’ The name Guthrie Ainsworth conjures up images of a very proper English gentleman, with several paragraphs dealing with him and his antecedents in Debrett’s Peerage or ‘Who’s Who’, all pinstripe and bowler hat. Nothing could be further from the truth. He may have inherited the name from that section of English aristocracy, but he was Aussie through and through. ‘G’day Paddy, how’re they hanging?’ ‘No complaints Mate. Have you got the stuff that you were after?’ ‘Not without going through a lot of bullshit from our friends in the police force. It would appear that they are of the mistaken opinion that we are going to crucify them. I had to lie through my teeth to convince them otherwise.’ ‘So, what have you found, if anything?’ ‘There is a list of things that are of interest to us, once we can work out what they might mean. They have listed all of her phone records, both her mobile and your land-line. There are some interesting calls to and from someone that they either couldn’t. When I got there, there was a note on the door that read "come in." I entered the room and could hear the water running in the shower. Unlike my room, which was uncomfortably warm, her room was a comfortable temperature. The radio was playing softly on the student-targeted FM rock station. Cat Stevens was playing. I made myself comfortable, sat on the bed that I guessed was hers, and waited for her to emerge from the bathroom. When she emerged, her hair was still wet and she was wrapped in a white terrycloth robe. She looked more radiant than I had ever seen her. I could tell from the redness around her eyes that she had been crying. We smiled at each other and exchanged hellos. She stood up on her tippy-toes and kissed me on the cheek, thanking me for coming. She lay down on the bed with her head on the pillow, using a white towel to dry her hair and asked me what I wanted to do. I didn't have a clue. The seam of the robe lay draped open seductively exposing her leg. She was not.
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