First, I had to tip toe around The Mother, which, at least, did go better than anticipated. But from there it all descended into crud. There was no wholegrain bread left and I had to eat white-crap toast. I was last to the shower and it was only lukewarm. Then my hairdryer wouldn’t work, and now I couldn’t find my flaming car keys. Consequently, I was running late, which wasn’t a good thing when the first item in my diary was an audience with DI Johns. He wanted an update on what I’d covered over the weekend, which was shark talk for keeping an eye on me. I supposed it was progress that he now had enough respect for me to give me the time of day, but my bowels seemed to disagree.

After the second time around the house checking the likely spots, I finally found my keys under the newspaper, on the kitchen bench. My eyes did a spot of spontaneous leaking at the sight of the photograph of Rose-Marie and another of the fire-ravaged circus on the front page of the Otago Daily Times. The paper was folded in half, banner headline uppermost, and I wasn’t about to flip it over to see if there was a photo of an elephant on the other side. The odds were pretty high. Instead, I grabbed the keys and hightailed it out of there.

Decorum went by the wayside and I ran down the street to my car. But my rush was brought to an abrupt halt by the sight of the folded piece of paper tucked under the windscreen wiper. I sighed what felt like all the air out of my lungs and my shoulders drooped to match my mojo. Not today. There was only so much a girl could handle and my resilience had been eroded to next to nought. I wished I’d done something about this sooner, but I truly couldn’t face the hassle. It wasn’t as if there had been anything else happening in my life. I picked the note out by the corner, tossed it, unread, on to the back seat and then moped my way down to town.

I needed to hear a friendly voice, so decided a phone call was in order. It wasn’t purely a social call, as I was in need of information, as well as geniality.

‘Pathology.’

I smiled at the sound of the familiar drawl. ‘Alistair.’ I drew out the last syllable.

‘Samantha.’ He returned the favour.

‘How are you bearing up in the big smoke?’ I asked.

‘Oh, you know how it is. As much as I loved Invercargill, the grime, the bland flatness, the arctic southerlies, I’m coping okay, just. Some company would help. What are you up to tonight?’