Ruby told me she was staying at the Sir Stanford Hotel on Market Street in Sydney’s CBD, which struck me as a bit odd because that was the hotel her mum went missing from. But as soon as I got there I understood: she had managed to get the manager to put a giant photo of her mum up on an easel in the foyer with a plea for anyone who might have seen anything to come forward. It was standing next to a polystyrene reindeer with a red nose that was obviously supposed to flash but was only managing to at intervals, and there was still the odd bit of Christmas tinsel here and there.

I sat down on one of the vinyl tub chairs in the foyer and waited. Three minutes later, Ruby came out of the lift, one hand extended, and the other clutching an expandable manila folder with the word MUM written on it.

‘Thank you so much for coming, Mr Fawcett.’

I said, ‘Thank you for meeting me,’ and I suppose that was the moment our friendship started. We started talking in person, and later by email, and much of what follows, in terms of the picture I’m going to build of Ruby’s mum, comes from the conversations we’ve had over the past eighteen months.

We looked around for a quiet place to sit and talk – not easy since it was still pretty early and the foyer was packed with business people pushing those fancy four-wheeled suitcases ahead of them, and waiting to check out. I had a peek through a set of glass doors and saw there was a ground-floor restaurant, and I thought, ‘I’ll get them to find us a quiet corner away from the people standing at the buffet, piling up their plates with melon slices and strips of bacon.’

Ruby put her ‘Mum’ folder under her chair, took the linen napkin off her plate and spread it over her lap. I got my little digital recorder out and put it on the table between us. The hotel was the type that employs trainee waiters from Bangladesh who are big on smiles and little on English. Our guy had an especially big, beaming white smile, and he approached saying, ‘Good morning, sir and madam! I may get you some coffee and some tea!’

I ordered coffee and Ruby said, ‘What kind of tea do you have?’

The waiter said, ‘Yes, ma’am! We do have tea! We have peppermint, we have chamomile! We have Earl Grey, we have English Breakfast! We have lemon, we have licorice . . .’

Ruby waited patiently, and said, ‘English Breakfast will be fine.’

The waiter left, and I delivered my pitch as straight as I could, saying, ‘I’m going to be honest with you, Ruby. I’m happy to try to drum up some interest in the story but I don’t know how successful I’m going to be.’

Ruby said, ‘I’m grateful for your interest, Mr Fawcett, given how difficult it’s been to get any attention at all.’