‘Yes, that would be advisable,’ the other detective said agreeably, as though Brendan had made the suggestion himself. ‘Obviously, your school wants to talk to you as well. Did you report Fox’s absence?’

Not as quickly as he should have. His girlfriend, Claire, had always said that Fox would affect his career; she didn’t know the half of it.

‘Right, well …’ Brendan stood up. ‘I’ll get packing.’

‘Senior Constable Smith will be here in a couple of hours to take you back.’

Brendan shook his head. Was he under arrest? Did he have to go in the police car?

‘Thanks but I can drive myself. I’ll need my car in Canberra.’

His mother was at the door, a deep frown creasing her forehead.

‘Brendan, love, your father and I can bring your car up next weekend.’

Fuck, he had to destroy the phone and the library bag.

47 LEXIE

47

LEXIE

THOUGHTS KEPT CRASHING AROUND IN MY BRAIN. STRANGE CONNECTIONS. The emails between Marty and Lorraine. Mel taking Sammy to see Marty. Julia and the schoolteacher. Deedee—could she also be related to Sammy? I knew nothing about Deirdre, our gardener, only that she was a Merrigang local, which meant she’d lived here at least twenty years. Surely our sweet busybody neighbour Janice would be able to tell me her address.

Janice’s front lawn—directly opposite our house—bore the brunt of the media intrusion: tyre marks left by the trucks; plastic lids from Coke bottles; cigarette butts tossed by the camera crews. Janice must be furious.

She was opening the door and taking me into her arms before I could even knock. We didn’t normally hug and it felt strange to be in such close contact.

Of course, she knew all about Deirdre.

‘She normally stays in the caretaker cottage up on the ridge but she moved out for a few weeks because of the kangaroo shooting.’

‘So where has she been living?’

‘Probably out on the farm. Deirdre doesn’t stay there for too long at a time—she thinks the ghost comes back to haunt her.’

My blank expression prompted her to continue.

‘Her dead husband. Deirdre had him arrested for domestic violence thirty years ago or so, back when most people kept quiet about it. After he was let off by the judge, he came home to teach his wife a lesson. No-one’s really sure what happened. The official line is that he thought he’d killed Deirdre and then shot himself. That nasty piece of work wasn’t mourned by anyone around here. Deirdre was in hospital for months.’

I had no idea that our gardener had been through so much. There were no visible scars. When Deirdre limped while carrying a bag of mulch, she’d said it was arthritis. Her persistent cough a few weeks ago had been put down to hay fever. Were they a result of her husband’s attack?