I’d barely fallen asleep, or so it seemed, before I was back in the car and on my way to work. When I arrived, it was like a bloody beehive. Aside from the rostered-on blokes, there were a helluva lot of others who’d been roped in to help even though they weren’t due to work today, or were due to start a lot later. Most of them had been called in for Rosalina’s murder, but I was concentrating on Jean’s disappearance, and my mind was firmly fixed on discovering her whereabouts.

The briefing started at 8.30 am. Mick O’Connell went over everyone’s jobs, and told them where to start. ‘The first forty-eight hours are the most crucial in a murder investigation,’ he began. ‘People forget things, get confused, evidence gets damaged and the list goes on. Everything has to be done there and then; the longer you take with something, the more chance the case has of going cold.’

Mick Lyons and I began by meeting Jean’s family, the Strachans. It didn’t take us long to get there, as the family only lived five minutes away from Wilkes Crescent, in the neighbouring suburb of Blackett. One of the key people we needed to speak to was Keir’s son. Christine Strachan confirmed that he’d been staying with them, and had agreed to talk to us that morning.

With the briefing done, Mick, Rod Dayment, who was a Homicide Detective, and I went down to make a cuppa. Rod was a very experienced Homicide officer who stood just over six feet tall. He was a well-dressed bloke with an athletic build, even though he was in his forties. He also had greying hair with a whitish moustache. As we walked he talked. ‘Well, it looks like you boys have got this one under control. The missing first missus is a bit of a concern, though. What’s the go there?’

‘She went missing in Feb ’88. Pete did a follow-up, but nothin’ ever came of it,’ Mick said.

I put in my two cents worth. ‘Keir was the last person to see her alive. He reckons he’s been in contact with her a couple of times, but she hasn’t contacted her family, which I find a bit strange.’

‘Boys, the first wife disappears, and the second wife turns up dead,’ said Rod. ‘You don’t have to be a rocket scientist. The whole thing stinks to high heaven, but there isn’t enough evidence to warrant Homicide’s intervention. She’s still a missing person, so we’ll leave it to you local boys. If you need a hand with anything though, just let us know.’

Rod left, and I returned to my desk to begin sifting through the Keir interview from the night before, just to make sure I hadn’t missed something. Finding nothing new, Mick and I decided we needed to have another look at the crime scene before we went and spoke with Jean’s family. We also had a photo of Rosalina, and had to take it to the Strachans for a positive I.D.

Pulling up outside the Wilkes Crescent property, Mick and I surveyed the scene, and were both immediately struck by the contrast. Yesterday, the house had been a hive of activity. Today, it was completely still and silent, apart from the chequered blue-and-white police tape swaying and flapping in the breeze. Something in the silence stirred the strange sensations in me again. It was almost like I could hear Jean’s voice telling me that I was on the right track, and not to stop now. It almost felt like she was willing me on, guiding me to find her.

‘Fair bit of damage, ay?’ Mick said.

‘Reckon they’ll have to knock it down?’ I replied.

‘Mate, there seems to be bad karma attached to this house. Perhaps it’d be best if they did.’

We walked towards the house, and as soon as we approached the fence the dog started to bark.

‘Wonder who’s gonna take care of the dog?’ I said.

‘We’ll tell the Strachans. They can sort it out,’ Mick said.

We only took a cursory look around before going on to the Strachans’ house. Their small, neat and tidy brick home had a carport on the left-hand side, and the block sloped gently up from the road to the house. There were steps leading up to a small veranda and a wire screen door with a timber door behind. We walked up to the front door and knocked. Death knocks were the hardest part of the job, because they were so personal; there was nowhere to hide. When someone opens the door and sees a couple of cops standing there with ashen faces, they know there can be nothing good coming from the visit.

I came from a very close-knit family, and initially struggled with these jobs, because I always imagined what it would be like if it was someone in my family who had passed away. In my first couple of years in uniform, I did about three or four death knocks, and they never got any easier, even though I came to know what to say, and the typical reaction to expect. All I could say was, ‘I’m sorry,’ and then allow the family to let out their emotions. Then I’d sit there with them, trying to answer the inevitable ‘When?’ ‘Where?’ and ‘How?’ questions, typically followed by, ‘What happens now?’

