‘Robbie!’ His eyes were wide. ‘Had to come and see you. This deal is big, my friend. Huge. Hey, did you just get out of bed?’

Blinking in the early morning sunlight, Nash reluctantly opened the door. The dream had jangled his senses. Was this part of the nightmare?

In a fawn leisure suit and tan loafers, Frank Douglas looked like a time traveller from the 1970s. Even more incongruous was the shiny new black briefcase he was holding.

‘Frank . . . you came all this way?’

‘You left me no choice, laddie. Time and tide wait for no one.’

Douglas flashed a too-perfect smile. Years ago, a shard of aluminium from an exploding helicopter rotor had removed most of his teeth and half his nose. The resultant stitch work had given him a porcine aspect that hadn’t improved with age.

He looked Nash critically up and down. ‘You look like an escapee from the Burma Railway – all skin and bone. Get some duds on and I’ll take you down to the surf club for a fry-up before we get down to business.’

‘Slow down, Frank. What about a cup of tea?’

‘OK, OK, but have you got coffee?’

Nash got the machine going while Douglas expanded on the merits of his AirAsia flight crew.

‘Nothing’s too much trouble, service with a smile, and there’s nothing more sexy than small and demure, am I right?’

Handing him a long black, Nash realised Douglas must now be about seventy. Although the tropical tan made him appear hale, there was a hint of jaundice in the whites of his eyes, which were a similar colour to his nicotine-stained fingers. There was also a hint of desperation. It was a six-hour flight from Port Moresby, and Nash wasn’t looking forward to telling Douglas he wasn’t interested in the expedition.

Back in the living room, Douglas saw the picture of Natalie on the laptop, which Nash had forgotten to switch off.

‘Mate, I’m sorry,’ he mumbled.

If they’d spoken at the funeral, Nash couldn’t remember. He closed the laptop. Every time someone brought up Natalie’s loss it was like tearing the scab off the wound.

Douglas reached for his cigarettes, then hesitated.

‘You can smoke on the deck.’

Nash opened the bi-fold doors. As Douglas went past him, an odour of Scotch trailed in his wake. Placing his shiny briefcase on the outdoor table, he extracted a cigarette from the packet with his too-white false teeth. Seeing Nash was drinking peppermint tea, he smiled.

‘Still the health nut, eh? You’re as bad as your dad and mum. How are they, by the way?’

‘Keeping busy.’

‘With the . . . what do you call it?’

‘Wildlife sanctuary.’