Lachie looked at his phone as if it might bite him. Finally, he said, ‘Nah.’ His discomfort was so intense it was comical. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab his phone away from my reach. Resisting the urge, he crossed his arms in front of him and shoved his hands under his armpits.

‘Can I take a look?’ I said.

He snatched it from the table and held it to his chest. ‘Don’t you need a warrant or something like that?’

‘Look, mate,’ said Wozza, readying to throw him off balance, ‘while we’re here, I wanted to follow up about the Australia Day barbie. I heard there was a bit of trouble.’

Lachie looked defensive. ‘Coupla chicks cried foul. You know what it’s like.’

‘Sure do,’ said Wozza. ‘Happens all the time. Bloody women.’ He chuckled.

Lachie’s posture relaxed visibly. While galling, this faux camaraderie got results. He laughed nervously. ‘Yeah, they were pissed. Coupla blokes got lucky.’

‘Where did they get lucky? At the party?’ asked Wozza in the same casual tone.

Lachie’s eyes darted from Wozza to me. He looked cagey. ‘Y-yeah, at the party.’

‘Did you get lucky?’ I asked.

Lachie’s face reddened. ‘They were up for it,’ he muttered.

‘That’s not what they claimed later, though, was it?’ I kept my voice even, non-judgemental.

‘Nah. They went squealing to the cops. It was all a bit of fun. Sore losers, that’s what I reckon.’

‘Happens,’ I said.

Lachie looked at me and grinned suddenly. ‘See? You get it. Why couldn’t they?’

Lying to shitheads comes easy to most cops. Greater good and all that. I was no different.

Wozza slapped himself on the forehead. ‘Hey,’ he said, as if he’d just remembered, ‘Ralphie at the Royal said you were there last Thursday.’

Lachie’s face reddened. ‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘You and Jimbo and the others. Was it a good night?’

Lachie wriggled his shoulders as if stretching. ‘Yeah, that’s right. Bunch of guys.’

Wozza laughed. ‘You all get plastered?’

‘Yeah, mate.’ Lachie grinned. Then he stood up. Our visit was clearly over.

‘Mind if I use the bathroom before we go?’ I said, pointing up the hallway next to the lounge room. I set off in that direction before he could stop me.

Outside, Wozza asked me what I found.

‘Nothing like the room with the mattress in the photo. He had a spare room but it was full of junk. No mattress, no besser brick wall.’

‘What impression do you get from young Mr Murtog?’

‘Lying through his teeth,’ I said as we got in the car. ‘He was so bad at it, I felt awkward.’

‘Yep. The Academy Award for Bad Lying goes to …’ Wozza did a drumroll on the steering wheel.

‘Have you ever seen him with Jack Barratt? We know they’re connected somehow.’