‘It’s true,’ he repeats.

‘You bastard.’ Louisa kicks at his shins, arms outstretched.

‘Mum.’ Isla gets up from the couch. She wants to scream but her lungs won’t fill. ‘Don’t!’

Louisa turns and drops her arms. She is dry-eyed, her chest heaving.

‘Leave him alone,’ Isla says. She has a loud ringing in her ears. She can barely hear herself. ‘I’m not going to stand here and watch you attack him.’

Louisa smooths her dress down, catches her breath. ‘He’s a liar. Just remember that.’ She points at the watch. ‘He’s been lying for thirty years.’

Isla sways. Her limbs ache. ‘Leave him alone.’

‘Come with me,’ Louisa says.

‘I think you should leave.’

‘What will it take, Isla? When will you stop defending him?’

Isla sits again, before she falls. She doesn’t hear the front door click shut, or her mother’s car pull away from the front of the house.

48

Sydney, 1997

Isla gets to Circular Quay as the Manly ferry is docking. She pushes through crowds of commuters, women with toddlers; day trippers. It’s cold and bright, and the water is lit up by the sun. The Opera House gleams on Bennelong Point. She turns her back on it, walks up Argyle Street and stops on the corner of George Street outside the police station. Sydney’s skyscrapers stand tall before her.

She pushes through the doors. At the front desk, a female cop has her arms wrapped around a stack of files. A couple of documents start to slide free and she bends her knees to catch them. The phone starts to ring beside her. ‘Can I help you?’ she shouts.

‘I need to see Inspector Perry,’ Isla says.

‘What’s it about?’

‘Amanda Mallory.’

‘Who?’ She has neat, red hair that curls under her chin. ‘Could you repeat that?’

‘Amanda—’ The phone stops ringing and Isla finds she is shouting into a quiet waiting room. She lowers her voice. ‘It’s regarding Amanda Mallory. Can I speak to Inspector Perry, please?’

The cop heaves the files back up her chest. ‘Hang on,’ she says, and carries them through to a back office, leaving Isla alone in the waiting area. Through the door she’s left open Isla sees a bank of grey filing cabinets and a corkboard covered in notices. She smells cigarettes and reheated soup. She wants to retch.

‘Miss Green.’ Inspector Perry stands before her with his radio hissing at his belt. His freshly clipped moustache. ‘How can I help you?’

‘I have a few questions,’ she says. ‘Can we talk somewhere more private?’

He lifts a side panel and nods for her to follow him. They pass more filing cabinets, boxes of paperwork, desks with files stacked across them. At least three telephones are ringing, each at a different pitch. He leads her into a large, windowless office and shuts the door.

‘Please sit down,’ he says, without looking at her.

Isla sits down opposite Inspector Perry. His desk is wide and deep. Mahogany trimmed, with a leather inlay. At the far side of the desk is a large black telephone. At the other end, a mountain of paperwork divided by metal trays. His chair is higher than hers, she notes.