He didn’t like my tone. Straightening, he fixed me with a flat, inscrutable look. ‘I tell you what I’ll do, Ms Ayres. I’ll let you go and have a really good think about whether you want to get us involved. Otherwise there’s a form to fill in. I’ll have to ask you questions. And if you decide to formally accuse someone, I’ll be checking in with them and it’s going to be very unpleasant.’ He leaned forward, his hairy fingers spread across the countertop. ‘Are you sure you want to give people this kind of ammunition? Because from where I’m standing, that’s what it looks like. Ammunition. For the other side.’

I was screwed. I knew it. No matter what I did, the Rooneys had me over a barrel.

I didn’t dare ask if the police would come and dust my washing machine for fingerprints.

‘I’ll go and have a think about it,’ I said.

‘Good.’

‘And then I’ll talk to the plumber and find out what’s in my drain. And once I’ve got those details, I’ll write my own report—which I’ll give to the police and the school and my lawyer.’ My lawyer was actually a divorce lawyer, but Senior Constable Waring didn’t know that. ‘I just want this on the record. It’s important to keep a record when you’re being stalked.’ Lifting my gaze, I checked the ceiling. ‘No CCTV,’ I said. ‘Pity. But I’m guessing little country stations don’t get the good stuff.’

Then I walked out before he could have the last word.

The plumber came at six-thirty the next morning. He was a sour, sixty-ish, shuffling character, very dark and monosyllabic. Deb had recommended him, though she’d warned me he wasn’t a people person.

He used an endoscope to peer at the blockage and a water jetter to cut through it. When I asked him what the problem was, he said, ‘Crap.’

‘What kind of crap?’

‘Bit of rag, by the look of it. Sanitary products. Dirt.’

‘Could someone have put it down there? On purpose?’

He looked at me warily, as if he was afraid I might start cackling crazily and ripping my clothes off. ‘It’s a blockage,’ he said. ‘They happen.’

His water jetter was so noisy it must have woken half the neighbourhood.

2019

2019

‘HI, ROBYN.’ JOE Malouf stood on the front veranda, carrying a gym bag.

‘Oh! Right. The phones.’ It was Thursday morning and I was still eating breakfast. ‘Come in.’

I turned and led him into my office, where I unlocked the safe. Joe held open his bag so I could dump the boys’ confiscated technology into it—I’d forgotten he was hiding the phones for the treasure hunt.

‘You’re off now, are you?’ I asked.

‘In a minute. Shouldn’t take long, though.’