Roger was still showering, maybe too cowardly to come out and see her off. Over the sound of the water, she heard the phone ring again. She rushed back to the kitchen to answer it. Maybe Peter needed her.

‘Hello, Sharon speaking.’

‘Wornkin?’

It sounded like Brendan Cahill’s voice, but much softer than usual. ‘That you, Brendan?’

‘Yeah. Listen—’

‘How’s your father doing?’

A pause. Then, ‘They say he’ll be alright. Listen, we need you to do us a quick favour.’

What courage she’d had she felt slowly seeping away. A big puddly mess when confronted with the reality.

She said, ‘Yeah?’

‘You heard about the fire?’

‘Why I asked about your dad.’

‘Right. Well, Vernon Moore’s the bloke that lit it.’

Her stomach lurched. ‘You sure about that?’

‘Positive.’

‘So you want me to arrest him?’

‘And keep him there for us. We’re coming into town now.’

‘Who?’

‘Me. The boys from Melbourne. You met them.’

‘Yeah, I remember them,’ she said. ‘Hold him for what?’

‘You know for what.’

‘What’re you going to do to him?’

‘Just bloody get him, would you? You don’t need to worry about it.’

Sharon said nothing, just listened to the sound of her husband in the shower.

‘Alright,’ she finally said.

‘We’ll be there in twenty. Can you have him in twenty minutes?’

‘Give me an hour.’

‘An hour?’

‘I have to get down to Port Napier—’

‘Oh right, he lives there, does he?’

Immediately she regretted mentioning it. ‘Yeah. He lives there.’

‘And we’ll meet you at the station, then?’

‘Okay. We can meet there.’

‘One hour, right?’

‘Alright, alright.’

Brendan hung up, leaving Sharon with the receiver droning in her ear. She kept it there a moment before gently replacing it. She returned to the bedroom and put on her black boots. Spared the bathroom a glance before walking down the hallway and out the door.

She was at the front desk, sipping a cup of tea, when Robert came into the station. If Brendan was keeping to the time they’d agreed on, he and Melbourne would be here any moment. Robert was hobbling as fast as his old years would let him, his world-weary smile burrowing into his face. The wisps of white hair he combed every day stuck out from beneath his policemen’s cap. He took it off on entry, held it before him politely as he addressed her.

‘I thought young Jack was in today,’ he said. He walked to the counter, rested his hands on it, the cap still between his fingers.

‘Jack’s having a day,’ she said.

‘Why’s that?’

Sharon took another sip of tea and put the cup down. ‘He’s just not in. Neither are you.’

‘What do you mean?’

She smiled, doing her best to hide her nerves. ‘Go home, Rob. Take the day off. Go see the festival with your kids.’

Sharon could see, plain as day, that this idea delighted him. He probably didn’t have many Boolarra Festivals left in him, and found working them, with his old legs, a burden. Why hadn’t she thought about that before?