‘But clearly you have, Mr Parrish, as you’ve photographed her.’ The detective gestured towards the picture in the plastic evidence bag. ‘And to photograph someone, you have to meet them.’

‘Well, no, the paparazzi do it all the time.’

The dark-haired Caruso eyeballed him.

Brendan took a deep breath. He wasn’t trying to be a smartarse but everything kept coming out the wrong way.

‘Yes, I photographed her, but I didn’t even know her name.’

‘Who told her to stand on that rock?’ Caruso asked, pointing at the picture.

‘I did.’

The day he’d done that shoot had been magical. In the middle of autumn, when the trees were still red and golden, the sky a deep, deep blue and the air crisp with expectation. Claire had picked him up and driven the few blocks to the ridge, where they’d walked to a clearing of soft grass dotted with rocks. Most of the kids had acted like movie stars, copying poses they’d seen on TV. Not Bella. She had a quiet self-assurance. With no pet tagging along for the photo, Brendan had asked her to climb on the rock. She stood upon it, twirling around, humming to herself: ‘I’m the king of the castle.’ He’d said to the mother: Your daughter could be a model one day, she’s got that certain something.

‘Right, so you spoke to her?’

‘I guess, but I spoke to lots of kids that day.’

Bella had told him that she didn’t have a pet because her rabbit had died the week before. We buried him, she said, in the garden. I put white pebbles in the hole and cut-up apple. That was Rascal’s favourite food.

And was Rascal a rascal? Brendan had asked.

She’d giggled. No, silly, he was a bunny.

The detective unfolded a newspaper and laid it out on the table, next to the photo. The front cover of the Canberra Times.

‘Did you see today’s newspaper with Bella’s face on the cover?’

In the staffroom this morning, he’d wanted to whoop out loud—My photo has made the cover! But he could hardly celebrate in this situation. Still, they should have credited him, or at least asked his permission. The whoop had died in his throat as he’d skimmed the story and seen the family photos on the inside pages.

‘No, I only saw the back pages: the sport, the rugby.’ The wobble was back in his voice. ‘Anyway, I’ve got nothing to do with this. All I did was take a photo months ago. As a favour to a friend.’

‘Where were you on Thursday morning from ten to midday?’

‘I was at school, teaching.’

‘Did you leave the school grounds at all?’

Shit, he’d already told the other policeman that he hadn’t. Could he change his story now? He recalled the photos in the newspaper and made a decision.

‘No.’