I thought about Jack Barratt. I wondered if there was any way he could have targeted Meg. Suddenly, I sat up a little straighter in my chair. We knew he wasn’t in the pub, but maybe he was loitering around outside, and there was Meg, alone and drugged … but then I slumped. That didn’t make sense. From what Nathan had said, Meg was already under the influence of something when she went outside. A follow-up call to Forensics suggested the wine sample from the night I drank with Jack at the pub was in a two-week-long queue. We hadn’t caught up with Lachie Murtog to ask him about Jack’s so-called cat or indeed, his connection to Jack

Paperwork and time—the two things TV cop shows got so wrong.

The sun had set by the time I got to the Weeping Willow Nursing Home, a ramshackle old homestead on the cliffs, turned into aged care accommodation. It was surrounded by the most beautiful weeping willows with old gnarled trunks veiled by waterfalls of green-covered branches. Also, the abode of Nana Pollard. The home was clean and neat, and fresh flowers from the garden in vases around the place gave it a homely feel. Large bowls of potpourri made the whole place smell like roses. The furniture was mostly antique, wooden and floral fabrics. Nan always said it reminded her of home.

I found my grandmother sitting by the fireplace in the communal lounge room, rug over her knees, already in her dressing-gown even though dinner wasn’t long over. No one stood on ceremony here. She looked well and I was pleased. I knew the decision to move here hadn’t been an easy one, but I think—even though she would never admit it—that she liked being cared for after a lifetime of caring for others.

‘Oh, sweetie,’ said Nan when she saw me, ‘you shouldn’t bother to visit me when you’ve been at work all day.’

‘Don’t be silly, Nan,’ I replied, giving her a hug. ‘There’s no place I’d rather be.’ And it was true. This frail old woman had been like a second mother to me. There was something about my grandmother, who looked at me with pure love, that was different from my mother, who looked at me with … expectation? Disappointment? Maybe pure love skipped a generation. Grandparents were flexible; if you became a cop, not a doctor, they were still happy.