We kept on chatting until I told him I had to go and put my sheets in the dryer. There were other things I needed to do as well: cooking, planning, writing Krystal’s report. ‘I’ll call you on Friday,’ I said, ‘as usual.’

At about half past five I banged out the back door and made for the laundry, which was a fibro hut containing a dryer, a washing machine, an old concrete tub and lots of cobwebs. I was halfway down the path when I realised something was wrong. The bare earth squelched underfoot. Tinted water was bubbling out of the drain near the laundry door.

Inside, the floor was wet. The porthole window of the front loader looked pink. My white sheets were streaked and mottled.

Someone had put something in my washing machine—and had blocked my outlet pipe as well.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘That’s it. Enough.’

It was time to make a formal complaint.

Otford’s police station was a dumpy old building made of liver-coloured brick, low and dark and unwelcoming. The front office contained a leaflet stand, a grey couch and a wood-veneer counter. Since I couldn’t see anyone, I rang a bell.

I had to ring twice before a policeman appeared.

‘Can I help you?’ he said. The name on his badge was Senior Constable R. Waring. He was about my age, with lots of ginger hair on his face, arms and neck.

He had to look up at me. That wasn’t a good start.

‘Um—yes. I want to report…’ I didn’t know what to call it. Trespass? Vandalism? Harassment?

He waited. He had clear blue eyes.

‘Someone’s harassing me,’ I said.

‘Who?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve got my suspicions, but…’ I trailed off.

‘Did you call the Police Assistance Line?’

‘No. Should I have?’

He took a deep breath—the kind you take when you’re thinking, God give me strength. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Robyn Ayres.’

‘And what seems to be the problem?’

‘Someone’s been at my place. While I was out.’ I braced myself, knowing already that Senior Constable R. Waring wasn’t going to be very receptive.

‘Where do you live?’

I gave him the address. ‘Yesterday I noticed my pot plants were switched around—’

‘Switched around?’

‘The pots. They’d been moved. So I went and bought locks for my garage and laundry.’ I pulled the receipts out of my pocket to show him. ‘But I was too late. Whoever moved the pots also put something in my washing machine. I only noticed when I did a load today.’

He was frowning. ‘Your washing machine?’

‘I washed my sheets and they turned pink. Someone put a ballpoint refill in there.’

‘My wife did the same thing,’ he said. ‘There was a pen in my pocket and she didn’t check beforehand.’