I tuned out and looked through the statements. The first cop on the scene had been a guy called Dean Lafford. Retired now, but still local. I’d met him one day when he’d come in to register a new gun. He’d told a few war stories in the muster room. Seemed like a good bloke. I scanned through his statement. Got the call … drove out to the house … front door unlocked … found small female child, dirty and dishevelled, two bodies … took child outside to police vehicle … radioed detectives. Nothing about going near the back door, nothing about securing the latch. And why would he? I pictured the scene. Protocol dictated he check to ascertain whether life was present in the bodies. He would also have done a quick walk-through to check for the presence of any other persons then beat a hasty retreat with the child. I imagined Lafford scooping her up, both to protect her and to ensure she was with him in case there was anyone else there as he hurried through the house.

Tracing the photograph of the locked screen door with my finger, I knew there was no way a four-year-old could have opened it. She wouldn’t have been tall enough. It was designed so she couldn’t reach it. And there was nothing close she could have climbed on. There was something very wrong about this investigation. How could the police at the time have possibly concluded a tiny child could drag a gun out a door she couldn’t open? Because if Crystal couldn’t put the gun outside, then Brett couldn’t have shot himself dead, then flung the gun out of harm’s way, then relatched the door.

Jess looked at both of us. ‘What the hell?’

Wozza let out a low whistle as he poured me a cup of tea and cut a generous slice of cake. ‘If ever there was a time to have dessert before dinner, this is it,’ he said.

‘I’m no expert,’ said Jess, ‘but it looks like you’ve got a murder on your hands.’

Wozza dialled for some pizza and opened the thick file sitting on the table.

I looked at Jess. ‘You up for it?’

‘Hell yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ve listened to every true-crime podcast in existence.’ She held up her hand and counted them off. ‘Casefile, Australian True Crime, Trace. I’m totally up for it.’ Jess cleared the large dining table so we could spread out.

Half an hour later, the kids were in the family room down the hallway watching Moana and eating pizza, and us adults were trying not to drip pizza cheese on crime scene photos. Front and centre was the photo of the wire-door latch. Definitely latched. Definitely too high for Crystal to reach.

‘I don’t get it,’ said Wozza, staring at the photo. ‘Why didn’t they see this back then?’