Of course, the best part about being part of the IPA was working alongside Dan, not that we needed an excuse anymore. Any time he wasn’t at The Lobster Factory he spent with me—turned out he wasn’t only good in bed but pretty handy with a hammer as well. While we alternated between working on the shack and working on each other, we also talked. Much of our conversation revolved around the mystery of Bill and I felt almost as invested in his story as Dan.

Since the first email from Stacy, he’d exchanged many more with her, coming completely clean about his suspicions they shared the same father. She was shocked at first, but then he’d emailed the picture his mum had painted of Bill and some of the photos from the wall of fame. Although Stacy had never met her father, the few photos she had in her possession left no uncertainty that it was him. She sent Dan photos of Bill’s dad and brother, and the likeness between these strangers and Dan was what my grandmother would have called uncanny.

Even without the confirmation from the police, these images and the close DNA match between him and Stacy all but confirmed that Bill had fathered them both. Sadly, the report couldn’t offer the newfound siblings answers to all the questions that had arisen.

‘It’d be virtually impossible these days to disappear or fake your own death—what with all the newfangled technology,’ Dan had said.

I agreed. ‘Facial recognition photography, digital imprints and Mark Zuckerberg have a lot to answer for.’

His lips had quirked a little at that. ‘But it would have been different in the seventies. Especially in a war zone.’

We’d come up with a number of possible ways Bill might have done it and subsequently come to Australia, our favourite being that he’d hitched a ride on one of the many refugee boats that came to our shores during that time. But it wasn’t the logistics that truly bothered Dan.

So many times he’d pause while we were talking and drop his head into his hands. ‘But why? I just don’t understand. It’s bad enough being a deserter … but to leave your pregnant wife.’

‘Remember, he didn’t know she was pregnant,’ I said, ‘and although we might never understand, I’m sure he had his reasons. Maybe he was dealing with something we’ll never know, like he’d done something and was scared for his wife’s safety? It could have been his way to protect her.’

‘You mean like a witness protection kind of thing?’