Sarah Longmore's apartment was in Kensington, on the rough edge, near the Dynon railyards in a cracked and potholed dead-end street with unpaved verges, weeds battling to survive. Just before a six-metre corrugated iron wall, I turned into a small cinder yard. A yellow Ford ute, better days seen, had its blistered nose to a building - partly brick, partly cinder-block, partly rusted tin. I parked the Lark next to the ute, switched off the wipers, sat listening to the engine note. Jack Irish - gambler, cook and cabinetmaker, finder of people who don't want to be found - has a new job, hunting for evidence that might save the beautiful sculptor Sarah Longmore from going down for murder. Jack soon discovers there was nothing straightforward about Mickey Franklin's death, and between the case and his own dealings with dodgy racehorses, falls headlong into a world of shady deals, sexual secrets and country rednecks.