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have any idea who that could be?’
    I’d thought her story was thin in some way, and it was odd she hadn’t tried to find the missing kid. Did she have some other agenda? But now she seemed genuinely alarmed.
    â€˜No.’
    â€˜Let’s say you’re right and your husband was framed or railroaded by whoever ordered the killing, or by the police, or both. If anyone starts poking around and finds things out, and the person or persons who arranged the frame-up learns of it . . .’
    â€˜I simply had not considered that.’
    Her reaction didn’t entirely convince me, but at least she could imagine a scenario playing out in which she or her son or both could be at risk. She was silent for a few minutes and revealed her agitation by playing with the chains around her neck. I was tempted to go easy on her at this point but I held back, watching her and saying nothing.
    â€˜Are you going to help me . . . us?’
    â€˜I’ll try, but you have to understand I’m more interested in helping Frank. You’ve thrown him into a spin.’
    â€˜I’m sorry,’ she said, but I wasn’t sure she was.

5
    I told Catherine Heysen I’d keep her informed. She was happy to see me go. As she ushered me out I wondered how she spent her time. I didn’t see any books where books might have been. Getting herself tricked out must have taken time but not all day. I had a sense that her life was as empty as her house.
    I had to hope my manner didn’t cause her to bother Frank, but I suspected they had an arrangement. I had a number of people to see and this early in the piece there was no particular priority: the order of approach was dictated by geography and availability. Gregory Heysen’s solicitor, Michael Simmonds, had an office in Canterbury while Rex Wain, one of the cops, since retired, who’d worked with Frank, was in Marrickville. A toss-up.
    I called Simmonds on my mobile. He was in court. I got an appointment for mid-afternoon. Rex Wain I’d run into a few times in the course of business. I had a vague, unfavourable recollection of him as one of the bully boys of whom there were so many back then. Frank hadn’t kept in touch but had asked around and got his number. I got the voice message. I left my name and mobile number and asked him to call. The other names on my list—the other ex-cops and cops still serving; the sister of Rafael Padrone, the man who’d fingered Heysen; the pathologist who’d testified about Bellamy’s wounds; and several professional associates of the two doctors—were scattered about to all points of the compass.
    In days gone by I would’ve killed the time until my appointment with the solicitor in a pub, but now I don’t eat breakfast or lunch and keep my drinking till the evening— mostly, unless it’s impolite to refuse. I decided to put in a little more work on Catherine Heysen herself and drove to Kingsgrove where Henry Hamil has his studio.
    â€˜Hercules’ Henry, as he was known in his wrestling days, is a fashion photographer. I did some work for him a few years back, when a disgruntled model had hired a bunch of kids to steal Henry’s equipment. The kids double-crossed the model and I got the equipment back cheaply. Henry and I had stayed in touch over the occasional drink and attendance at boxing nights.
    Henry was as far from Catherine Heysen’s stereotype of the effeminate photographer as it was possible to be. He was pushing sixty, twice married with two sets of kids, and kept himself fit by running. He’d had several successful exhibitions of his non-fashion photos, but he knew everybody in that world. No need to call him; he worked out of his studio and people came to him.
    I climbed the steps to his studio, which had once been a cheese factory. Henry claimed he could sometimes still pick the smell of a ripe gorgonzola, but I’d never detected it. When I arrived