Doyle has stayed silent throughout. He’s sitting back in his chair like he owns the place, watching my father.

‘Was she robbed?’ Dad asks.

‘Her belongings are in the police-station safe. Her bag was untouched, and there’s money in her wallet.’

‘And there’s absolutely no chance she could’ve fallen out of the car in this exact position?’

‘None at all, sir. It’s impossible.’

‘Rain got rid of any footprints, I suppose?’

Roberts nods.

‘So you’re saying someone moved her onto the ground, took nothing, then left her there?’ Dad moves forward, elbows on his knees.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

I stand up. ‘I’ll get some water.’

‘Sit down, Charlie.’ We wait for him to continue speaking. ‘Do you know the work of C. S. Lewis, Constable Roberts?’

He reaches for his notebook. ‘Does he live locally?’

I shouldn’t laugh but I do. It’s an icebreaker. Roberts blushes slightly but otherwise ignores me.

Dad glares at me then turns his attention back to Roberts. ‘To the best of my knowledge he never visited these parts. But he was a wise man and he knew about grief. He said, “The pain I feel now is the happiness I had before.” I have to go through this, Constable, whether I want to or not. I think you might be holding back some details. But I need to hear what you know, no matter how unpleasant.’

‘He was a writer,’ I say to Roberts. ‘C. S. Lewis. Wrote kids’ books.’

‘I see.’ He brushes invisible dust from his shirtfront and locks eyes with me. ‘There’s one other thing. Skye’s brother has arranged for the body to be transported to Darwin for burial once the medical examiner has finished his work.’

He’s sharper than I gave him credit for. Such a quick return to power.

‘A brother,’ I say.

Dad sinks back, deep into the curve of the couch. ‘She’ll be buried up there? Of course.’

I feel a rise of fury that my father is in a position that is so emasculating, so humiliating. And then I remember I’ve caused it.

‘Do you have any idea where she was going?’ Doyle seems impatient with the conversation, is taking over to move things along. It seems no one is going to address my father’s comment that they aren’t telling us everything. But they’re cops. They ask the questions.

‘Thought she was going to a birth,’ Dad says, and explains the phone call minus yesterday’s strange ramblings.

Doyle waits a moment then asks, ‘Do you know much about your fiancée’s life before you met her?’

‘Not much,’ Dad says. ‘She was a private person.’

Doyle heaves himself to standing, hoicks up his pants, his black belt almost entirely hidden beneath his lump of a stomach. ‘Mind showing us where she stored her keepsakes, letters and so on?’

Roberts has kept a fairly neutral expression until now, but I can see from the quick dart of his eyes that he didn’t expect this question. Neither did Dad.