‘What were you fighting about?’

‘Nothing much. You have sisters, yeah, in that eight? You must fight with them sometimes.’

He pauses. ‘I do need to speak with your father.’

‘Yeah, there’s a lot of people here right now. I don’t see him anywhere. Might have ducked out for some air.’

‘I’ll give you the number I can be reached on today.’

‘Sure.’ He tells me a phone number. I offer a few uh-huhs, pretend I’m writing it down.

‘I’m not giving up on this,’ he says. His tone has changed, suddenly sober and professional. ‘I know I’m right.’

I hang up, push through the kitchen crowd to get to the bathroom to think, tamping down my urge to find Abby and recite the conversation to her. Last I saw her she was actually having fun, drink in hand, laughing with a group of her friends. I close the bathroom door and sit on the edge of the bath, staring at the cross-pattern of wire reinforcing the mustard-coloured glass shower screen. The shower door is askew. It would take a minute to fix, but getting Mark’s toolbox from the shed would entail navigating a maze of small talk.

I’m terrified at how close Roberts is getting, and nervous he’ll find out his boss has offered us a highly suspect deal. I wonder how many cops know about the commune, how many cops aren’t corrupt.

There’s a knock on the bathroom door, then a woman’s voice. ‘Hello in there? I’m busting.’

I rise unsteadily, flush the toilet and turn on the tap. ‘One minute.’

I open the bathroom door to Lou. She’s wearing a long red-and-white-striped dress and reeks of sweet perfume and cigarette smoke. She’s holding a champagne flute on an angle so precarious the liquid touches the lip of the plastic on one side.

‘Charlie!’ Her smile is large and generous, lopsided. ‘How have I not seen you today?’ She gives me a hug, spilling champagne on the back of my shirt. ‘Are you having a good Christmas, babe? Better now you’re in Brisbane, after all that car crash, fiancée stuff.’

Before I can reply, she puts her hand, sticky and warm, on my arm. ‘Sorry, not “stuff”. Tragic, obviously.’ She holds up her glass. ‘Idiot juice. I’ve had a few.’

I smile at her. She’s got a louche, unbuttoned sexiness about her, wet lips. ‘Not a problem,’ I say.

She looks at me with great concentration. ‘Are you okay? Coming home to drama must be the last thing you wanted.’ She gestures at the crowded living room with her glass, sloshing champagne onto shag carpet. ‘I mean – y’know.’

There’s so much of this woman, so much hair and breast and hip, so much energy and volume. And she’s crazy drunk.

‘You were wanting –’ I tilt my head towards the bathroom door.

She blinks vaguely for a beat, then speaks in a rush. ‘Yes. Desperate.’ She lets go of my arm.

I stand aside but rather than going into the bathroom she slouches against the doorframe and continues talking.