‘We’ve got a list of vehicles that were in the vicinity from six the night before the shoe and water bottle were found to eleven the next morning,’ the constable reported.

‘Right, do any match the Parkers’ cars?’

‘Nope.’

‘Can you send it through, please? How many cars are on this list?’

‘Not many from the night before—maybe sixty. But on Sunday morning, with the church services, it’s more like two hundred.’

Suze was already checking taxi and Uber records, as well as bus CCTV, which would be the most time-consuming—like looking for a needle in a bloody haystack.

After hanging up the phone, Caruso opened the email—four pages of car types and numberplates. He plugged in all the plates he had: Brendan Parrish, the playgroup mums, Josh Murphy, Lucas Lawrence, Mrs Ramos, Johnno James and Ray Hensley. His computer slowly cross-checked each plate and the list of numbers danced in front of him …

Bingo! He had a match.

50 MARTY

50

MARTY

MARTY STARTED THE CAR AND TURNED IN THROUGH THE GATE WITH A wooden sign—WIRRA WARRA—tied on with wire. The dirt track went straight and then wound into bushland. As he drove, the car bounced over potholes and lumps, jarring his body backwards against the seat. How should he approach Elissa? Not Elissa. Mel. Forget the smile of sunshine and the curves and the breasts. She was a stranger. One who’d tricked him.

The track led into snow gums, their ghostly trunks standing guard, their leaves rustling in the wind, their branches a maze overhead. The car crested a ridge and then the track coiled downwards through the trees. It wasn’t until he came around a corner that he discovered a clump of buildings in a clearing—straight in front of him. So much for taking Mel by surprise. Along with Mel’s van sat a Toyota HiLux ute. Dirty white, maybe ten years old. The paint was cracking in spots on the roof and a dent marked the door closest to him. Marty stared at the dent. He’d seen this ute somewhere before. Searching for a memory, he finally shook his head. The white HiLux was popular with tradies—they were everywhere.

He parked next to Mel’s van, hoping the car would be hidden to some extent. Marty glanced at the buildings. No movement and no sound. The old homestead had a wraparound verandah, its awning making it impossible to see inside the windows and doors. Paths led off from the main house through gardens and archways to smaller outbuildings, stables and sheds. Unlike the other properties around here, this old colonial establishment had survived the bushfires.

A flicker of white near the rose bushes caught his eyes. Too small for a child. Chickens scratching in the dirt.