The woman shrugged. “Who’s he to say what’s garbage? Your mother inherited it, not him, and Marilyn sold it to me as-was, eventually. Any rate, the Smiths aren’t welcome here anymore. Bit odd.” She glanced at us speculatively. Trish crossed her arms.

“Aberdeen!” said Gwenda Sage abruptly, and jerked her chin at Trish. “Your dad never had time for me, neither.”

“None of us are our dads,” said Trish.

“Or our mothers,” I ventured, startling myself. “Are we?”

“You’d be surprised,” muttered Gwenda. “As for mothers…” She looked me up and down from my sandals to my hair, and sniffed.

“Miss Sage,” prompted Gary.

“Gwenda Sage,” said Trish, stepping forward. “We’ve got time for you. We’re looking for someone who knows what happened to the Scott boys, and Mr Scott and Tina and my—” She paused, and gave a surprisingly helpless shrug. “Well, everything.”

I hadn’t considered that Trish might be looking for something too.

“What will you give me?” challenged Gwenda.

“I’ve given you your mail,” said Gary.

“That’s the law.”

“I’ll fix your gate,” he said. I hadn’t noticed anything wrong with it. “All right?”

Gwenda laughed. “Fence yourself out in future, then, along with the rest of them. You can come in, this once. You keep your word, though,” she warned as Gary filed past. “You listen,” (that to Trish), then to me, “And you hold your tongue and don’t touch anything.” She sniffed again, which was rude; even through the incense she smelled of sweat, dirt and burned metal. “Lemons,” she said. The cat at her feet hissed.

Overstuffed sofas, piled with bright crocheted rugs and cushion-covers, crowded the sitting-room. Antique frames with domed glass had been filled with a collage of photos. Most were of a grinning schoolboy, but occasionally there was a younger Gwenda with startling hair and a garish dress. Dead flowers, stiff, gathered dust in dented brass vases, laced together by spiderwebs. Mother never liked cut flowers, not even everlastings.

There were packs of cards, too, but not playing cards, a thin book with the title in cursive, We Meet in Dreams, and several magazines of Spirituality and Ancient Wisdom, printed on thin paper.

I gingerly shifted these so I could sit. Headlines about cryptobotany, guardian grims, and the consciousness of stones slid grittily over each other. Gwenda Sage would probably get on with Old Pinnicke.

As she gave us lukewarm tea and damp shortbread creams, I ventured, “That was a handsome sculpture in the front paddock, Miss Sage.” Politeness was always a safe option. “It is one of yours, isn’t it?”

She didn’t answer, just raised her sparse eyebrows and looked at Gary.

“Tina’s brothers—Chris and Mitch Scott—took off,” he said shortly.

“Boys will,” said Gwenda.

“And Mr Scott, too,” added Trish. “They found his car, smashed, but no sign of him.”

“Like Uncle Davy—David Spicer,” said Gary.

“And others,” said Trish.