But if Jesse Dempsey ever returned – as seemed suddenly possible – he would surely resume his position as head of Dempsey Abalone, and the drug smuggling business. And everyone knew what Jesse was like with his possessions – if he felt Davey was a threat to the Business, he wouldn’t hesitate to get rid of even his own brother. Permanently.

From the look in Ivy’s eyes, Ahab wondered if she was thinking the same thing. Davey was by far her favourite son; Jesse was a lunatic, and Mackenzie was the child she wished had never been born.

She examined Ahab now, waiting for him to speak, to make his move. Where Ahab’s mind hummed like a motor, hers worked like a giant chessboard. She patted the wooden spoon in her hand, flour puffing into the air. She knew what he wanted. She just wanted to hear him say it.

Finally, Ahab said, ‘I need to speak to him.’

‘Oh? Oh, that’s what you’ve come to ask?’ Ivy gave a soft chuckle. ‘Dearie me, no. Stay away from Forest. Until someone finds Jesse and Alexandra, we have guardianship of him.’

‘Ivy, you need to let me talk to him.’

‘Need to?’ she said, tasting the word. ‘I need to . . .’

‘Please,’ said Ahab, feeling as though the word was wrenched from him.

‘Now, isn’t that nice? Using manners.’

His aunt turned around and headed back into Safe Harbour.

‘You don’t have custody of him,’ he called after her.

She waved the spoon in carefree dismissal before she stepped inside, which set Ahab to burning anger. He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, lighting it against a cupped hand, and studied the closed door.

Davey Dempsey was Forest’s godfather. Davey had legal guardianship, not Ivy.

But that might as well have been the same thing; Davey wouldn’t do a thing without Ivy’s approval.

There was more at stake than just the boy. He tapped his ash on the other side of the gate and headed back onto the beach.

CHAPTER 4

MACKEREL

There she was. Should he talk to her? Or should he pretend he hadn’t seen her?

Seaglass Café was set back from the beach, beside a park of scrubby gumtrees and a little wooden playground. The café had a large verandah, but inside it was cosy and eclectic, decorated as though a maritime museum had been plundered: hanging glass floats and semaphore flags and thick rope.

The table in the back corner was Mackerel’s favourite place to sit and think – and after the news about Forest, he really needed to think. He sat here in his usual cushy blue armchair, a lambskin rug beneath his feet, a faded Australian flag limp in the corner and, best of all, a clear path to the side exit.