‘The idea that Aunt Beth fell into the pit and Mark Delaney built a deck over her quite by chance at the time she disappeared, it’s fanciful. It’s ridiculous! I’m sorry that Mark Delaney killed himself. Sorry because I wanted to see him face a trial. If there is any justice in the world, Snow Delaney will stand trial for my aunt’s murder.’

I left Rebecca’s house and got straight on the phone to my contact at Rose Bay. I told him what Rebecca had told me – that Snow wasn’t in Melbourne when Beth disappeared; she was at Delaney House – but I’ve got to say, the reception I got was pretty underwhelming.

I said, ‘Maybe your team could go and interview Snow again?’

He said, ‘Interview her, how? She’s got this new counsel who is like your worst nightmare as far as lawyers go. He basically tells her, you don’t have to say anything, so she doesn’t.’

I said, ‘But you should be able to prove that she didn’t catch a flight to Melbourne that weekend before the will was signed?’

He said, ‘Sure. But she did fly to Melbourne some time in September 2001, and we know that because we know when her Mum died. So all she’s going to say is she got her dates wrong.’

I said, ‘But she was at Delaney House when Beth Bannerman’s niece turned up, even though she said she wasn’t!’

He said, ‘Which proves what, Tap?’

I put down the phone, feeling pretty frustrated. I can’t say what was driving me but I felt like I needed to take a walk, and next thing I know I was standing outside Delaney House.

Not much has changed since the raid. It’s sitting where it’s sat for a hundred years, high on the cliff, with the weathervane all rusted on the roof.

The Paterson’s curse that covered the old fence when Snow first moved in has pretty much taken over the front yard. The trees that Mark Delaney cut into animal shapes have all grown out, and look a bit shaggy.

The cobwebs the size of bed sheets are still there, with big, fat spiders, and there’s a cast-iron bath with fancy legs in the front yard.

The security on the front gate hadn’t been fixed since the raid so I pushed through and went and knocked on the front door, and I’ve got to admit I was surprised when somebody answered. There’s two young backpackers living there – one Irish guy, who’s a carpenter, and one Brazilian girl, who is learning English and doing some part-time work as a barista. She answered the door, all coffee-coloured from her holidays, barefoot, and wearing those loose Bali pants.

She told me she and her boyfriend – the Irish guy – had working visas but they were basically squatting in the house.

‘For us, it is good,’ she said. ‘Some people would say, no, it looks to be falling down. But for a traveller it is good. We can have some parties.’