“The problem is that in New South Wales it is well-nigh impossible to get divorced without what we call ‘proof of fault’ if the other party does not consent. And from what you say, your husband wants you back, so that could be a sticking point.” He put his pen down and Val panicked as she sensed him giving up on her.

“Will Tony have to pay maintenance for Nicole even if we’re not divorced? I’m struggling to manage.”

The solicitor stuck out his lower lip, considering. “Certainly we could try. Is your husband well off?”

“Yes, not bad. We have a three-bed house in Croydon Park.” She stopped, hating to use the word “we.” “My father died at the end of last year and his house sold for eighty thousand dollars, so surely I am entitled to my inheritance at least?”

At last Mr. Trotman seemed interested. “When did the sale go through?”

“Just last month,” Val told him. “I was the sole heir.” He made a note and Val guessed he could sniff a way of getting his fees paid.

“Do you have a copy of any of the documentation? In particular, I need what is called a grant of probate. Could you get your hands on it?”

Val knew that Tony kept all the papers to do with the estate in his desk at home. “I could try,” she said, biting her lip.

“Must have been a fancy house,” the solicitor continued. “Where did your father’s money come from? Did he have any other assets—investments, perhaps? It’s worth finding out.”

Val was stumped. Where had her father’s money come from? She had always assumed he must have inherited it, because she had never known him to work. She couldn’t remember him being interested in anything except the church, his daily Russian newspaper, drinking, and going for solitary walks.

“I guess he came from a wealthy family,” she offered. “But I’m not sure.”

The solicitor frowned, and she could imagine what he was thinking: organized crime, drug trafficking.

“He filled out tax returns,” she said quickly, hoping to dispel this notion.

“But he didn’t have any profession?”

Val sat back in the chair, mouth open. It had never occurred to her to ask where her father’s money came from. They didn’t have the kind of relationship in which she felt she could question him. He always snapped that it was none of her business if she asked anything about his past. It wasn’t as if he splashed cash around, but he clearly wasn’t short. He must have brought money from Russia with him, but how did he make it there? It was too late to ask now. Perhaps it was just something she would never know.

Chapter 20

Sydney, April 1974