I led Crystal out of the kitchen and through the main area of the shop. Once on the street, I turned to the girl. ‘Your parents … ?’

Hesitation. Small voice: ‘Car crash.’

I nodded. ‘We are going to take you home. Have a chat to your uncle.’

‘No!’ Crystal’s eyes widened in horror.

‘Why not?’

‘Because … because …’ She faltered. ‘Why do you need to talk to him? Mr Filmore is cool.’

I spoke to her calmly and evenly, not wanting to set her off again. ‘You’re fourteen. We need to make sure you have proper accommodation, especially considering your situation.’

Half of Crystal’s face was covered by a fringe that came down to her chin. The rest of her multicoloured hair was longer. She flicked it back, stood straighter, and mumbled her address. She followed us to our unmarked car and climbed into the back seat.

Wozza drove while I stretched one arm across the back of his seat. I turned and tried to engage the teenager in conversation, but Crystal was having none of it; she stared out of the window as the main street disappeared and was replaced by long stretches of star-picket fences bordering paddocks of emerald-green winter grass. Lining the road, old trees twisted on their trunks like they were in pain.

At Crystal’s direction, Wozza turned off the bitumen onto an old unmade road, barely wide enough for the police vehicle. Up a bit, then a swing to the right, brought us to Crystal’s house. It was a neat cottage, painted white, tin roof, small porch, a silver ute parked in the driveway.

‘Yay, Russell’s home.’ Crystal’s tone was dull.

‘What’s he like?’ I kept my voice even and offhand. My gaze swept the girl’s exposed arms and neck for any sign of bruising or violence. Nothing more than gooseflesh in the chill.

‘Orright, I s’pose.’

‘Just the two of you live here?’

Crystal nodded.

I took in the house with a detective’s eye. It was neatly maintained; the small garden was tended by someone with a green thumb. So far, so good. The silver ute parked in the driveway looked like it had some grunt, but was clean and boasted no add-ons to make it go faster. A man opened the front door before we reached the porch. He was tall, well built. Dark wavy hair with a touch of grey in his three-day growth. Some men could pull off a three-day growth and look like a model while others looked homeless. This guy was one of the former.

He looked from Crystal to us, face grim. ‘What has she done now?’

‘Are you Russell?’ I asked.

‘Sorry. Yep. Russell Mowbray.’ He stuck out his hand and shook mine. His handshake was firm and warm. No squeezing, nothing to prove.

‘I’m Senior Detective Pollard and this is Senior Detective Harvey. May we come in?’