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it?’
    â€˜Calmly.’
    The bushy eyebrows moved, but not in a way to convey any meaning to me. Was he worrying about losing his fee for handling the divorce, or did he think she might be charged with arranging the murder? My ten minutes were up but he didn’t seem to be in a hurry to rush me out so I thought I might as well put in a little work on my next case.
    â€˜Was the Meadowbank divorce on the up and up?’
    â€˜I don’t follow you.’
    â€˜I mean, was there any arrangement to provide a co-respondent, conveniently?’
    His jowls quivered. ‘The Queen’s Proctor can be very hard on that sort of thing.’
    Not an answer, but it saved me a hunt through a divorce law textbook. Now I’d be able to go straight to the index. As I got up to leave I said, ‘Do you happen to know a lawyer named Andrew Perkins?’
    No mistaking the eyebrow language this time—a scowl of disapproval. ‘Why do you ask?’
    â€˜His name came up in connection with something I’m working on.’
    â€˜If he is a principal, I would advise you not to touch the matter, Mr Hardy. Our profession is famous for reticence with regard to the shortcomings of its members. But take my word for it, Andrew Perkins is a barrister and a double-dyed scoundrel.’
    Dinner in the Malaya restaurant in George Street went well. Cyn could eat prawn sambal hot enough to fry your socks and this kind of food always put her in a good mood. Made her randy, too. I drank enough Quelltaler hock to push away the feeling that the Virginia Shaw case was going to lead me into difficult territory. We ate in the Malaya often. Customarily, I was facing a day of office-bound boredom and domestic tension thereafter. Tonight was very different. I snapped into a young-and-devoted mood, squeezing Cyn’s long, firm thigh, joking and keeping my cigarette consumption—something she hated—to a minimum. I ate one of her red-hot prawns and put on my Peter O’Toole voice—the tone he uses when he shows the young airmen how he can snuff out a burning match with his fingers.
    â€˜The trick
is, my
deah, not to mind!’
    Tears were coming to my eyes as the chilli seared my tastebuds.
    Cyn laughed. ‘I’m going to miss you, Cliff. Don’t fuck anyone in our bed. Okay?’
    Eleven hours later I was back where I’d been the day before—in the departure area at Mascotairport. Cyn and I were both a bit hungover, a state that induces introspection rather than concern for others. Anyone watching us might have thought we were friends or business associates, until the boarding call came. We put our arms around each other and hugged hard.
    â€˜I’ll ring you tonight,’ she said.
    â€˜Have fun. Get all the water levels right. Don’t forget the tides.’
    â€˜â€™Bye, Cliff.’
    I watched her tall, narrow figure vanish through the door. Then I dashed to the window and saw her walking across the tarmac to the plane. She wore a blue linen suit, white blouse and medium heels. Every other man in the boarding party looked at her. I waved, even though there was no chance of her seeing me through the smoked glass. She ducked her head as she entered the plane. Six weeks. I wondered why she hadn’t suggested that I come up and visit her. The money?
Don’t fuck in our bed
. What about other beds? I was as suspicious as hell, and I made it worse for myself by waiting until the plane took off.
    I lit a cigarette and watched the clouds swallow the plane. I had a bad feeling about this. I wanted to rush back to the house and check a few things—had she taken her black satin nightdress and the silk pyjamas with the leopard-skin pattern that she called her ‘rooting rags’? And what if she
hadn’t
taken them? What would that mean? I shook my head, knowing that these thoughts were profitless. Hangover thoughts, brought on by spicy Asian food, too much wine and