‘Maybe.’ A wave wets Isla’s feet and she steps back onto the dry sand. ‘Do you remember much about Steve Mallory?’

‘I was scared of him.’

‘Were you?’

‘All the kids were. Don’t you remember?’ She looks away, distracted by her son and a wet springer spaniel.

‘Yes, I do,’ Isla says. ‘Why d’you think we were scared?’

‘We all thought he was going to bundle us into his truck.’ The spaniel runs to the far end of the bay, where its owner is walking towards them, waving a stick. ‘My mum used to say, he doesn’t take kids from nice families.’

‘Did she?’ Isla thinks this might be funny if it were not so unspeakably sad.

Andrea swoops and picks her child up from the sand, seconds before the spaniel returns, faster and wetter than before. ‘You can’t take your eyes off them, can you? Not for a minute.’ The boy wails in Andrea’s arms.

Isla smiles and kicks at the sand.

‘We should get back. Good luck in London if I don’t see you.’ Andrea turns away, her son crying on her hip.

Isla walks the full length of the bay, stands a while on the flat boulders at the base of the headland. Then she walks back against the wind, head down, hands deep in her pockets. She lets water soak into her boots. She feels sand and salt in her skin, in her hair. The sun rises in the sky.

50

Sydney, 1997

‘Inspector Perry can’t see you right now,’ the female cop says, calling out across the waiting room. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘I can wait,’ Isla says.

‘I think he’ll be a while.’

‘I’ve got all day. It’s important.’

‘Is it regarding Mrs Mallory?’ The phone rings on the desk beside her. She lifts the receiver and replaces it. ‘You were here about her case last week.’

‘That’s right.’ Isla recognises her: bobbed red hair. A look of veiled exasperation.

‘The case is closed,’ the cop says. ‘I was looking at it earlier. We’ve been transferring all our closed cases onto a computer database.’

Isla holds out her hand. The cop hesitates. Her eyes glance over Isla’s windblown hair.

‘Isla Green,’ Isla says, extending her arm across the desk.

‘Sergeant Karen Dent.’ She shakes Isla’s hand. ‘I’m not sure I can help you.’

‘It’s all right. I think I can help you.’

Sergeant Dent smiles. ‘How’s that?’

‘I don’t think Mrs Mallory’s alive.’

Her smile falters. ‘Why not?’

‘She followed her husband down south, a week or so after he left. To a town called Marlo, in Victoria. I spoke to my dad about it earlier. He remembers the Mallories had a beach cabin down there.’

‘Does he?’ The cop lifts her eyebrows. ‘Is he claiming to have witnessed Mrs Mallory leaving?’

‘No. But my neighbour did. She spoke to Mandy as she waited for a taxi.’

Sergeant Dent nods. ‘A woman called Andrea? Would have been nine or ten at the time?’

‘That’s right.’