When he went to pay, James noticed the sign ‘Breakfast NOT Served’, laminated, covered in dust, bending up from the cash register. He rang the dull buzzer, put together from some kind of old doorbell. It sounded in the distance through a glass sliding door with an orange lace curtain. He could smell frying eggs. A morning television show blared from the room beyond.

The teenager who greeted him was more intent on the television than taking his money.

‘Enjoy your stay?’ she said, halfway through the curtain, laughing at the interview.

‘It was crap,’ James said, low and facetious.

‘That’s nice. Visit us again, won’t you?’ she said, impatiently pulling the receipt and putting it down on the bench, before sliding the door shut with a slap.

The police station was closed and there was no indication about when it would reopen. A small notice inside the front window encouraged people to call triple zero if they were experiencing an emergency.

James grunted at that and sidled back down the steps, noticing the court house door wide open. He knew his way around a court house. Sometimes you got more out of court staff than the police.

The receptionist was enjoying a quiet moment with a takeaway coffee in the high-ceilinged interior, but she smiled so refreshingly that James started things off by asking about the chances of looking up an old case.

‘What date, love?’ she said.

That was disarmingly fast, not like city or suburban courts watched over by officious arseholes who hated helping journos. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

‘What name?’

He’d have to give the name of the only person he knew in Kippen who’d ever committed a crime. ‘Brandt, Beck. Rebecca,’ he replied.

She acknowledged the surname by raising her eyebrows. ‘We don’t keep records before 1990 here,’ she said. ‘They’re at the state archives, but if I can look up the charge sheet, we can possibly find a date.’

She reached for a dog-eared ledger, flipping back into the past while shaking her head. ‘I know what we can do, we can look up the defendant in the police records. You’re a relative, right?’

‘I am,’ James asked. ‘Want to see some ID?’

She smiled and shook her head. ‘You look too much like your dad,’ she said. ‘Are you the older, or the younger brother?’

James smirked. ‘Younger.’

‘Denise Beaumont,’ she said, holding out her hand to shake.

He took it. ‘James,’ he said. ‘You’re Sal’s daughter?’

She nodded and went to the computer terminal at the far end of the counter. ‘Rebecca Brandt,’ she said, typing it in, then nodded as the information flicked up. ‘Here it is. It’s 1980, so it’ll all be at the archives. I can get them to fax it across, if you like?’

Newshound accidentally sniffs out mother’s secrets.

‘Do you want to look at the entry in the charge book?‘ Denise asked.