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people do the strangest things.’
     
     
     
    Despite the late hour, the station buzzed with activity as Fitzjohn made his way to his office.  He put his briefcase on his desk, pulled his overcoat off and hung it behind the door.  For a moment, he stood at the window and looked down onto the deserted street, its wet pavement glistening under the streetlight, his conversations with James Wearing replaying in his mind.
     
     
    The next morning, as was his habit, Fitzjohn rose early and, dressed in an old pair of trousers and a jumper Edith had knitted him years earlier, he went downstairs.  At the back door, he slipped his feet into a pair of rubber boots, and stepped outside.  A breeze caught the few wisps of hair remaining on the top of his head.  He smoothed them back down as he surveyed the garden where, although its summer colours were now faded, the manicured borders gave him satisfaction.  Stepping down onto the stone path, he walked to the greenhouse, closed the door and switched on the small CD player he kept on the shelf.  Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto in A major filled the air while Fitzjohn hummed quietly to himself and made slow progress along each row, tending his orchids.
    When Sergeant Betts arrived two hours later, he found Fitzjohn in the kitchen.  His boss was dressed in a dark blue pin-striped suit with a white handkerchief just visible in the top left hand pocket, any hint of his earlier garb gone.  The smell of freshly brewed coffee permeated the air.  ‘Ah, good morning, Betts.  Or is it?  You look a little worse for wear.’
    ‘We had a farewell last night for one of the blokes, sir.’
    ‘Self inflicted pain, then.  I have no sympathy for you.’  Fitzjohn turned back to the kitchen counter and poured coffee into a mug.  He handed it to Betts.  ‘Perhaps this will help.’
    ‘Thank you, sir.’
    While Betts sipped the steaming brew, Fitzjohn gathered up his papers on the kitchen table and placed them in his briefcase.  ‘I want to speak to Ms Manning first thing.  Do you have any idea where we can reach her?’
    ‘Yes.  I dropped into the archaeology department on my way here and spoke to Vera Trenbath.  She gave me Ashley Manning’s address.’  Betts held up a small card.  ‘She lives in a flat in Paddington.’
    ‘Good.  Then we’ll make our way there now.’  Fitzjohn pulled on his overcoat as Betts gulped down the remains of his coffee.
    Fifteen minutes later, they pulled over in front of a three-story block of flats.  In the foyer, Fitzjohn pushed the button next to Ashley Manning’s name.  Moments passed.
    ‘Hello.’
    ‘Ms Manning?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, New South Wales Police.  ‘I’d like to speak to you in connection with the death of Alex Wearing.’
    Fitzjohn waited until he heard the door into the building click.  As it opened, he followed Betts inside and up a narrow flight of stairs.  At the top, a tall, slim young woman, her brunette hair pulled back loosely in a chignon, stood in a doorway to the left.
    ‘Miss Manning, I'm Detective Chief Inspector Fitzjohn, and this is Detective Sergeant Betts.’
    Ashley Manning, her face pensive, stepped back from the door.  ‘Come in.’
    Fitzjohn and Betts followed her into a living room that overlooked the tree-lined street below.  She picked up the magazines scattered across the sofa and placed them on the coffee table.  'Please, have a seat.'
    Fitzjohn settled himself in an armchair.  Betts sat at one end of the sofa and fumbled with his notebook and pen as he watched Ashley Manning pull out a chair from the desk in front of the window and perched herself on its edge.
    ‘We understand you’re a postgraduate student at the University of Sydney, Ms Manning.’
    ‘Yes.  I’ve been doing my PhD there for the past two years.  Professor Wearing is... was my supervisor.’
    Fitzjohn nodded as he glanced at a photograph on a small round table next to his