‘Cate, yes. Do you have time to hear how it all started, Detective?’

‘Sure.’ It seemed Gilbert was up for a chat, which suited Flowers. He might learn more about the Lorrimers.

‘A woman came into the shop and was delighted to find a replica of a distinctive orange bowl, identical to one her late grandmother had given her, and which she had broken. It wasn’t an expensive piece but it was of great sentimental value. Word got around, and people began asking Wendy if she could look for this and that when she was out and about, like a single crystal wine glass that had been broken from a set of six.’ Gilbert shook his head. ‘She has an astonishing success rate, but more importantly, she loves doing it.’

‘She takes special requests?’ asked Flowers.

‘Absolutely, it’s become a hobby of hers over the years. You’ll often see her with a basket of vegetables from her garden, and some treasure she’s found, on her way to visit a neighbour. She spreads her largesse far and wide, as C J Dennis wrote.’

‘The world needs people like her,’ said Flowers, going back to the sketch Gilbert had drawn from Southern Cloud Lookout. ‘She said you’ve drawn White Winter Station a lot.’

‘Yes, initially the old house, but as I became more familiar with the property I branched out into landscapes. Of course, the station is in the distance in that one.’

‘You must know the family well.’

Gilbert hesitated. ‘I’d describe us as acquaintances. It’s terribly sad how they just lost Art. I’d never met him. I assume you know all about that.’

‘We’re investigating the crash,’ said Flowers, then continued on in case Gilbert was inclined to ask questions. ‘They had a great print of the cemetery in the cafe. I liked that one.’

‘The original’s right here,’ Gilbert said, heading back towards his desk. ‘I’m afraid it’s not for sale though. It’s my wife’s favourite.’

Flowers followed then stopped to stare in awe at the sketch easily ten times the size of the print he’d seen yesterday. He recognised the jacarandas, and the tall hedge bordering the gravestones that he’d assumed to be a maze. One headstone towered over the others, a white angel with intricately carved wings perched on a column scattering rose petals.

‘That’s cool.’

‘Thank you. It’s a shame they’ve let the cemetery go in recent years.’

An image of Ethan Lorrimer tidying the area returned to his mind, but then something in the sketch caught Flowers’ attention. He moved closer, peering at the name on the headstone that hadn’t been visible in the smaller print.

‘Herbert Buchanan?’ he asked, turning to look at Gilbert.

‘Yes, Herbert was Wendy’s great-grandfather. Wendy was born in that house seventy-something years ago. She lived there until she was ten, I think.’

‘She didn’t say.’