‘Won’t that make him suspicious?’ Petey looks up and I turn my back on him, twisting the phone cord across my chest.

‘Not my problem. You’ll find a solution.’

I’m whispering now, but Doyle doesn’t seem to notice. ‘I hear you, I do. And I’m not saying we had anything to do with anything, because we didn’t. But hypothetically, if Mark thinks there’s something going on at that commune he won’t stop poking around because I ask him to. Why would he?’

The kids are digging into an intense argument about who-cares-about-what, which suits me perfectly.

‘To protect his wife. I presume he’d like to keep her out of jail.’

‘And my dad won’t believe it was an accident, though it obviously was. You told us the body had been laid out and the door was closed.’

‘Don’t recall saying that.’

‘Roberts –’

‘Makes mistakes.’

‘Your men took photographs. The medical examiner.’

He exhales loudly. ‘Are you telling me how to do my job, boy?’

I call up flashes of the stories Mark told me about his investigations into the Whiskey Au Go Go, the two men rotting in jail, swallowing metal and clawing the walls, locked up for life with no evidence, the crooked cops and judge in collusion. Doyle holds the power here. The only value I have is in my relationship to a journalist who’s educated me about how scared I should be right now. ‘No, not at all. But seriously, how do you suggest I keep him away from Eumundi?’

That’s a word I’ve said only a couple of times in my life, and my timing in saying it again could not have been worse. Mark has walked into the kitchen, kissed each of the kids on the top of the head, nodded to me, and is on his way to the fridge. After I mumble a ‘Good to talk to you, have to go now’ into the receiver and then hang up, Mark asks me – placing a longneck on the kitchen bench, not making eye contact – ‘Eumundi?’

I stand still as a lizard as Mark pulls out a drawer, removes a bottle opener and looks up at me.

I feel my face reddening but make an effort to keep my voice steady. ‘Yeah, the ginger factory. Friend asking whether it’s worth a visit.’

‘That’s in Buderim.’ He flicks the lid off the bottle, takes a tumbler from the dish rack.

‘That’s what I said.’

‘You said Eumundi.’

‘Pretty sure I didn’t.’ He’ll put two and two together, but I’m not going to help speed up the process.

Mark pours the beer and drinks a slow mouthful, letting the silence hang. ‘My mistake.’

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Wednesday 25 December 1974

Charlie

‘Pop. Pop. Pop.’ I lie on my side, watching as Sarah taps on Dad’s forehead with admirable persistence. ‘Wake up, Pop. Santa’s been. Pop.’

He wipes the crust from his eyes and reaches for his watch.

‘Are you getting up?’ Sarah asks him. Standing next to my father’s bed, bouncing on the spot, saucer-eyed with anticipation, a fairy in front of an ogre.