‘Or do you prefer to be called by your Christian name when you’re off-duty?’ Dad asks, his voice awkwardly formal. ‘I imagine as with other jobs that –’

‘Eric. I’m Eric when I’m off-duty.’

We stand in a circle. There are no other customers. At the end of the aisle I can see the checkout chick in profile – sixteen at most – arms folded across her blue apron, skinny ponytail, watching the rain fall in sheets from the gutter onto the footpath. The bagger, another rangy, sloped-shouldered teenager, glances our way before he returns his gaze to the girl.

‘Eric, I’m glad we ran into you because it’s been several weeks since I had any updates from you or your sergeant,’ Dad says. ‘I hope you’re still giving your full attention to investigating Skye’s accident.’

Roberts doesn’t strike me as the scoffing kind, but he scoffs. ‘I would if I could. Sergeant Doyle has declared this a closed case – car trouble. Which leaves me with nothing to investigate. He did tell you that, didn’t he?’ He frowns in confusion.

Dad has no idea about the deal Doyle struck with Abby and me. But I did think Doyle would’ve told him the case was closed, come up with some lie about why. Whether it’s an oversight or deliberate, I can see on Dad’s face that this is a blow. There’s no longer any mystery he needs explained by the cops, but the fact they’ve stopped investigating must suggest to him the case is not important, that Skye’s death deserves no more man hours.

It’s obvious that Dad asked Roberts about the case because it’s all they have to discuss, and he did it aggressively because he goes on the offensive to feel in control. It’s like Abby with her lists. But with this unexpected turn in the conversation the three of us are floundering. Dad’s winded, unable to figure out how to navigate this encounter without losing face. Off-duty Roberts has unwittingly broken news and must be wondering why. And I just want to get food and leave this place.

‘Your sergeant needs to communicate a little better,’ Dad says. ‘That’s something I should’ve been told. I –’

‘Okay,’ Roberts says, eyes shooting from Dad to me and back again. ‘What if we drop this charade? We’re all adults. John, you know, don’t you?’

Dad straightens up. ‘I know you lot are acting like Keystone Cops. It’s been three months and –’

‘And we know what happened. We know your son and daughter were driving to your farm and ran a car off the road, killing the driver –’

‘Hey, whoa!’ I say.

‘That is an absolutely outrageous –’ Dad is loud, but neither of us can stop Roberts from forging ahead.

‘They crossed the bridge. Your son told the publican and three customers at the Chinchilla Pub that they crossed the bridge that night. They were driving away from your farm, not towards it. They had wet hair and clothes because they’d been in the rain, in the ditch with your fiancée. They lied about the times. They lied to you about everything. John, I know the who and when and I can guess at the how, but I can’t answer any of the whys.’