‘It was in the news. I have a link. I’ll read it to you. It’s short. There was a fire at John’s parents’ house. The two front rooms were both destroyed.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘The article doesn’t name him. You can’t name someone, can you, if they’re still a child? But listen to this. Police say the fire was traced to curtains in the front room being set alight by the youngest family member playing with fire.’

‘Youngest son? His father’s lighter? When was this?’

‘A while. But it doesn’t matter. I’ve read the research. People who light fires never stop. It’s a sexual orientation. Like being a paedophile.’

‘How old was John?’

‘Well he was four. He was here in the valley that day. And he likes to light fires.’

‘It’s interesting information. I’ll see what I can make of it. You’ll be telling Douglas Anderson, too?’

‘I’ve emailed him. I’ll be telling everyone.’

‘It might be more useful to me as an exclusive.’

‘I’m more concerned about what’s useful for Caleb.’

It was nearly a reasonable time to leave to visit him. I couldn’t check on Caleb so I stared past his empty bed into the outside world. Green shoots and moss sprang from ashes near the dead manna gum’s outstretched limbs. An occasional breeze through Caleb’s curtains brought the ghost of smoke back to life. Mother Nature herself was an arsonist.

I parked my car in the nearest car park to the Yarra Remand Centre, and sat, chewing my nails. I used to feel assertive. I once believed I had the right, any normal mother had the right, to demand access to my son. But if we two were normal, a normal mother, a normal son, I never would have known about the Yarra Remand Centre, would never have needed to visit Caleb here. Eventually it was late enough. I was buzzed through to reception.

Two guards stared at me, bored, behind a Plexiglass screen. One was so obese, the desk cut into his belly. The other persistently scratched his damp armpit.

‘I want to see Caleb Wharton.’

‘Who are you?’ the scratching one asked.

‘I’m his mother.’

‘Where is he?’ one asked the other.

I leaned over the desk. ‘That’s what I’ve asked you.’

The guards crossed arms. ‘Careful, lady. Any closer and you’ll set off an alarm.’

I should have brought Genevieve and her pony-hair wig. I bet she never got treated like this.

‘Do you know which unit he’s in?’ Scratchy asked.

I heard despair creeping into my voice. ‘I know he’s here somewhere.’