‘True. But Hawke wants to destroy Cardew Street, and what the hell does he propose to put in its place? From what I’ve learned about Salton, he was enough of a politician to realise that the system exists and has to be lived with. It’s the source of economic power and he wanted government to control it, instead of being controlled by it. But Hawke wants to destroy it and I’d hate to see what would happen here then. Campanilla would sink to the level of Haiti.’

McKittrick nodded gloomily. ‘But Salton is dead,’ he said flatly. ‘And that means the Liberal Party is too. So what else is there? Someone has to do something about those fat bastards guzzling at the public trough, and the only runner in sight is Joe Hawke.’

‘Not if you’re in the race,’ I said. ‘Think about it. Think damned hard. Joe Hawke is only tough if no one stands up to him.’ I checked the time. ‘I’d better be going.’

McKittrick turned on his heel and went back into the house without saying a word. I stared at the closed door for a moment and then got into my car. As I did so, I heard the patrolman start his engine with a crackling roar. I turned the car and came abreast of him. ‘El Cerco,’ I shouted, and he nodded briefly.

II

I had no trouble getting past the gate at El Cerco but my escort tactfully stayed outside. Apparently I had some kind of a day pass. I drove down to the quay and parked the car. Ray White was polishing the metalwork on one of the boats but I ignored him, following Hanna’s instructions. I could have gone across to the island but I didn’t feel like talking to Jill Salton right then – I might have given something away. I stood about for a while and, in the end, went up to the airstrip for something to do.

The Haslams were sitting by the swimming pool at the side of their house, very much as they had been on my first visit. It would appear that they, especially Mrs Haslam, lived in a sort of alcohol-induced nirvana, a lotus existence of the type usually found only in the travel advertisements of the glossier Sunday supplements. It was a surprise to remember that Haslam had been to New York and back in the interim.

He got to his feet as I walked over. He looked more worried than ever. ‘Hi, Mr Kemp. What can I do for you?’

I smiled. ‘You can offer me a drink,’ I suggested. ‘It’s another hot day.’

‘Sure,’ he said, and turned to his wife. ‘Bette, how’s the jug doing?’

‘See for yourself,’ she said without looking up. ‘I’m not your slave.’ There was an edginess in her voice I hadn’t heard the last time I was there.