I was interrupted again, before asking anything else. Then Brady concluded. ‘We’re checking mountains of evidence. When we know more, we’ll let you know. I’d like to ask you to avoid jumping to conclusions. Misinformation can hamper our attempts to find evidence to charge the culprit. Meanwhile, investigations into the other fires continue. Most were caused by lightning strikes…’

I looked around the room. No one wrote this down.

Jack rang when I got home. ‘I didn’t know you had reporter’s credentials.’

I wished we could have had this conversation face to face. It was so difficult to gauge his mood over the phone. ‘I blagged my way in,’ I said brightly, borrowing a word from my London years with Marco. ‘There are things I need to know. Things you don’t tell me.’

‘You know I’d tell you everything if I could.’

I knew that. I also knew I was out of my depth. I typed the name of Genevieve’s lawyer colleague, Douglas Anderson, into Google. Genevieve was right. He was well known. The previous year, he had football coach Greg Smithers cleared of procuring underage girls for sex. I’d seen him on television, striding down the street outside the Supreme Court.

I called Stephen at his office. ‘Is Douglas really the right person for this case?’

‘He’s a skilled brief, Phoebe. Very expensive. I take it Genevieve got a discount? That she’ll get the tab?’

‘Wouldn’t Caleb be better off with someone who knows him? Who believes in him? Wouldn’t he be better off with you?’

‘He’s best with someone who can defend him. I’m a commercial lawyer, Phoebe. Caleb deserves a proper defence.’

So I finally called Douglas Anderson.

‘I’ve been expecting to hear from you,’ he said, like I had a reputation for phoning the lawyers of men who procured girls for group sex with football players.

(What choice did I have?)

We arranged to meet in a city cafe. Arriving after work at the trendy inner-city location, all dark marble, shiny steel and smooth timber, I recognised him from my Google image search: a tall man in a near-black suit, with shoulder-length grey hair and one small earring.

‘You’re Douglas,’ I accused him, sliding into the seat opposite.

He raised one eyebrow in a perfectly controlled move, like a professional actor.

‘There’s one thing I want to know,’ I said.

‘Just one thing?’

‘For now.’ I tapped my manila folder of newspaper clippings. ‘Journalists know how old Caleb is, where he lives, who his friends are, even what school he attended. I want to know where this information comes from.’

Douglas straightened, as if he’d been accused of indiscretion. I widened my eyes to emphasise I was serious and expected an answer. ‘Probably from the police,’ he said.

‘Police?’