Gleaming glass and local timbers, the main structure looked out over the water, box-like and unflinching in brick and concrete, but Shelby had instructed the landscapers to put in climbing plants to cover the walls and hedges to border the property. It now had a rooftop garden that spilled out over the edge, a backyard playground better than any in the local parks and a riot of rainbow-coloured sculptural art in the front, commissioned specifically by Shelby to look like local fish and octopus. A strange, captivating blend of old fort chic, marine art gallery and Royal Botanical Gardens, it screamed wealth.

Although Ahab hated the Business that had funded the upgrades to the building, he knew that it hadn’t all been dirty money. Abalone diving was lucrative enough to pay for this place – otherwise no one would’ve believed the Dempseys’ wealth. And while it seemed incredible, as far as Ahab knew, Shelby had no idea of her husband’s dealings.

Years ago, abalone licences had been worth nothing. ‘Nobody likes the stuff. Nobody buys it. Too much hassle to get it.’ People had bartered the licences away for a carton of beer. But only so many had been given out, and no more were being issued. When demand went up in the Asian markets, and diving technology improved, the licences were suddenly worth millions. One of the strangest Cinderella stories of all time. Earlier generations of Dempseys had used their licences to dominate the industry, and allowed Shacktown to flourish.

That made Davey, the steward of this abalone kingdom, beloved by everyone. Prince Charming.

Not the king, though. That title was still held by Jesse Dempsey, should he ever return to claim it.

And maybe he had.

Ahab knocked on the black steel door louder than he intended, then rang the doorbell.

No answer.

Ahab was not in a patient mood today.

He checked under the doormat, then up on the sill above the door. He inspected the crevices of the bricks, then examined the line of potted plants seated along the front of the house. One by one, he tipped them back.

There it was: a spare key.

If he guessed right, Shelby would have left it here. Davey would have had a fit if he knew there was a spare key lying under a pot plant, but that was the trouble with not telling your wife the dangerous circles you moved in.

He let himself into the house.

‘Davey?’

Their entranceway was a blocky tunnel of shelves and alcoves, coloured glass and stucco, a line of local pinot on a shelving unit. He took off his boots and padded onto the tiled floor of the kitchen, part of a wide open-plan living space at least two storeys high, giving the impression there were no other floors.