Gabriella examined the contents of a folder. ‘Permit applications . . .’ She picked up a large hardcover book. ‘A book about property law.’

Coops read out the titles of the books scattered on the floor. ‘The Aboriginal Tasmanians, The Black War, Whitewash . . .’

One of the papers that littered the floor caught Eliza’s eye, because it had her own handwriting across the bottom: giving feedback on an essay. With another pang, she picked it up. As the detectives rummaged through the rest of the room, speculating aloud to each other on whether the museum might give someone the motive to kill Georgia, Eliza wiped her eyes and began to read.

The Mountain of the Spirits, by Georgia Lenah

At the bottom of the world, there is an island.

It has the purest air in the world, the purest water. It is a land of rugged wilderness, of ice and snow, blistering heat, the oldest trees on earth, deep lakes of which no man nor machine has found the bottom. A fifth of the island is protected, where no business can exploit nor industrialise, and precious little can be reached by road. They say extinct tigers still roam there. They say other things roam, too. Strange lights haunt the night sky and unearthly howls the bushland.

It is the location of one of the earliest recorded genocides, cannibals and convicts, the introduction of psychological torture of inmates, Australia’s biggest massacre. Its name once brought fear to people’s hearts; it is said the soil still cries from the blood of its First Peoples, and that their bones curse the land.

If you believe in such things.

Near the top of the island, in the centre, at the edge of the Central Plateau, is a rocky mountain range. These days it is called the Great Western Tiers. But always it was called Kooparoona Niara. It was a sacred place, a meeting ground, and a pass. They say it is the gate to Tasmania’s heart.

It is a place of changing weather, silence, brooding and looming menace, secret caves and urban legends and murderers who once made it their stalking ground.

It is a mountain that, they say, takes care of itself.

If you believe in such things.

Eliza shuddered. She put the paper down beside her.

‘What is this?’ said Gabriella, picking it up and raising her eyebrows as she began to read.

‘Maybe this will help,’ said Coops. He was lying beside the bed, holding up a purple book he’d pulled from under it. ‘I think it’s her diary.’

‘Perfect,’ said Gabriella, taking it out of his hands.

‘Put that down – it’s none of your fucking business,’ said a gruff male voice from the doorway. ‘Why are you pigs in my sister’s room?’ A short young man stood there, in a muddy t-shirt and football shorts, dark brows narrowed. Tears ran down his cheeks, but he seemed unaware of them. ‘Get out.’