She turned on her bedside lamp and pulled her laptop onto her bed, searching the internet for more details on Byron. She had been in such a daze when he’d left that she hadn’t even asked for his surname. What kind of reporter am I? No wonder Byron questioned my credentials. Of course, she normally relied on someone’s business card for surnames, but Byron hadn’t given her one – unheard of, in Hong Kong. He really was being secretive about his job. After half an hour online, Lucy was well equipped with ideas for salt-tolerant plants for gardening around Byron Bay, on Australia’s east coast; she was an expert on soil composition in southern China; and she had a workable knowledge of funeral practices in Hong Kong. She’d also reacquainted herself with some of the works of Lord Byron. But she was no closer to the identity of her Byron. Lucy left the poetry site and Googled HD, shirt and malaria. Again, a lot of information but nothing useful at all. She sighed and put her mystery package back in the too-hard basket.
