Nash pulled back to stare at her thoughtfully. He knew her business empire was at that fragile point of equilibrium, where it would either soar or crash. And then there were his parents. He knew they’d invested heavily in the project, and they weren’t getting any younger.

‘Nothing. It’s nothing.’ She managed a smile. ‘I just love you so much. Please get some help and sort things out. If not for yourself, then do it for me. Please.’

He let her out of the front door and watched her stride determinedly up the path. Then she stopped and turned around with a laugh.

‘I just remembered why I came over. Uncle Frank is trying to get on to you.’

‘Uncle’ Frank Douglas was an old navy comrade of their father’s they’d known since childhood. Something of a rough diamond, he’d lived most of his adult life in Papua New Guinea, flying choppers. Nash had got him a contract five years ago on a major expedition in PNG with the Global Geographic channel, and they had worked on several projects until Natalie’s death.

‘What does he want?’ Nash was fond of the old roustabout, but he wasn’t in the mood to talk to anyone.

Jacquie rolled her eyes. ‘If you won’t answer the phone, then at least check your messages. He’s driving me nuts. Wants to talk to you about some cave. It’s all in an email.’

After watching Jacquie drive away, Nash went back inside and made himself a strong black coffee. Then he divided up the mail into three big piles and forced himself to look through it. Most of it was bills, final demands for electricity, gas, rates . . . some of them were dated six months before. With a guilty start, he realised they must have been paid by Jacquie or his parents. Then there were the letters from old friends, trying not to sound hurt at being cut off and offering support. There was plenty of hate mail, too. The most succinct simply read: ‘Fucking coward, hope you burn in Hell for what you did to that girl’. Finally, he got to the bank statements. The facts were stark. His credit cards had just been cancelled with total debts of 25,000 dollars. His 300,000 dollar mortgage was five months in arrears. The most recent letter from the bank was threatening foreclosure if he didn’t immediately make arrangements.

It was one hell of a comedown. For the last decade, Nash had shot documentaries with several cable channels and published three books. Until the accident, it had all been on an upward trajectory, and he’d been poised to rake in serious money. But, with his name trashed, the projects and the dollars had all dried up.