Fuck. Murphy finally shows some initiative, then goes too far. ‘That’s great, but listen: we want to let this information out in a controlled way, okay?’

‘Ri—ight.’

‘Have you told anyone else yet?’

‘Just the boss.’

‘Okay. Let’s keep it to just the three of us for now.’

‘Why?’

Murphy’s edge of resentment had returned.

‘We want to see how certain people react when they’re told.’

‘What people?’

Jake took a deep breath. The constable wasn’t an intuitive learner apparently … but he would only develop if Jake took the time to teach him. ‘How about we see if Kelly will approve both of us going to Melbourne to interview her, and I’ll walk you through it?’

‘That’d be great!’

Headed toward the rolling dark grey peaks that surrounded Dunton, Jake had to wonder at how easy it was to manipulate his offsider’s mood.

An hour later, descending the other side of the mountains, Jake plunged his vehicle from the glorious sunshine of a sunny winter’s day into the blanket of fog that filled the valley, enveloped by a sense that he was entering a hidden world, an otherland of isolation and secrets.

*

Returning to the station that evening, Jake first called Matilda’s adoptive parents and then Matilda herself and arranged to see her the following day. He could see Amelia at the hospital first thing, then go straight to the airport. Perhaps tomorrow would yield an all-important clue that allowed him to identify Ava’s murderer.

Wrapping up work for the day, he received a welcome surprise on the home front—the electricity in his cottage had finally been connected. He switched the reverse cycle air conditioner to full blast and tested the hot water temperature in anticipation of a long, hot shower. Only since moving to Dunton had Jake come to fully appreciate plumbed hot water and touch-button heating; life-changing conveniences he had previously taken for granted.

With the interview set, flights booked, and meagre backpack ready at the door, Jake was at a loose end for the first time since discovering Ava O’Brien’s body. He opened every cupboard in the cottage’s kitchen, then the station’s kitchenette. Not a single drop of alcohol …

Pulling up outside Dunton’s only bottlo, he proceeded to meander up and down the aisles, unable to decide what he wanted. Everything looked good, yet nothing stood out. The store attendant cleared her throat. He glanced at a clock on the wall.

Shit! He’d been there for half an hour. The Chinese he’d ordered would probably be sitting cold on a bench at the RSL by now, and they closed in fifteen minutes.

He scraped in just as his order was ready.