Melissa Warren sidles up next to them, looking at Oli with undisguised contempt before casting her eyes skyward as if the gloomy weather is a personal insult. She brushes invisible lint from her tailored jacket and asks, ‘Where’s Jo?’

Oli squares her shoulders. ‘Out of town.’

‘Shame.’ Melissa looks pleased. ‘This is a juicy one.’

‘How so?’ Rob cracks his gum and appears bored.

‘Well … Bowman was first on the scene, so it must be meaty, though of course the cops can hardly afford to dillydally at the moment.’ Melissa lists the recent unsolved homicides, ticking them off on her manicured fingers. She clearly delights in holding court, and Oli finds her overt confidence both grotesque and magnetic.

Oli’s entire cadetship has been a parade of people like Melissa, who sashay through life with an easy smile and answers at the ready. Oli hopes this characteristic will magically bestow itself upon her at some point—or that at the very least, she will get better at faking it.

‘And,’ Melissa adds, ‘a female killer always has the public gagging.’ She walks ahead, heels tapping assertively on the cracked path. ‘Good luck, kids!’ she calls over her shoulder.

‘Reckons she’s a bloody TV anchor,’ Rob mutters, flaring his nostrils. ‘Pity about her face.’

Oli gives him a look, even though she’s certainly not about to defend Melissa.

More journalists arrive, their faces alive with the prospect of murder, walking briskly down the wide street flanked by scruffy cameramen. In stark contrast, neighbours emerge from nearby houses looking bewildered. A young couple watch the detectives on the lawn from the front yard of the house next door. Their toddler son, clad in a woollen jumper, nappy and gumboots, smacks a plastic spade against an upturned bucket. Four elderly ladies, one in a peach dressing-gown, stand in a huddle on their front porch, whispering to each other. A bald man with a neck tattoo rocks back and forth on his heels while holding a bored-looking tabby, and a middle-aged couple in gym gear are trying to wrangle three fluffy white dogs.

Words start to arrange themselves in Oli’s mind. Last night a house on Paradise Street, St Kilda, was the scene of a terrible tragedy. Neighbours were shocked to discover that a young woman had been killed, her body found in the early hours of Saturday morning …

The noise punch of a backfiring car jerks Oli’s thoughts to the present.

‘Bowman’s up.’ Rob gestures to the house.

Her nerves skyrocket again. ‘Right.’

‘Hold this.’ He hands her his camera and reties his straggly hair into a loose knot at the nape of his neck. ‘What time do you need to file?’

‘Jo said she wants something to review by nine.’

He takes the camera back. ‘You’ll be fine. And, bonus, it’s stopped raining so I’ll get some decent pics.’