‘I didn’t hear anybody knock.’

‘Yeah, well, they’re here anyway.’

‘They?’

‘Guy from the other day and another one. Country cavalry.’

‘I need to put on a shirt. My shoes, I don’t know where my shoes are.’

‘Dad, it’s okay. I don’t think they’ll care what you’re wearing.’

‘Is Abigail here?’

‘She’s gone to get the newspaper, but I can handle a couple minutes’ small talk by myself. Do whatever you need to.’

‘Go on then. Don’t leave them waiting.’

Roberts stands in the middle of the living room, not doing anything in particular, like a soldier at ease, straight-backed, hands folded over his crotch. Despite his muscle-man arms, there’s something almost girlish about him. The other cop, Roberts’ superior, Sergeant Doyle, has his back to me, and is staring out the window at the bush. He’s a different story from Roberts. Meaty, wide, speckles of white in nut-brown hair, in his late forties, at a guess. First thing I’d noticed about him at the front door were his cattle-dog ice-blue eyes and beer gut. I hear him belch. He’s the type of cop who arrested us at uni demonstrations, who twisted arms, gouged skin with hard fingernails, who kicked the door in at parties. I know his type. Fuck.

‘He won’t be long,’ I say to Roberts.

The sergeant turns around, eyes me up and down more carefully than he had at the front door. I reckon now we both have one another’s number. ‘Your sister about?’ he asks.

‘Went into town. She’ll be back soon. So . . .’

I feel like I’m being interrogated already and try to make my face and stance seem as relaxed as possible.

‘Do you want some coffee?’ I can’t be much younger than Roberts but I feel like a child about to be busted, awkward and as transparent as glass.

Roberts shakes his head, takes a small Spirax notebook and biro from his shirt pocket.

‘You been out of the country recently?’ Doyle asks.

How could he know that? Did Dad say something to Roberts? ‘Bali,’ I say.

‘Thought so.’ Doyle looks at my shirt. ‘Don’t see that type of get-up around here. Not on blokes anyway.’

Prick. I don’t have a snappy comeback and even if I did I couldn’t say it. It’s irrelevant anyway, since Dad walks into the room, dressed as inoffensively bland as I guess cops prefer.

‘Gentlemen,’ he says. There’s name-exchanging, condolences, trouser-adjusting to sit down in chairs; I want them gone already but they’re just starting. I watch Doyle. He has a slow toad-like demeanour but I reckon he’s taking everything in, watching me, Dad, the house. I wish I could talk to Abby before she walks in. She doesn’t have much of a poker face at the best of times.

Roberts clears his throat, pulls back his shoulders.

There’s no way they could know. Is there? Are fingerprints washed away by rain, and would a country cop even have fingerprint equipment? Did one of us drop something? Did the car leak oil?