‘I work hard. Too hard, Ruby would say. I’m not good with too much time on my hands.’

‘Me neither,’ she says.

‘Ruby knows I don’t want kids.’ He turns to her with a sad half smile. ‘I’m not going to risk it. In case I have the bullying arsehole gene.’

‘That’s a shame.’ She sits up straight. Don’t cry. ‘I think you’d be a good dad.’

The sky has turned a deep blue. The buildings are low and makeshift; corrugated iron roofs and chickenwire fences.

‘Have you thought about what you’re going to say to this Steve bloke?’ Scott says, after a while. ‘How are you going to play it if he’s not happy to see you?’

‘I’m not going to lose my rag if that’s what you mean.’

‘That’s a good start.’

‘I know you think this is a bad idea.’

He keeps his eyes on the road. ‘If I were him, I’d stick to my story, that’s all. If I’d told the police I’d moved away and left my wife behind, I’d tell you the same exact thing.’

‘I want to look him in the eye,’ she says. ‘I want to see his face when he says he moved away without her.’

The road turns and Scott drops his speed. They pull up outside a smart, new community centre with steps leading up to glass double doors. The doors part and an elderly man leaves the building, stepping aside for a younger woman with a baby on her hip.

‘I’ll come in with you,’ Scott says.

‘You sure this is where he works?’

Scott turns off the ignition. ‘He’s listed as a manager here. And he’s on a few local committees operating out of this address. Neighbourhood development projects, that sort of thing.’

‘Pillar of the community,’ Isla says. They sit for a moment in the sealed capsule of his car. ‘Maybe we should have made an appointment.’

She swings the car door open. Scott checks the car is locked before he follows her into the building. The doors open straight onto a small waiting area, where a ceiling fan rotates slowly and several people wait on plastic chairs.

An Aboriginal woman stands behind the front desk. She has close-cropped, bleach-blonde hair and a heavy-set jaw. ‘Can I help you?’ she says, looking doubtful.

‘I’m here to see Steve Mallory,’ Isla says.

‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘Yes,’ she says, before Scott can reply. She smiles. ‘He’s expecting me.’

‘We don’t speak to journos.’

‘I’m not a journalist. My name’s Isla Green.’

‘I don’t have you in the book.’ She taps the diary which lies open on the desk. ‘I don’t think we can help you, Miss Green.’

‘There must be a mistake, then.’ Isla steps away from Scott, who has gripped her by the elbow.

‘I don’t think so. Mr Mallory runs the Connect service on Fridays. He’s helping people find their families. People whose kids were taken. Or who were taken themselves, brought up by white folk. Stolen kids.’