Bowman’s face is a map of peaks and dips. The lines seem to rest across a complicated grid system, not symmetrical exactly, but pleasing all the same, as if a sculptor has deliberated over every flick of their scalpel. In the buttery light, his thick hair is so white it almost looks fake. His distinctive voice cuts cleanly through the buzz of nearby revellers.

Henno arrives with a beer, and Oli orders. Bowman curls a paw-like hand around the glass and takes a practised gulp. Oli licks her lips, swallows. She wants to start strong, establish her authority early, but Bowman beats her to it. ‘Have you noticed how everyone’s always hammering on about technology changing things?’ He doesn’t wait for a response. ‘Well, that’s utter bullshit. The tools and platforms might change, but people don’t.’

Disarmed, Oli tries to think how to respond.

He watches her and drinks more beer, clearly enjoying her discomfort. ‘It’s the same in your industry, Ms Groves. I’m sure there are one hundred superficial ways that your job is different now than it was when you were a fresh-faced cadet, but it’s fundamentally the same. People are still gobbling up lie after lie.’ His grey gaze is like a drill.

‘People do consume an incredible amount of content these days,’ she says lightly, in an attempt to conceal her irritation. ‘But we don’t lie—or at least I don’t.’

‘A journalist claiming integrity,’ Bowman says sarcastically. ‘How novel.’

‘A detective using intimidation tactics,’ she quips. ‘How unimaginative.’

He tips his head back and guffaws, rubbing a watery eye with a pudgy finger. ‘Alright, Ms Groves,’ he says, still smiling, ‘you lured me here with the promise of a theory. Let’s have it, then.’

‘Do you think Alex Riboni killed Evelyn Stanley?’ Oli asks firmly. Henno places a beer in front of her.

‘That’s a question, not a theory,’ he says, eyes twinkling. ‘But yes, I do. The evidence always suggested she did. Even without her confession, we were certain.’ He leans forward. ‘I’m not going to lie to you, though—we were under a lot of pressure back then. We wanted it to be her. We were still in the throes of the gangland killings, and our track record was poor. We needed a conviction. That wasn’t a secret, so I’m not surprised there was a bit of speculation about Alex being our only real suspect. But I was never concerned we put the wrong person away, not for a moment.’

Oli falters at this unexpected revelation. ‘Why would she take her life now?’

‘Guilt?’ he suggests gruffly. ‘Her life wasn’t much fun after she left gaol. According to her colleagues, she was depressed and self-medicating.’

‘Can I report that?’

He lifts his boxy shoulders. ‘As long as I’m not the source.’

Oli nods.