‘We’ll need to check who it belongs to,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘If I were a suspicious detective,’ I said, ‘I might think that there is no cat, and that Jack Barratt wanted someone to go to his house and hide evidence.’

‘Gee, it’s lucky for Jack you’re not a suspicious detective.’ Wozza pantomimed twirling an imaginary moustache.

Jane looked at the two of us eagerly. ‘So are we going to search his place tonight?’ The excitement in her voice was not dissimilar to Randall’s. Deception Bay’s last crime wave involved a group of teens smashing letterboxes; this was much more exciting.

I shook my head and pointed to the on-call magistrates roster thumbtacked to the pin-up board. His Honour Charles Buckley was not one to be disturbed lightly. Earthquake, mass murder, maybe. My one appearance so far before the magistrate had ended badly. The guy was a misogynistic prick. Something like this would have to wait till morning. Hence Randall’s long night ahead, parked in a police car outside Jack’s place. Jane looked disappointed. The night would drag for her too, stuck at the station.

When all the paperwork was ready for signing by the morning on-call magistrate, Wozza and I left the prisoner in the charge of the watch-house keeper, and then headed off to catch a couple of hours’ sleep before the early-morning search. I left Jane with instructions to let me know if Randall reported any disturbances.

Stepping from the warmth of the police station into the chill night air was bracing. The wind blowing in off the sea mingled eucalyptus with salt. The police station was set a little back from the main road, and parking bays at the side housed our private vehicles. In the small hours of the morning, my breath came out in puffs as I walked to my car. When I opened the car door, I heard an engine start up a short distance away. It wasn’t Wozza—he had stopped by his car to check his phone.

I started my car and drove slowly out of the driveway. The car I’d heard was parked up the road to my right—it looked like a ute from this angle. I could see the faint silhouette of a driver, but little more, since the ute was parked in the shadows of some giant gum trees. In the cold night air, the exhaust billowed out in visible fumes that turned an eerie red in the glow of its brakelights. As I slowed to turn onto the road, the ute’s headlights came on, high beam, turning night into day. I averted my eyes.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I pressed Wozza’s name.

‘Yup?’

‘Can you see this?’ I asked.

‘I’m on it,’ he said.