‘Maybe you would,’ I agreed, ‘but until you’re alone and isolated, with no money and a couple of kids, and have to choose between staying with an abusive man or leaving and making your children homeless, it’s hard to know what any of us would choose. And remember, these women are incredibly vulnerable; don’t make it worse by blaming them for what their partners do.’

The woman looked chastened.

‘So what do we do about it?’ asked Norma, glancing sideways at the woman beside her. I’d noticed her before the talk. Especially her swollen jaw, not quite disguised with make-up.

The woman was listening with rapt attention.

‘Instead of asking: Why doesn’t she leave?, we need to ask: Why does he hit her? Greater minds than ours are trying to find the answers to family violence,’ I said, ‘but here’s what I know. Violence becomes a success strategy for men who behave like this; it ensures they always get their own way. Now, here’s what I know about dominance. Some people—male and female—feel the need to establish a pecking order in their dealings with others. These kinds of people will push or snip until you either fight back or back down. The minute you back down, they win. If you fight back, they back down.’

More nodding from the audience.

‘When I come across people and identify this pattern,’ I said, ‘I try to call them on it. It’s not the most comfortable thing to do, but boy, does it save you a lot of stress further down the track.’ As I said this, a vision of Bill Wheeler filled my mind, his lip curled in disdain, his attitude of superiority. I knew that sooner or later we were going to have to lock horns. I didn’t relish the prospect. But that wouldn’t stop me.

‘And if that doesn’t work, headbutt them!’ said a tiny old lady in the front row.

‘A good second option,’ I said with a laugh.

When all the questions were exhausted, Norma stood up and moved to the microphone. ‘Thanks so much for coming, Detective. We hope you can stay and have a cup of tea and perhaps answer more questions, if people have any.’

‘Only if there’s cake!’ I said to a burst of laughter.

‘Oh, there’s cake,’ said Norma, sweeping an arm out and gesturing to the laden trestle table.

Holding a plate of sponge cake, I was quickly surrounded by several women. I answered questions between bites, declaring I’d never tasted a lighter sponge. Some of the questions were from young women: How did you fight back in the car park? And some were general: Where can women go if they want to leave? The more pointed were: What if you know someone in that situation?