Yawning, Flowers pulled on his boots and shrugged on the new ski parka he’d bought in Jindabyne. It was 10.45, and the heating was making him sleepy. What he needed was a barista coffee and fresh air. Ryder wasn’t leaving Sydney for another couple of hours, and technically Flowers was off duty.

Outside, the sub-zero temperature brought him instantly awake. The day was still, the trees drooping under their blanket of snow, the lifts spinning overhead. Pulling on his beanie and gloves, he struck out in the direction of the village, dodging the throngs of excited thrillseekers heading up the mountain. When he reached a hole-in-the-wall cafe, he ordered a coffee, then strolled past the shops, his blood pumping with fresh alpine air.

He was tossing his cup in the bin when he noticed the Gilbert Gallery that Wendy Buchanan had told him about. Inside, soft white lighting accentuated the artworks hung on a purple wall, while pieces of wood-turned furniture filled the floor below. An elderly man with small, round glasses looked up from a desk at the rear of the gallery, murmured a quiet good morning, then left Flowers to wander around.

He unzipped his jacket, hot now from the coffee and central heating. The walls were hung with wintery landscapes of rivers and mountains, of brumbies and wombats in the snow. After a while, he came to a section displaying John Gilbert’s work. A striking sketch of the Cooma courthouse displaying a mind-boggling price tag was hung high on the wall. Below it was another sketch of the main range, drawn from the Charlotte Pass snow gums boardwalk. A third sketch was centred above a console table. Flowers leaned in to read the information card: Towards White Winter Station from Southern Cloud Lookout.

‘Let me know if I can be of help,’ the man said, looking up from his paperwork.

Flowers wandered over to the desk. ‘Mr Gilbert?’

The man removed his reading glasses. ‘I am.’

‘Detective Constable Mitchell Flowers.’

‘Oh heavens.’ Gilbert left his glasses on the desk and stood up. ‘Is there a problem of some sort?’

‘No problem. I was looking at some of your work in Jindabyne yesterday. Wendy Buchanan told me about the gallery.’

‘Oh, dear Wendy.’ Gilbert came out from behind the desk, walking with care as though he feared he might fall. ‘She’s been incredibly supportive of my work over the years, and she does so much for the community.’

Flowers nodded. ‘I noticed her carrying an armload of Vinnies bags the other day.’

‘Oh, she’s always scouting about,’ he said with a smile, deep grooves lining his face. ‘When she first opened the cafe, she’d trawl through the second-hand outlets, and perhaps pick up an antique jug or a first edition book. She’d put them in the section of the shop where you found my prints.’

‘She said she still sources pieces for her niece,’ said Flowers.