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your computer time now, isn’t it?’ Fiona sounded genuinely worried as she addressed Cadel. When he nodded, she winced. ‘I’m so sorry. I had a feeling it might be.’
    ‘Then I’ll be as quick as I can,’ Mr Greeniaus remarked. Though the detective’s manner was very mild, it was somehow clear that he would brook no argument. So, with an aggrieved sigh, Cadel rose from his seat in front of the computer and led the way to his bedroom.
    Here there were only two places to sit: on a battered old typist’s chair or on the bed. Cadel chose the typist’s chair. He felt ill at ease in his room, which still bore traces of its previous occupants: a name (‘Carlie’) scratched onto the skirting board; half a dozen hooks screwed into the ceiling; a unicorn transfer peeling off the window-pane. Nothing in the room had been chosen by Cadel, apart from the clothes in the wardrobe, the books under the bed and the monitor sitting on the floor.
    ‘Oh!’ Fiona exclaimed, when she saw this piece of technology. ‘Have you bought a computer, Cadel?’
    ‘No,’ Cadel replied. ‘I’m going to make one. Out of spare parts.’ He caught sight of the detective’s raised eyebrow, and growled, ‘I didn’t steal it, you know! Someone left it in the street!’
    He knew that there were policemen who still distrusted him, and he assumed that Mr Greeniaus was one of them. But the detective shook his head.
    ‘I’m not accusing you of anything,’ he murmured. ‘I just can’t get over it, is all. You look so young to be building your own computer.’
    ‘I’m fifteen.’
    ‘Yes. I realise that.’
    ‘Cadel’s seen a lot of police over the past few months,’ Fiona observed, dropping onto the bed. ‘You’ll have to excuse him if he’s a little sick of it.’
    Cadel suppressed a smile. He knew quite well that Fiona was the one who had objected most strongly to all the police interviews that he had endured. For one thing, she thought them unnecessary. For another, she was usually required to be with Cadel when they were conducted, since he had no family members to look after his interests.
    Fiona was a busy woman – too busy to be constantly running off to the Donkins’ for yet another police interview.
    ‘Yes,’ said Mr Greeniaus, fixing her with a serious look. ‘We realise it’s been difficult.’
    ‘Especially since there doesn’t seem to be much communication between all you people,’ Fiona went on. ‘I mean, he keeps getting different guys from different units asking him the same questions – ’
    ‘I understand.’ The detective nodded. ‘That’s why we’ve taken your complaints on board. I’ve been officially appointed as Cadel’s liaison officer. I’ll be asking all the questions from now on. Even if the FBI or the NSA want to know something.’
    ‘Aren’t you from the FBI?’ said Cadel, and Mr Greeniaus shook his head.
    ‘No.’
    ‘But you’re American, aren’t you?’
    ‘I’m Canadian.’ The detective spoke quietly and patiently. ‘I was with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police until I came to Australia. Then I joined the police force here.’
    ‘You mean you were a Mountie ?’ Cadel exclaimed in astonishment. He tried to imagine Mr Greeniaus wearing a red jacket and funny pants, sitting up on a horse. It was difficult.
    ‘I don’t ride, if that’s what you’re thinking.’ The detective didn’t smile, but there was a glint in his eye as he looked at Cadel. ‘The RCMP is a regular police force, driving regular cars and wearing regular uniforms. Except on parade.’
    ‘Why did you come here?’ Fiona inquired, with real interest.
    ‘I married an Australian,’ was the calm response. Because Mr Greeniaus was now positioned on the bed beside Fiona, Cadel – who sat facing them – saw the way her curious gaze dropped to the detective’s unadorned left hand. No wedding ring was visible. ‘It didn’t work out,’ Saul Greeniaus declared, and the subject was closed.
    At that instant,