She frowns and points at my hand. ‘Don’t do that.’ But I indicate I’m ignoring the call until she answers my question. ‘God, Charlie. So rude. He rang yesterday. I’ll tell you after.’

‘What time yesterday? What did he say?’

‘Charlie, talk to the person who’s on the phone right now!’

It’s Abby’s friend Lou. I pass it to Abby then pace around while she’s talking. I didn’t think Roberts knew about the commune, but maybe he does. It could be that the ‘good cop, bad cop’ thing is a ruse. Maybe someone left the commune right after we did, told Roberts what happened and – no, Abby would’ve said something. But if she inadvertently made it clear she knew nothing about what Dad and I were doing, that’s bad, too. These guys would love to divide us, play us against one another.

‘What’s your problem?’ Abby asks when she’s off the phone. ‘I thought you wanted me to take his calls.’

‘What did he want to know?’

‘Times. He’s as obsessed as Doyle about getting the timeline straight. I was convincing on the phone. I told him about us arguing. As far as I can tell they have no evidence, and I’ve answered for the missing hours. Charlie, this might be okay.’ She flushes.

‘It’s all right. I want it to be over, too.’

At dusk, I’m back in the kitchen again. I went for a walk, read a little, slept a little and now I’m sitting next to Dad at the bench, drinking a cold beer. No bands on tonight and no friends at a loose end. The radio is on but the sound is low. Woof is lying on the floor near my feet, snoring. And Abby is working the stove like a pro, turning the kids’ lamb chops and quickly moving her arm away from the leaping hot fat, checking on their corn cobs and peas boiling in separate saucepans. We could use her at KD.

When the phone rings, I mentally put money on it being Mark calling to say he’ll be home late even though he’d seemed relieved this was his last workday for the year.

Dad is aggravated by the constant ringing. He pushes his chair back, picks up his glass and stands. ‘You get half a dozen phone calls a day! It’s noisier than being in an office.’

‘This is more than normal,’ Abby says, draining the peas into a colander. ‘We don’t usually get calls from Bali or the police. I’d go out of my head if it rang this much every day.’

Dad makes a face that suggests it’s still somehow Abby’s fault, and heads out into the backyard with his book.

I’m not going to indulge his tantrum about modern life but he’s right that it’s noisy in here. Between the cooking sounds, the radio, the TV on full volume in the living room, Woof barking at who-knows-what and the occasional kid shout, I struggle to hear who’s on the phone. I turn off the radio, wave at Abby to keep it down as she calls the kids to dinner. But it turns out to be a call I should’ve let ring out.