I checked Waffles’ water bowl was full and tossed a rubber toy filled with kibble onto the verandah; that would keep him busy for a while. While I watched him pounce on it like a giant kitten, I called my friend Pip to confirm her trip up to the farm tomorrow, but I also wanted to hear her voice, which was light when she answered but didn’t stay that way. I told her about the man in the shed with the knife. Meg. Merv. Millards. She copped the lot. Like when we’d worked together, she listened, processed, then spoke.

‘We’ll talk about this over lunch tomorrow. In the meantime, I’m going to pull the file on the Millards. Sounds like you need to know what happened.’ She made her usual joke about needing a camel and a cut lunch to find me all the way out in the country. Then she was gone.

Sometimes gratitude makes your eyes fill.

The CWA hall was an old weatherboard building, painted cream and dark green and nestled at the corner of a bushland reserve. There seemed to be a lot of women heading for the hall when I drove into the adjacent car park. No sooner was I out of my car than Norma O’Mealley hurried over. She must’ve been keeping an eye out for me.

‘Welcome to the CWA!’ she said.

‘Thanks for having me,’ I said. ‘And by the way, that cake you made for us was excellent. My senior sergeant had three slices.’

Norma blushed. ‘I’ve won ribbons with that cake,’ she said.

‘I can see why.’

I followed Norma into the chilly hall, which smelled like the musty old tents that were no doubt stored here as well. The hall doubled as the scouts’ meeting place and was lined with flags and emblems. There was a long trestle table set up at the back, and it was covered with a red-and white-chequered tablecloth. At one end was a stainless-steel urn surrounded by a sea of white cups and saucers, teabags and a coffee container. At the other end were cling-wrapped plates of cakes and scones.

I stepped to the front of the crowd—I estimated about a hundred women—and Norma stood by my side. I scanned the faces. Earnest, good women. My cop brain, always on, I wondered if any of these women had been targeted by Jack. The under-reporting statistics were always stark in my mind: around eighty per cent of sexual assault victims don’t come forward.

Once everyone was seated, Norma moved forward and tapped on an old microphone on a stand. There was more masking tape than microphone, holding everything together. Her tap echoed and was followed by a high-pitched whine of feedback from the speakers before everything settled.