re wrong, Alistair. She hasn’t returned my calls or replied to any of my emails in days. Therefore, there is something the matter.’
    ‘Meg, I think you’re over-reacting. I spoke to Sophie last Thursday and she’s fine. She’s just busy moving house, that’s all.’
    ‘ Moving house? ’ Fitzjohn took a step back as Meg’s voice went up an octave. ‘What do you mean, moving house?’
    ‘Just what I said. She and a couple of her university friends have decided to share an apartment together.’
    Meg wobbled on her high-heeled shoes and caught hold of the door-jamb. ‘She can’t do that,’ she screamed. ‘The only reason I agreed to her studying here in Sydney was that she’d live in university accommodation. Who are these, so-called, friends?’
    ‘All I know is they’re a couple of fellows in one of her tutorial groups.’
    ‘A couple of what ? You mean she’s sharing accommodation with two males? Alistair! How could you let this happen? You’re supposed to be looking after Sophie.’
    Fitzjohn winced in despair at his over-bearing sister.