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I went out to the street and stopped to check the mailbox, which I’d neglected to do on the way in. I glanced at my car; the light seemed to be hitting the windscreen oddly. Then I saw that it was shattered, with only cloudy segmentsof glass clinging around the frame. I swore. The passenger side window in the front was broken as well and the glove box was hanging open. The plastic gun was sitting on the front seat. I felt my stomach lurch as I reached through to feel inside the glove compartment. The .38 wasn’t there. I leaned back against the car with my head throbbing.
Criminal neglect to leave the gun inside the car, especially after you knew she’d seen your every move. And what to do about it?
    The right thing to do was to notify the police, but I didn’t think I could face the humiliation and the complications. I could see the grins on the faces of the cops in the Glebe station. Then would come the serious stuff—the warnings, the threats to lift my licence. It was serious—an unstable woman running loose with a loaded pistol. It might even get into the press. I groaned aloud at that thought and gave up the idea of telling the police, at least for now. Then another thought struck me. She’d pointed a toy gun at me, would she do the same with a real one? I went back inside and phoned one of the places that will send out a mobile van to replace your windshield. I gave them the specifications of the windshield and window, accepted their quote and told them where I’d leave the cheque. They promised to do it ‘today’. Then I called a cab.
    I was poor company for the cabbie on the drive to Lindfield. He made the correct assumption that I was a Balmain supporter and commiserated with me about the side’s performance in the Winfield Cup. I barely listened, scarcely responded, even though I’ve started to take more interest in League lately as a result of Glen being a passionate Newcastlesupporter. It was after five and quite dark and cool by the time we got to Lindfield. There was a big fare on the meter that I wasn’t going to be able to lay off on anyone as an expense and I was in a foul temper. The taxi cruised along the wide, tree-lined street while I peered out, trying to spot numbers.
    â€˜Don’t these people put numbers on their gateposts?’ I grumbled.
    â€˜Don’t ask me, mate. I live in St Peters. We don’t have bloody gateposts.’
    I laughed. ‘Yeah, right. Well, let’s see if we can spot Number 12 through all this greenery.’
    We found it. The house was a big, rambling timber job with a botanical garden in front and a wide woodblock driveway leading to a two vehicle carport. It fitted right in with its neighbours to either side—solid, $400,000 places with all the trimmings. The only difference was that Number 12 was obviously empty. Local newspapers had accumulated by the gate and a few telltale weeds sprouted through the woodblocks. Lights were showing in the other houses, but Number 12 was dark There was also a large For Sale sign mounted over the centre of the front hedge. The agents were Climpson & Carter of Chatswood.
    â€˜Chatswood,’ I said to the driver. ‘Ten bucks in it for you if you make it before 5.30.’
    He didn’t. The real estate agent’s office was closed up tight and, from long experience, I had no hopes of learning anything useful from trying the after hours number.
    By this time the driver and I were chatty. “Where to now, mate?’ he said.
    â€˜Back to Glebe, thanks. We’ll have to stop at anautobank on the way so’s I can pay you.’
    â€˜No worries. What d’you think of that Alan Jones?’ 
    â€˜I try not to think about him. Who d’you support?’ 
    â€˜Penrith, mate.’ 
    â€˜I might have known.’
    The windscreen repairers hadn’t yet arrived when I got back to Glebe. I walked up Glebe Point Road and bought a