I make a decision. ‘Marko. Frank. I’ve got to get something from my ute. Can you both stay here, and not attack each other or do anything stupid?’

Frank and Marko nod begrudgingly. I walk out to the ute, choose the box I want, and return.

I put the Fatboy box on the island in front of Frank and say, ‘I got this in the mail. It doesn’t have Greg Costello’s name anywhere on it, so it might be nothing to do with him.’ I put my hand on top of the box. I know Marko is probably gobsmacked behind me, since this is another thing I neglected to mention. ‘The name on it is “Fatboy Cakestand”, and I warn you it might be human remains.’

Frank gets up and comes over to the box. There are already tears welling in his eyes.

‘Like I say, it was his nickname: “Fatboy”. I don’t know about the other bit.’

Frank opens the box. His face suggests that for one moment he thinks I’m playing a game with him. He touches the ash uncertainly. I realise he has no way of telling if he is looking at what is left of his brother, or the remains of a pet or a log. I pick out the ring and hand it to him. One sob hiccups its way out, and then he begins to howl. Marko and I don’t know where to look or what to do. Frank pushes the ring against his cheek, and in between sobs says, ‘It’s him. It’s him.’

After some time, he controls himself, wipes his eyes, and says, ‘Thank you. Thank you so much.’ He puts the ring into his pocket, carefully closes the box, and slumps on the stool. He takes a white handkerchief out of his pocket, blows his nose, and then puts the handkerchief back.

‘I knew he was dead. I was only hoping to find some remains, but I guess you never really believe.’ He sniffs. ‘The family will be relieved. At least we have something.’

Dry-eyed, he looks around the room as if searching for context or explanation. ‘So how the fuck do you two fit into all of this?’

‘The trouble just turned up on my doorstep. Marko’s being a mate.’

And then the three of us talk for a while about nothing: sport and stupid people. It’s our way of building a defence against what we suddenly know. I am telling myself that Tito sent the boxes. But he must have had someone handle this for them to arrive this long after his death. Why me? Why money?

Marko breaks the mutual support, and says, ‘If the Vasiliev family are the ones sending tough guys to hassle Dave, what can we do about them?’

Frank gives a half-hearted laugh. ‘Nothing. They’re way too powerful, and I don’t think you two are killers.’