‘For those who find it interesting,’ I said. A tautology is a good way of evading an issue; that’s something I’ve learned from listening to too many politicians.

‘You’re an off-islander,’ he said abruptly. ‘You’ve not been here long.’

I leaned back in the chair. ‘How do you know?’

‘No tan. Just out from England?’

I looked at him thoughtfully. ‘Yes. I’m interested in local conditions.’

‘By reading about a dead man?’ His voice was flat but the irony was not lost. ‘Taking notes, too.’

‘Is it illegal?’

He suddenly smiled. ‘I guess not. My name’s Jackson.’ He waved his hand. ‘I get into the habit of asking too many questions. I work here.’

‘A reporter?’

‘Sort of.’ He gestured at Salton’s obituary. ‘I wrote that.’

‘You write well,’ I said politely.

‘You’re a liar,’ said Jackson without rancour. ‘If I did I wouldn’t be in this crummy place. What’s the interest in Salton?’

‘You do ask questions,’ I said.

Unapologetically he said, ‘It’s my job. You don’t have to answer. I can find out another way if I have to.’

‘You didn’t come in by accident and find me here.’

He grinned. ‘Mary Josephine tipped me off. The girl at the desk. We like to know who checks our files. It’s routine.’ He paused. ‘Sometimes it even pays off. Not often, though.’

All that was quite possibly true. I said cautiously, ‘Well, Mr Jackson, if you were interested in the future of the late Mr Salton’s companies, wouldn’t you be interested in knowing how he died?’

‘I guess so.’ He looked at my notebook. ‘You don’t have to take notes. I’ll give you a copy of anything you want.’

‘In exchange for what?’

‘No strings,’ he said. ‘It’s in the public domain. But if you turn anything up – anything unusual – I’d be glad to know.’

I smiled at him. ‘I don’t think my principals would like publicity. Is anything unusual likely to turn up?’

Jackson shrugged. ‘If a guy turns over enough stones he’s sure to find something nasty some place.’

‘And you think there’s something nasty to be found by looking under Mr Salton’s stones. That’s very interesting. What sort of a man was Salton?’

‘No worse than any other son-of-a-bitch.’

My eyebrows rose. ‘You didn’t like him?’

‘He was a gold-plated bastard.’

I glanced down at the obituary. ‘You’re a better writer than you think, Mr Jackson. It doesn’t show here.’

‘Company policy,’ said Jackson. ‘Mrs Salton owns the Chronicle.’

That was a new one on me but I didn’t let him know that. I said, ‘If you talk like this to strangers you’re not likely to be on the payroll much longer. How do you know I’m not a friend of Mrs Salton’s?’