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surname. He’s big, going bald, he’s polite.’
    ‘And now he’s an unemployed vegetarian, I presume.’
    Sarah shrugged.
    ‘The cops. When did they arrive? I haven’t been told that.’
    Only because I hadn’t asked.
    ‘Sunday morning,’ she said. ‘Just before nine. They asked me to come to the station. When we got there, they left me alone for about half an hour and then they came in with the gun. I told them about it and while I was doing that I realised I needed a lawyer.’
    ‘Many people don’t have that reaction.’
    Sarah gave me the child’s direct look. ‘I’ve seen the movies, mate. It’s not just the guilty who need a lawyer.’
    I nodded. ‘Sound attitude. Everyone needs a lawyer. And a couple in reserve.’
    ‘So I rang my father and Andrew came to the station. I thought I’d be leaving with him. The movies didn’t prepare me for a week in remand.’
    ‘Nothing in life would. What does Sophie do?’
    ‘As in, for a living?’
    I nodded.
    ‘Nothing. Cursed with artistic leanings, the Longmores. I was trying to paint so she wanted to be a painter. Shefucked a lot of artists but that didn’t help with the actual painting.’
    She fetched another cigarette.
    ‘Pottery was next,’ she said, ‘but potters were too boring to fuck, plus she hated the feel of clay. Computer-generated crap, that went on for a while. Soph quite liked it but the men were worse than potters. Then she met Ernst, a photographer, a man who carried his telephoto lens in his underpants. That was my impression, anyway.’ She blew smoke. ‘She had a little falling out with Ernst and he took his long lens elsewhere. But she still takes photographs. Compulsively. Terrible photographs.’
    We sat silent for a while.
    ‘Will she be a prosecution witness?’ I said.
    ‘Against me?’ She closed her eyes and shook her head. ‘No, for Christ’s sake, she knows I didn’t do it, couldn’t do it, wouldn’t have any fucking reason for doing it, how can I get this over …’
    ‘Having a key to Mickey’s place? How does that work?’
    ‘I had it, I never gave it back, he never asked, I forgot I had it. I told the police that. Now that may be fucking dumb but it’s not exactly the act of a guilty person. Telling the police about your key to the victim’s apartment.’
    I didn’t comment. Guilty people had done stranger things. Time to go away and think of questions I should have asked. I finished the coffee.
    At the door, she touched my arm. I turned. No direct childlike look now, her gaze averted, her shoulders lowered.
    ‘Jack,’ she said, ‘I’m not a great client, but thanks.’
    I found myself awkward.
    ‘I’m trying to be tough,’ she said, still not looking at me. ‘Someone who can handle this kind of nightmare.’
    Resist the urge to offer comfort. I had learned that thepainful way. In my time, they didn’t give you that advice at law school. Or perhaps they did, and on that day I woke with a gully-trap mouth, rose to fall again, buried guilt in sleep, missed the tutorial.
    ‘I think you are that someone,’ I said. ‘In a word or two, what was Mickey’s charm?’
    ‘He was funny, clever. And a dangerous feel. I’d never met anyone like him. He sparked you.’
    ‘That’ll do,’ I said.

I drove back to Fitzroy in a mood not far from gloomy. Federation Square didn’t help. It had an innocent awfulness, like the results of allowing small children to play at cooking. In Brunswick Street, luck delivered to me a space not too far from what would soon be the fashionable street’s newest eatery. On opening day, anyway. New cafes, bars, bistros opened regularly – places to hang out and exchange hilarious one-liners with your friends while sitting on old sofas and 1950s chairs. And they closed. This had started in the 1980s. For a long time before that little changed in the long shabby street of clanging trams, dangerous pubs, ethnic clubs, marginal shops, murky pool cafes, the offices of minor