In his rage, he didn’t see me. She did. And I felt a shock of recognition. It was the woman from the CWA. Joyce Tippet. The one who worked in Melbourne in Forensics until she married this arsehole and came here.

‘What seems to be the problem?’ I asked in a voice that was loud and commanding. A cop voice.

The man blustered to an angry halt and looked at me, eyes taking a second to focus on someone other than the object of his rage. He glared at me. I took a step closer as his nostrils flared. My stance was a fighting one.

‘How dare you interrupt a private conversation!’ His voice dripping with privilege; his accent private school, gilded with family money.

I looked him up and down with a contempt I did not trouble to conceal. In a voice louder than his, I said, ‘And how dare you speak to a woman like you are talking to her!’ I wasn’t de-escalating. I was escalating. Provoking him.

My volume shocked him, and he suddenly looked around as if remembering where he was.

I turned to Joyce and lowered my voice. ‘Are you okay?’ I touched her arm gently.

She looked amazed. ‘You can see me?’ she whispered.

‘Yes, I see you. What he is doing is wrong.’

The next thing I knew, the man grabbed my arm and tried to shove me out of the way. Joyce gave a panicked scream. I twisted myself free of his grip and stood right in his grille, fists clenched.

‘Try it with me. I dare you.’ My eyes flashed in fury, my voice low and menacing. Without breaking eye contact, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out my badge. Flicked it open in front of his face.

There was a flinch, then his eyes narrowed. ‘I know your boss,’ he said, cocky now.

‘And?’ I challenged, wanting to hear straight from Richard Tippet’s own mouth what he thought knowing Wheels would do for him.

Some of the bluster left his face when he realised I’d called his bluff. But like a boy in a schoolyard, he had to have the last word. ‘Well, he’ll be hearing about this!’

‘Oh yes, he will.’ I never let them have the last word.

And then, suddenly, there was another shopper right there. A man I recognised. He spoke.

‘Er … is everything okay?’ he asked, looking from me to Richard Tippet.

Tippet took a step back from me and straightened his shirt. Tucked it in. ‘Yes, Russell,’ he said. ‘Everything is fine.’

Russell Mowbray, Crystal’s uncle, stood like he’d forgotten how to move. In one arm, he cradled a red plastic shopping basket filled with vegetables and milk.

‘I just needed some tea.’ Russell gestured towards the same tea that I drank. The tea that had brought me into this aisle.

‘Come on, Joyce,’ Tippet said brusquely, and he stalked off without a backward glance.