It was an hour later, as he worked through alternative possibilities, that Gabriel’s photo appeared on the screen. In fact it took Chandler so much by surprise that he sped through another couple of images of orphaned children before scrolling back. The image that confronted him was definitely Gabriel, a younger version, his hair cropped close to his skull, accentuating the gaunt quality of his face. He looked like a concentration camp survivor rather than an orphan, but it was unmistakably him. David Gabriel Taylor.

Chandler’s heart raced as he studied the attached file and notes. The occasional bout of bed-wetting and emotional – bordering on violent – outbursts, but nothing more than the struggles of a scared young boy. Unfortunately the record ended as abruptly as it had started. Gabriel had been allocated a foster home after only six months, the name and address of his foster parents scribbled in a column at the side. Dina and Geoffrey Wilson from Glendon, situated on the outskirts of Perth.

Chandler made the call. It was answered after a few rings.

‘Is this Mr Geoffrey Wilson?’ he asked.

‘It is indeed.’

Expecting to have to mollify an irate householder woken from sleep, he was surprised to encounter a pleasant, deep, gravelly voice.

‘I’m Sergeant Chandler Jenkins from Wilbrook Police Station. I’d like to—’

‘Sergeant Jenkins from where?’ interrupted Mr Wilson.

‘Wilbrook, up north in the Pilbara.’

‘What are you doing up there?’ asked Mr Wilson, before rephrasing. ‘I mean, why are you phoning me? At this hour?’

‘I have a couple of questions regarding a David Gabriel—’

The gravelly voice interrupted, the politeness gone.

‘I know Gabriel.’

‘Well, I have a couple—’

‘I – we don’t want anything to do with him, Sergeant.’

Chandler’s interest was piqued. He heard a rustle from the other end, the sound of a receiver about to be hung up. He jumped in. ‘Please, Mr Wilson, just a couple of questions. Don’t you even want to know why I’m phoning?’ Chandler hoped that curiosity would keep his caller on the line.

‘No,’ said Geoffrey, firmly. ‘We – me and my wife – tried to teach him right from wrong and he threw it back in our face.’

‘Right from wrong? Like in a religious sense?’

‘Yes – in a religious sense, Sergeant.’ The voice remained calm but insistent.

‘So you’re religious then?’

‘We are. And proud of it,’ said Mr Wilson sternly, as if there were some insinuation in Chandler’s question. ‘We tried to bring him up in a good way, a righteous way, especially after what happened to his family.’

‘What hap—?’

‘A car crash, Sergeant. A horrible experience for a boy at that tender age no doubt, but one we believed he could recover from. We wanted to teach him that despite what God had thrown at him, the Lord was good and would guide him. If he repented for his sins and obeyed His word.’