An old runabout is puttering between house and sheds, avoiding machinery as it goes. This bloke has no more idea about bundles of cash than I do. Maybe someone offered him a big sum to be involved, and maybe it’s just a coincidence. It prompts me to drive in to introduce myself. When I stop alongside a rusting front-end loader, a small man with sticking-out teeth walks over, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He is bright and bouncing as he says, ‘G’day. How can I help you?’

I put my hand out and say, ‘Dave Martin.’

He smiles up his teeth. ‘Dave fucking Martin. I’ve been wanting to meet you for some time.’ He pumps my hand with the vigour of a man used to compensating for size with effort.

‘How the bloody hell have we never met?’ He stares at my face so intently, I feel like he’s expecting me to start looking like something he understands.

‘I really don’t know.’

‘So you haven’t got any of my mail?’

‘No. Never have.’

‘That is strange. We get the wrong mail all the time — perfectly addressed letters to someone five properties down the road, dropped off here. It’s like half the time they don’t bother to sort it. And yet two names and addresses very similar, and only one crossover. Bloody hell, eh?’

I shake my head in good-natured agreement.

‘How’s the season over your way?’ he asks.

‘Really good. We’ve been lucky with the rain.’

‘Get your oats in?’

‘No.’ I’m not giving him more than that.

‘I’ve got a pump for you somewhere.’

He bounds off, springs in his feet, electricity in his arms, and returns with a box.

‘There you go. Do you want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No, thanks. I’d better get going. Nice to meet you finally.’

We shake hands as I cradle the box. He knows it’s a pump, so he must have had a look inside.

‘How’s the play going?’ For some reason, I feel this could be the one question that might catch him out. The play, and the need for printed money, don’t fit into these surroundings.

Dave rolls his eyes. ‘The wife’s play? Real good, thanks. Some of the players even know some of their lines.’ He laughs like this is a favourite joke, regularly told.

I leave, thinking that nothing could be less strange or sinister. Dave is as true-blue as you get. It’s me who’s off-centre.