‘I think we should get Detective Pollard in as a guest speaker,’ said Agatha. ‘Get her to give the girls a talk about personal safety.’ Norma smiled. She remembered little Antigone Pollard staying out on the Pollard farm with her grandmother. Norma looked from one woman to the next. They all appeared interested. ‘All in favour?’ she asked.

It was ‘ayes’ all round.

Norma nodded. This might be just the thing, she thought.

On Friday morning, Norma O’Mealley rose early. She didn’t have a lot of cause to visit the Deception Bay police station but thought when you were asking a favour of someone it never hurt to bring cake. She was rather famous for her banana cake and had popped one into the oven first thing so it would be cool enough to ice. So, there she was at the front door of the police station, the cake cling-wrapped to a paper plate which she balanced in one hand while using the other to open the door. There was no one at the counter and she looked into the mirrored wall behind it. It was probably one of those two-way mirrors you saw on TV, she thought. Nonetheless, she took the opportunity to check her windblown hair, white now, the years having drained all the colour from it. Norma put the plate down on the counter and pressed a little bell. She straightened her cardigan just as a young policeman appeared from a door at the side of the counter.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked politely, eyeing the cake.

Norma tried to ignore the fact that they must be allowing twelve-year-olds to be police officers nowadays. And this one looked like he’d had a fall in the playground; his face was grazed. She asked to see Detective Pollard. The boy rubbed a pimply chin, exposing another graze on his elbow, nodded and disappeared back through the door. While she waited, Norma looked around the waiting room. A hooded youth and an older man sat next to each other on some plastic chairs. By the slouch of the boy, they were not here on a nice visit. She had seen the older chap around town, and was careful not to make eye contact.

A door opened into the waiting area and a young woman in her early thirties stepped out—a grown-up version of the child Norma remembered out on the farm. She seemed too slight to have taken down Jack Barratt. She was fit and pretty and wore trousers. Her shoes were flat, which Norma approved of. A lifetime of observation had taught her the career ladder was harder to climb in heels.

‘Detective Antigone Pollard,’ said the woman, sticking out a hand.