Nash’s eyes widened in alarm as a heavily made-up woman thrust a long black microphone at him. Behind her were a burly cameraman and another man in a black T-shirt. It was not the local news mob, but a city outfit.

‘Rob Nash? Tracey Burnshore from Tonight. Can you explain to our viewers why you left your wife to die?’

Nash couldn’t slam the door because she was already half inside. Over her shoulder, the eye of the camera bored accusingly into him.

‘Get out of the way,’ he told her. ‘I’m closing the door.’

‘Why won’t you answer our questions, Rob? People want to know your side of the story.’

‘I said, get out.’

‘Rob, was it really an accident?’

Nash leaned his weight against the door until she was forced back onto the veranda and had to retract the microphone for fear of having it cut in half. He crouched down on his haunches as she began authoritatively pounding on the door.

‘What about Natalie’s family? Don’t you think they deserve some answers?’

It was the third such ambush in as many months. Ever since The World Tonight had gone to air, the tabloid press had been stalking him. He’d hoped the inquest, which had exonerated him from legal culpability, would have put an end to it. No chance. There was nothing more newsworthy than a high-profile fall from grace, and in a small-population state like Western Australia, they were determined to milk it for all it was worth.

Burning with shame, he listened through the door as they wound up the segment.

‘Natalie Nash . . . drowned in suspicious circumstances . . . suggestions of foul play for financial gain . . . problems in the marriage.’

The reporter reeled off the collapse of their sponsorship deals and reiterated a breathless call for justice – at the very least, a civil case. Finally, they packed up, got back in their van and drove off. Nash realised he was shaking.

A few moments later, another vehicle pulled up. Heart pounding, he peered out through a crack in the blinds. This time it was Jacquie, and he opened the door before she got to it.

‘You look bloody terrible,’ she said. ‘Were you out there all night again?’ Scrutinising him with eyes uncannily like his own, she took his hand and saw how badly it was shaking. ‘Oh God, don’t tell me. That van – was it the press again?’

He pulled her inside and quickly shut the door.

‘Oh, Rob, the bastards.’ She hugged him tightly for a long moment. Then she looked around the room. ‘Christ, what a mess! I hope you didn’t let them see this?’