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knew.’
    â€˜How long did you know him?’
    She had me there. ‘A matter of weeks.’
    â€˜Enough said. He had that Irish charm, a way with him, as they say.’
    She had her own charm and was turning it on now, full bore. Spiegelman appeared to be taking no more than a polite interest at this point and I had to wonder what his role really was. He clicked his own lighter for Sheila as she produced another cigarette and there was no doubt; the gesture was intimate and devoted, almost embarrassing to watch.
    â€˜You weren’t at the funeral,’ I said.
    â€˜I didn’t know about it.’
    â€˜However you look at it,’ I said, ‘it comes down to legalities. Is there a will? Were you divorced? Comes down to sets of papers. Have you got any?’
    â€˜I have a marriage certificate. Have you got anything?’
    I couldn’t help thinking of the package Patrick had posted from London. Surely not. I shrugged. ‘This is of almost no interest to me. Can you throw any light on who might have wanted to kill Patrick? Kill him in that . . . emphatic way?’
    â€˜Just a minute, Hardy,’ Spiegelman said. ‘What are you implying?’
    â€˜Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think we can be of any use to each other. I’ll pay for the coffee and be on my way. In time there’ll be a niche for Patrick’s ashes at Rookwood if you’re interested, Sheila. I believe they keep them for a certain number of years and then dispose of them if no one claims them.’
    She killed her cigarette in her coffee cup and stood. She was almost as tall as me. She blew smoke past my shoulder.
    â€˜Fuck you,’ she said.
    It was all getting a bit strange, out of shape. I caught a bus back to Glebe as the afternoon light died. All very well what I’d told Hank about drawing conclusions from information gained, but what if the information was highly suspect to begin with? It was Friday night with the traffic heavy and the bus losing and taking on passengers at every stop. Something was nagging at me and by the time we made the turn into Glebe Point Road I had it. The name Harvey Spiegelman rang a bell. Only faintly, but it was there. Something to follow up.
    Sheila Malloy, if that’s who she really was, presented a problem. I’d met women I’d found difficult to believe many times before, but she was a mixture. Her frankness about her interest in Patrick’s death was one thing; her denial of their divorce was another. She used the name Paddy naturally, convincingly, but her picture of the man was very different from mine. People can change over time, but Sheila appeared to be able to change from one minute to the next.
    I stopped at the Toxteth for a drink and ordered a Jamesons, Patrick’s favourite tipple. I was thinking I preferred scotch when a man dropped into the chair next to mine.
    â€˜On the hard stuff, eh, Cliff?’
    I knew him but couldn’t immediately put a name to the face. He raised his own glass and it came to me.
    â€˜Gidday, Sammy. Good to see you again.’
    Sammy Starling nodded. ‘As Keef says, it’s good to see you—good to see anyone.’
    Sammy had been out of circulation for almost seven years, serving a sentence for manslaughter. He’d been a private detective and a good one, but a gambling problem had forced him to cross the line and become a standover man, working for gamblers. One night he went too far and the man he was putting extreme physical pressure on died. Sammy hadn’t completely lost his moral bearings and he turned himself in. It was more than his life was worth to name the people he’d been working for, though that would have earned him a lesser sentence, so he served nearly the whole term. I’d put some work his way before he went off the rails, and given a character reference when he was up on the charge.
    â€˜I heard you were out,’ I