Emily said: ‘Often in the media we ask bereaved people to speak about their grief when it’s still recent, when it’s almost never appropriate. In that early period of mourning, a loss can be hard to apprehend—it should be a private time. If you’re willing, I want to discuss how you’ve coped with this loss over time, over almost eight years.’

‘What I have to say is that I cope by knowing that I should be here for the rest of my family. I remind myself that I should keep living. That I can’t go to a clifftop on the harbour and do myself in. Because I have other children. I’m a grandfather.’

When George raised the subject of suicide, Emily felt an urge to say her father took his own life. That she watched him do it. That one of her earliest feelings of permanence was the wish he’d stayed alive. But she and George weren’t comrades in grief; Emily didn’t want him to think she’d claim that status.

George continued: ‘Fact is, I don’t understand how the grief has changed, or how it’s changed me. I understand what you want. But I can’t give it to you.’

It was Emily’s fourth day in Sydney. Sometimes she thought she was too heartbroken and unskilled to do this part of the job, to ask strangers about murder; the death and grief might be too moving and terrible and inscrutable for her to address, and she could only linger in front of the event, the Third of April rising like a monument, and then leave. Her self-doubt was made worse when people were unwilling to talk to her. And it could be made worse by an old part of Emily saying: whatever it is you’re doing, you’re doing it wrong. Don’t trust yourself.

She called Sophia, the survivor. A boy answered the phone, said, ‘Speaking, please?’, before passing the phone to his mother.

Emily said: ‘I’m writing an article about the Lucky’s franchise for the New Yorker magazine. I’ve been talking to Lucky Mallios and I’d love to ask you some questions, if you—’

‘No, oh fuck no. I’ve done this before, and I’m not going through it again.’

‘The piece will be more of an essay than straight reporting.’

‘What’s the difference?’

‘This would be more like, well, narrative non-fiction.’

‘I don’t need any essays at the moment. I’ve got a lot going on myself.’

At this point Emily’s mother appeared in her mind. Her mum’s voice seemed to come from the empty corner of the hotel room.

‘Emmy, what’s gone wrong now?’ said the representation of Emily’s mother.

‘Some people don’t want to speak to me,’ Emily replied.

‘It’s your tone, isn’t it? Your questions are too nosey. Have you forgotten your manners?’