‘And how’s work?’ said Nan.

I blew out a deep breath. ‘I’ve had easier days.’

‘Anything you can talk about?’

I picked the one thing I could. Kept my voice low. ‘Do you remember about a decade ago, when Brett Millard shot his wife and suicided? Left a little girl alone in the house till they were discovered days later? I’m pretty sure it was the same Brett Millard that I went to school with.’

‘You did,’ said Nan, her brow furrowing.

‘How did I not know about this?’ I asked, incredulous. Even if I didn’t see Nan as much as I’d have liked, we spoke on the phone all the time.

Nan looked thoughtful. ‘If I remember rightly, it was when you were overseas, doing that course.’

‘You’re right!’ I said, suddenly realising. ‘It would have been when I was in America.’ About a decade ago, as a young police recruit, the force had offered a scholarship for a three-month firearms training course at Quantico. I’d applied and got it. Those three months in the US were like living in an information bubble.

Nan continued. ‘It was the talk of the town at the time—or should I say the murmur of the town. Everyone had an opinion, but out of respect for the families involved, people didn’t speak too loudly. Even Ernie at the local paper kept the reports down to the bare minimum. And of course, Sergeant Wheeler did his best to keep a lid on things. Shamed a couple of men at the pub when they started talking about it. They closed up like clams. I suppose we were all horrified for the little girl.’

‘Sergeant Wheeler?’

Nan shrugged. ‘He had something to do with it. Not that the police did much. Open-and-shut case, they said.’

‘I couldn’t even find much about it online.’

Nan’s eyes sparkled with pride. ‘The power of small-town protection. We can close up like a fortress when we want.’

I kept my tone casual. ‘Did you know the family well? I remember going around to their house.’

‘Oh yes,’ said Nan. ‘Carmel Millard was in the CWA. It was her son Brett who married the Mowbray girl. Nice couple they were, although Brett was a bit of a scallywag.’

Scallywag. The term wrenched. That was how Norma O’Mealley had described Crystal. The girl was probably just like her father, the father who no one spoke about, the father who murdered her mother. Nan’s voice continued as my mind wandered to the girl, but my attention was brought back into sharp focus when Nan mentioned Norma.

‘Of course, Norma felt terrible after it all happened.’

‘Norma?’

Nan nodded. ‘Yes, Norma O’Mealley.’

‘Your friend from the CWA? What did she have to do with it?’