‘Phoebe? Where was Caleb yesterday?’

The chocolate sprinkled onto my cappuccino blurred to a pale brown smear. ‘With Penelope. His friend?’

‘His girlfriend?’

‘I don’t know. His something.’

‘Does she support this? Do you know what the police have on him? They’ll have something.’

‘No.’

‘You need help. To save him, you need to get right inside his head. That means inside his computer. Caleb has an online presence, Phoebe. All young people do. That means he’ll have files… accounts… Stephen was always the more practical of the two of you. Also probably better with computers.’

‘You mean Stephen can spy on him?’

‘It’s called parenting.’

‘It’s not about parenting. Caleb has a right to privacy.’ I was very angry. ‘He’s eighteen years old.’

‘You’re still his mother.’

‘You’re still my mother.’

‘And I would look at your secret files if I needed to.’

Our eyes locked. Genevieve did not back down. She never backed down. ‘You’d spy on me?’ I demanded, gobsmacked. ‘Should I report you for this?’

‘To whom?’

‘I don’t know. Some professional body?’

‘You’re my daughter, not my client.’ Genevieve paused. ‘There’s something Caleb said to Penelope. That he would look after her parents? That’s what the police say. They make it sound quite menacing. And the police are interested in his drawings. That’s all Stephen could find out. What drawings does he do?’

I closed my eyes, taking a mental trip around the drawings on Caleb’s bedroom walls. ‘Graphic art mostly. Stories.’

Genevieve was not given to gestures of uncertainty, but her fingers moved across the table. She touched her wig bag, her suit carrier, an Akoya pearl earring, and finally, her forehead again. ‘Caleb wastes time with drawing, just like you with music. Art history.’

Any history interested me more than law. I wanted to know what was actually true. ‘Genevieve.’

She picked up her mobile phone. ‘You make such bad decisions. I know the right lawyer. Douglas Anderson. He’s expensive. I’ll have to look after this. Stephen and me. You won’t be able to afford him. What you have to do is talk to Caleb. Learn what you can about what happened. Then get inside his head. First thing I’ll have Anderson do is make it quite clear to the police that they are not to talk to Caleb without a lawyer again.’

She was right about one thing. I needed to talk to Caleb. Really talk. I needed to learn things I might not want to know. I needed to know every detail of where he had been that day. I needed to know what enemies, other than Rosie, might spread terrible rumours about him. If Caleb wouldn’t talk, I might have to follow my mother’s other, less admirable, advice.

Caleb had a visitor in the ward. I recognised his red hair. John Zynda had been friends with Caleb when they played AFL. I’d passed his father yesterday in Brunton. John was bigger the way young men get when they stay sporty. Caleb was scrawny and pale beside him, and sick. One bandaged hand covering his eyes and then his mouth, he blocked out the face in front of him.