The waist-high fence was made of heavy timber framing and cyclone mesh. Along its length, wild oats on the outside and roses inside battled for sunlight. The gate was of white pickets and the latch and hinges seemed outsized compared to the usual domestic variety. The gate had a welcoming creak, and a path of gravel wound around a silver princess mallee leading to the verandah. Everlastings and marigolds covered the spaces between the other trees. A solid timber balustrade, also white like the pickets, surrounded the timber verandah. Some loose and warping verandah boards had been returned to order by a steel barrel strap, now sheened with rust. An ornate green timber flyscreen door hung loosely. Beyond the door Cardilini could see a dark corridor travelling to sunlight at the rear. He tried rapping his knuckles on the timber door frame. The door rattled but little noise penetrated the depth of the corridor and he received no response. He tried again more firmly with the same result. Walking to the right side of the verandah, he saw that it extended to the rear of the house past three pairs of French doors. The rear verandah was populated with chairs of all sorts: from cane lounge chairs to stiff, timber highbacks. He approached the rear entrance where another flyscreen door hung lazily. He knocked and called, ‘Hello.’

‘Over here,’ a male voice answered from behind him.

Cardilini turned and looked out onto two squares of green lawn extending to the dense foliage of trees.

‘In the lean-to.’

Cardilini started down the path. Off to his right was a bush shelter; four tree trunks sunk into the earth with cross-timbers supporting brush packed and tied to about a foot deep on the roof. He saw the rear of a man’s head under the shelter. Cardilini walked towards him.

‘Sit down,’ a voice said, though the man didn’t look up. Cardilini sat opposite and recognised the lean old man who had been talking to Carmody at the cricket match. Cardilini thought it might be the same man he’d seen exiting Braun’s office the first day he went to the school. The man’s long limbs were narrow and sinewy; his face, complementing the lack of flesh on his body, was almost skeletal with tight, raw skin drawn across his cheekbones. His downcast, hooded eyes were locked on a book.

‘That’s ginger beer there, help yourself,’ the man said without looking up.

‘No thanks,’ Cardilini said.

‘I make it myself.’

‘Okay.’ Cardilini grabbed a glass and filled it. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Cardilini.’

The man put his book down. Sharp, luminous blue eyes scrutinised Cardilini.

‘I saw you at a St Nicholas cricket match,’ Cardilini said.

‘Oh, yes. I wander up sometimes. I make suggestions to the players who politely listen then walk away. What can I do for you?’ The elderly man asked.