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skipped across to the mooring buoy with a few easy strokes. I felt useless, so I went back to the cabin and replaced the three photos. When I got back on deck I watched Guthrie circumnavigating the buoy, pulling and testing ropes, car tyre buffers, and metal stanchions. When he was satisfied, he rowed back.
    After a few more similar stops, Guthrie anchored in deep water and pulled two cans of light beer out of a cooler in the saloon. He had a plastic-wrapped package of sandwiches in there, too. We ate and drank under the awning.
    â€œBrought you out here because I wanted you to see what kind of a boy Ray is. You think I’m pretty good in a boat?”
    I was chewing; I nodded.
    â€œHe’s better. Faster and sharper, and he sticks at it. One time we got a mooring rope wrapped around the propeller shaft, just before we tied up. Getting on for winter it was, dark, cold. Ray stayed in the water, down under there, for as long as it took to work the rope free. Could have cut it but he wouldn’t. Bit of a perfectionist, likes to do things right. You don’t see that all that often.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said. “You don’t.”
    â€œPig-stubborn, mind. But stubborn to a purpose.”
    He sucked his can dry and put it down carefully on the deck. He went into the saloon and came out with a big cheque book and a gold pen.
    â€œI can’t bear to think of that boy ruining his life. I can’t do anything directly about it myself—too old. I don’t trust the police, not in this instance anyway. All I can do is write a bloody cheque and hope you’re as useful as you look and as they say you are.’’
    â€œBefore you write it,” I said, “you have to ask yourself a few questions you might not like the answers to. Why’s he hanging around with Catchpole and company? What’s his trouble? If you hire me, that’s what you’re going to find out, maybe. The picture of him I get comes from you—he’s stubborn; you won’t just be able to say ‘stop’ to him. I won’t, if I find him. You might not like what happens. Your wife mightn’t like it either.”
    He looked at me as if he was sifting the whole of his life inside his head—the good and the bad bits, and wondering how much of each there was still to come. He made a weighing-up gesture with his hands.
    â€œI accept that,” he said. He opened the cheque book, scribbled, tore out the slip and handed it across.
    â€œThat’s more than I asked for.”
    â€œYou don’t ask enough. You’re not the only one who can check up on a bloke. I checked on you. They say you stick at things and that’s what I want. I want your full attention. You’ve got my resources behind you—if you need a thousand suddenly or whatever, you’ve got it. Understand?”
    I nodded and put the cheque away. He seemed to regard money as something to help him get what he wanted rather than as something good in itself or something that conferred a virtue on him. That’s healthy; that’s how I’d regard money—if I had any.
    â€œI’ve got some nosey questions up front. How much money did you give the boys?”
    â€˜â€˜Just usual pocket money. I paid them for work they didon the boats in the school holidays. Bought them both a car—nothing flash. I give Chris an allowance to top up his scholarship, nothing much. Ray worked up here before he took off. I paid him well; overtime, the works.”
    â€œHow big was the row you had? What was it about—money, politics, the future—what?’’
    He was stowing away the remains of the lunch and carefully brushing off crumbs into his hand. “To tell you the truth, I really can’t remember. It wasn’t important, nothing out of the ordinary. We rowed mostly about his attitude. I’d say, ‘Don’t look so bloody miserable, Ray. What’s your