Emily called Peter Popescu, not knowing what else to do, determined this time to prise the number out of him. He said he was fine, thank you, about to take a lunch break. Emily promised him she wouldn’t mess up an interview with Joanna, would not misrepresent her experience or views, would not write about the Third of April without acquiring meaningful consent. Would not pursue the article at all if enough people refused to speak to her. Emily said she herself had witnessed a traumatic event as a child and it made her want to write well about violence and grief and trauma, to narrativise an event with honesty.

‘Look—don’t say where you got the number,’ said Popescu, relenting. ‘Hang on, wait: that would be dishonest. If Joanna asks, yes, tell her I gave it to you. No question she suffered in her own way. But don’t quote me on that. And also give her my best?’

Emily found cold phone calls difficult—all that needy, intrusive and mercenary interaction. She went for a walk up and down the hotel hallway and when she returned to her room it seemed more possible, likely even, that Joanna would be ready to talk, finally ready to talk at length about her son, the catastrophe of her only child. Henry was born to someone; he was a boy once, a toddler, a kid who knew nothing about guns or murder, and then something had happened, something had failed in his environment or family or his mental process. Henry’s mother, if anyone, understood this full tragedy. There must be a surge of words waiting in Joanna Matfield. In the hallway Emily walked these thoughts into her blood.

She picked up the phone and called Joanna, who said with anger: ‘I will never talk to you. Please do not call again.’

Still feeling jolted and shamed by these words, Emily followed one impossible call with another: George Lee, father of Chris, a chef killed at Lucky’s cafe. In a Herald story from 1994, which Emily kept in a folder of clippings, George was described as an employee at a shoe repair store in Marrickville. On the phone with the only such store in that area, Emily asked for George Lee, and when he came to the phone she heard him exhale loudly, like he’d had this conversation before. Emily explained why she was calling.

‘Can we meet? Whenever might be convenient for you? It can be for as brief a period of time as you wish.’

‘You want a picture of Chris—something to use in the article, right?’

‘No, I’m not asking for a picture.’

‘I never talk about the person who did it. In our family, we don’t talk about him. We believe no one should talk about him.’