She pursed her lips. ‘Sure.’

It occurred to Jake that he should have ensured Lilith would have support in place following the interview. ‘Do you have someone you can spend time with tonight?’

Lilith shrugged. ‘I’m going to be a mess tonight, of course, so I’ve already called my parents. They have gin and tonic, ice cream and marshmallows, extra boxes of aloe vera tissues, and my favourite movies on standby.’

‘That’s organised of you.’

Her silk robe billowed with a second shrug. ‘It’s the best self-care combo for me.’

Jake stood and offered her his hand again. ‘Sounds damn fine to me.’

*

Melbourne’s comparatively balmy air had apparently defrosted Jake’s nose. Stepping back into the street he was hit from every direction by the scents of his home city—enticing aromas from nearby restaurants, petrol fumes from passing cars and the rich clouds of perfume enveloping passers-by. Pete was waiting for them at the front gate to Lilith’s apartment block.

‘One drink?’ was all he said.

Murphy’s eyes lit up. ‘It’s been a long day.’ He strode toward the pub on the corner of the block, leaving the others with no option but to follow in his wake. Murphy was halfway through his first schooner by the time Jake and Pete arrived. It felt surreal to be propping up a Melbourne bar with Pete once more.

‘What can you tell me about the case?’ he asked.

Jake sighed. ‘It’s shaping to be a clusterfuck, to be honest. I’ve got an elderly woman murdered and dumped in a vineyard; a litany of offences against the girls she cared for in a home she ran on the same site; no concrete information about where the funds to run the home came from; a rapidly growing pool of potential suspects, most of whom I’ll probably never be able to find; and a team consisting of one wet-behind-the-ears constable.’

Also, if he was honest with himself, Jake’s feelings toward the case were becoming increasingly complicated—he was pursuing the killer of a woman who had either led or collaborated in the abuse of multiple girls in her care.

‘Do you have anything?’ Pete asked.

‘The money was allegedly coming from St John of God …’

Pete grimaced.

Understandably. The St John of God brothers were responsible for some of the worst child abuse atrocities ever uncovered in Australia and New Zealand. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘but so far I’ve found no record of their activities in Tasmania. The only other thing I have is the possible dumping of girls from the home in Melbourne, including our interviewee in the apartment. But there’s even less evidence of that.’

‘I have some spare capacity. I could put someone on this if you want me to?’