Ryan Wolfe

Moment of truth.

Ian, are you here?

Oh, hello?

Which one's the entry here?

Just heard someone.

You would happen to be Ian, would you?

You would?

Just the man I'm looking for.

To my astonishment, there he was, sitting on his balcony, having a coffee, eating his breakfast.

Ian, the man who wasn't dead.

I'm a journalist.

I'm working on an old story from about 25 years ago.

A story that may involve a man by the name of Gus.

Thanks, mate.

Ian's home is effectively a large three-bedroom extension of his workshop.

The workshop he once shared with Gus, sitting high on stilts in the classic Queenslander style.

It looks out over a beautiful field of long grass, surrounded by trees, which runs right to the edge of the nearby Mary River.

When I mention Gus's name, a look of understanding comes across Ian's face, and he kindly beckons me upstairs to join him on the balcony.

I can already tell Ian is friendly and accommodating, and given his recognition of Gus's name, I feel like I'm on the right track.

But it could yet go either way.