‘This recipe is the safest,’ she said, flashing the screen at him. ‘It’s exactly right for what we want to do. But we’ll need pseudoephedrine . . . Although I have some ideas . . .’ Shelby swiped across to her notepad app, typing ingredients and quantities.

‘You really shouldn’t be putting that on the iPad. The cops can pull up the data even if you delete the note.’

‘Relax, Mackerel. You’ve briefed me enough on how to stay safe. This is brand new, paid for in cash, and not linked to any existing account.’

He’d taught her everything he could think of about being safe in the digital world. To her credit, she seemed to be taking it in. He could do this. If they went slowly, and he kept her as safe as he could . . . They’d even left their phones at Homeward. If their phones were tracked later on, at least there would be no evidence they’d come into town together – Mackerel could claim he’d acted alone and leave Shelby out of it. He was going to jail anyway.

The bridge into Hobart was packed with traffic – nothing like Brisbane, but enough to grate on Mack’s already fraying nerves. He was on the lookout for police cars, even though there was no way they’d know what they were up to. By the time they’d driven through the CBD and out to Sandy Bay, Mackerel was wound so tight that even Shelby was telling him to relax.

They pulled up outside the leafy university, after doing two blockies just to find a park. Mackerel waited in the car – the odds were slim, but if someone he knew saw him buying a bunch of chemicals and lab supplies, alarm bells would ring. Shelby Dempsey, on the other hand – a grieving widow, rekindling her love for chemistry – that was another story.

They sat at a café on the pier in Hobart – Shelby had insisted she treat him to a meal. He’d just wanted to go home to Shacktown, but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She had no fear – that wasn’t a good sign. Shelby had all the equipment and chemicals stashed in the car, and she didn’t seem to think that was an issue.

‘My car has never been searched in my entire life. You have got to calm down.’

He poked at his fish and chips, leaving his coffee untouched. The water lapped at the wood and it stank of brine. A seagull strutted nearby, eager for an easy meal. He thought about throwing it a chip, but didn’t want the whole flock coming down on them.

Then he saw a scruffy man walking past, dragging a shopping trolley full of bedding and plastic bags, and Mackerel had an idea. ‘Do you still have some of that cash?’

‘Yeah . . .’

‘Give me three hundred,’ he said. ‘Quickly.’