He kissed her and turned for the door. She didn’t watch him go.

25

Sydney, 1997

Isla is lost in thought when the police car passes her on her way back from town. She looks right at it, watches it make its way up Bay Street, but she doesn’t see it. She looks into the gardens of her neighbours and sees Douglas Blunt crouched on his lawn, dead-heading his roses. He has a concentrated look which tells her he has seen her and is not planning to say hello. She pauses beside his gate.

‘Mr Blunt.’ She coughs. ‘I wanted to apologise.’

He takes a moment to shift his gaze in her direction. His face is blank.

‘I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. At the party. I was out of line.’

‘You were.’

‘I’m sorry.’

He points his secateurs at her parents’ place, where the police car has stopped. ‘Looks like you got company.’

A uniformed policeman gets out of the car and slams the door. Isla watches him open the gate and climb the steps to the verandah. She tries not to run. Her dad is out, he won’t be home for hours. If they wanted to arrest him they would have come later in the day. They know where he works. The door shuts behind the cop and she stops, holds onto a fence post in a spike of fear. The watch. She tries to think. Behind her, Doug snips at his roses.

She lets herself into the house and stands in the hallway. The door to the kitchen stands open and the house is bright, flooded with sunlight. She hears the cop talking to her mum.

‘I came as soon as I could,’ he says. ‘If it’s not a good time, I could come back later.’

‘No,’ Louisa says. ‘Don’t do that.’

There is a pause, a scraping of chairs. The kettle starts to boil. Isla steps quietly into her parents’ bedroom. She opens the drawer where she saw her mum hide the watch and reaches around inside. It’s not there. She checks twice, lifting out the quarter bottle of vodka and the balled up pairs of socks. It’s gone. Sweat runs under her arms. She tries the other drawers, quickly, shaking out T-shirts and shorts, checking the pockets. She checks the laundry basket, the base of the wardrobe, under the mattress. Nothing.

From the kitchen, her mum’s voice reaches her: nervy, polite small talk. Isla creeps from the room. The cop’s boots are visible from the hallway, and the edge of his jacket, hanging from the back of his chair.

‘You mentioned an item when you called,’ the cop says. ‘Something that might help our enquiries.’

‘That’s right,’ Louisa replies.

Isla stops where she is. Shock passes through her: a band of heat that moves along her limbs.

‘We appreciate your help, Mrs Green. It all helps to build up a picture.’

‘Of course,’ Louisa says.

‘Perhaps you could repeat what you told me on the phone. And you could show me the item you mentioned.’