The nature strips turn white as she goes through her voicemails, with Isabelle’s diaries on her lap. She scans the pages as she listens to an excited message from Joosten. Isabelle’s neat notes run in parallel to Oli’s questing thoughts. Search the entire property for DNA proof she was there that night. The house and out house. Request was shut down, but why? Unexplained visit. Sexual relationship doesn’t seem likely so something else. Oli has no idea what thread the detective was pulling at.

There’s a voicemail from Dawn twenty minutes earlier saying the podcast has hit over two thousand downloads already, and that traffic to the website has gone through the roof since it went live. A rush of pleasure rolls through Oli, followed by an intense hit of validation.

After she completed her degree as a mature-age student, her tutor encouraged her to consider TV. He set up a few meetings with industry contacts. One executive insisted on meeting her in a hotel lobby for an afternoon coffee, and suggested she stick around until he could return after work and get a room with her. Another, a large sweaty man who wore a cravat, talked about his knack for finding talent, then proceeded to talk about himself for over an hour without asking her a single question. The third and final meeting was lunch at an expensive restaurant on Collins Street.

‘You’re Scandinavian,’ the high-profile executive stated knowingly, shoving another risotto ball into his mouth. ‘Mm, yes, very nice,’ he added, eyes on Oli as he licked his fingers, chewing sloppily.

‘No, actually,’ she said, her appetite vanishing. ‘I don’t have any Scandinavian heritage.’

‘Doesn’t matter. Between your looks and your voice, men will be wanking into their cereal all over the country.’

Oli looked at the tabletop, gripping her knife and doing her best to keep it pointed down even though she wanted to stab his giant beer gut.

The exec guffawed to himself. ‘We might even need you to tone it down a bit so it’s not too much. We could do some covert PR, get people to know who you are.’ He looked at the hint of her cleavage appreciatively. A few minutes later his foot rubbed against her leg, and she faked a phone call and left.

Print was safest, she decided; better to hide behind the anonymity of a by-line, let her words do the talking.

Oddly, that was one of the only times her mother conveyed an opinion about her career. At a family dinner, when Oli reluctantly recounted the unfortunate interactions, Sally knotted her hands together and said it was a shame Oli was only pursuing print, because she’d always thought it would be nice to see her on TV. Pretty Lily, jolly Oli.