Some Zac Batista profiles on Facebook – there were seven of them, including, yes, Zac.

Google Images: Zac Batista.

Yep, there he was, in amongst his several namesakes. Otherwise, there were a number of Zac Bautistas, some YouTube videos with Zac Efron, and … that was about it.

‘That’s a bit weird,’ Biddy said. ‘I’d have expected more information about him. Didn’t you say he had another name?’

‘Yeah, Jerónimo. But he changed that years ago.’

Biddy keyed it in, and yes, there were some Jerónimo Batistas, but none of them were Zac.

He hadn’t posted anything on Facebook since October, his first week at Natural Opulence. Pictures of his new office space, published with the carefree confidence of a man who didn’t yet know he was heading to prison.

‘This all looks legit,’ I said, deflated. Next to one photo, he’d thanked Sarah for helping him choose his office furniture.

I yawned, wanted to consummate my rapprochement with Biddy. Should I stay over? Was I meant to go home?

‘What about Insta?’ she said.

‘Let’s do it.’

She scrolled on her phone. I’d seen them all, knew them all. More than a hundred people had liked his most recent post, a picture of a tree, its shadow reaching out against a pink pastel wall. A little abstract for my own taste but, hey …

‘That’s a lot of likes,’ Biddy said. ‘Do you reckon he buys those followers?’

‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘But it’s hardly a hanging offence.’

Was part of me happy the trail was going cold? Maybe – it was nearly midnight – but that was hardly a hanging offence either. I’d ask him straight up about his masters, see what he had to say.

‘Shall we call it a night?’ I said, stroking Biddy’s arm.

‘Yeah, maybe. Are you staying … Hey … Look at this.’

A photo from late December on Zac’s feed. I’d seen it already, liked it: an elderly Asian man eating noodles, shot candidly through a window and tagged as Chinatown, Melbourne.

‘Look at the reflection in the window,’ Biddy said. ‘See how there are no leaves on those trees?’

‘Ah yeah … We can maybe return to this tomorrow.’

She looked at me, back at the phone, back at me. ‘Why are there no leaves, beauty?’

‘No idea,’ I said. ‘Maybe … Yeah, actually … Why are there no leaves on those trees? It’s summertime.’

She took a screenshot of the image on her phone, emailed it to herself, dragged it into Image Search on her laptop.

One match – Zac’s Instagram account.

She returned to her phone, took some more screenshots of his pictures, emailed them to herself, opened them, dragged them into Google Images, and …

Zac’s Instagram account – no other matches. The photos were his – we could have sex now.

‘Maybe tomorrow we can –’