Usually, the incident had occurred in another police patrol, such as out in the country, and we’d get a message with very little information apart from the contact details for the investigating police. We could only ever give the family the bare details, and urge them to contact the police in charge of the matter. The thing was, you never wanted to say too much in case you give them the wrong information, which could then cause problems, especially as people were upset and emotional, and sometimes didn’t hear exactly what you were saying and could easily get things mixed up. If they asked about what happened next, I would tell them that normally a body was taken to the local mortuary. I had to tell them that they’d need to view the body and formally identify it for the local police, after which the post-mortem would be carried out. I’d tell them that everything would be explained in more detail once they spoke to the police in charge of the matter. Finally, I’d ask if there was anything I could do, such as contacting other relatives, and then I’d leave my name and number in case they needed to speak to me.

As I stood at the Strachans’ door, I felt like I was back on one of those first death knocks, only this time I wasn’t referring the family onto someone else; I was the officer who would be providing the information. It made me a little uncomfortable, a feeling which was only intensified when Christine Strachan answered the door. She was short, with cropped brown hair, a Filipino woman, but not what you’d call ‘typical’, in fact she looked more European than Asian. She had a kind, welcoming face, and spoke with a slight accent as she politely invited us inside.

Entering the house, we went straight into the lounge room. There was a hallway off to the right, and then the kitchen to the left. The humbleness of the house seemed quite reflective of the family. What struck me most were the dozens of family photos scattered around the room, including many photographs of Jean.

Christine sat down on the sofa and motioned for us to do the same. She was obviously apprehensive and pensive as she sat there fidgeting and squeezing her hands together. I scanned the room, and when I looked more closely at the photos, my gaze fixed on a wedding photo of Keir and Jean. I thought about my wife, and how I’d made a promise to love, protect and cherish her, and about how Keir had made those same promises, and had broken them. I couldn’t understand it. No matter how bad things ever became with me and Sue, there was no way I’d ever contemplate killing her. I looked at a few more pictures. There were some of Jean in her basketball gear, and others of her in school uniform. I started thinking about Ashleigh, and what she would look like when she grew up, and then it hit me like a sledgehammer: Jean had grown up in this house.

I became even more apprehensive. Jean had been missing for three years now. Her mother had endured three years of anguish and torment, and I knew that she’d ask me a thousand questions, questions to which I knew I had no answers.

I looked at her kind face. It was warm and inviting, but etched with wrinkles that spoke of the burden of years of not knowing.

Just as Mick and I sat down, her husband, Clifford, came into the room. We rose to our feet again and shook his hand, and when he said ‘hello’ it was plainly apparent that he was a Scot. His shimmering silver hair stood out against his close-cropped beard, moustache and large, oval-shaped rimmed glasses. He was tall, and you could instantly tell that he’d been an athletic man in his younger days.

Christine leant forward, her hands clenched together on her knees, while Clifford sat in a chair beside her and reached over and took hold of her hand in an effort to stop her trembling. Mick looked at Christine. ‘We’re terribly sorry about yesterday’s events, and what happened to Rosalina, but we have a photo here we want to show you.’

Christine took the photo from Mick, examined it, and then handed it to Clifford.

‘Is that Rosalina?’ Mick asked.

‘Yes. Yes…it…is,’ Christine said shakily, her voice slightly broken and unsure. ‘We introduced her to Tom after Jean disappeared. I can’t believe Tom would do something like this.’

Clifford was still looking at Rosalina’s photo, and I tried to read his body language. He hadn’t said anything, but his face bore a heavy frown, and v-shaped worry lines. I could tell that something was troubling him deeply, something more than Rosalina’s death. Whatever it was, I hoped he was in a talkative mood.

‘Tom was so upset when Jeannie left,’ Christine continued. ‘It wasn’t like Jeannie at all not to contact anyone. We all felt so sorry for him, the poor bugger. Imagine, losing your wife to another man. So, we introduced him to Rosalina at a wedding when she came out from the Philippines in 1988. They hit it off straightaway, and began seeing each other.’

‘Did Rosalina and Jean know each other at all?’ I asked.

‘Why, of course. They’re distant cousins.’

‘How surreal is this?’ I thought to myself, shooting Mick a look of sheer disbelief. It was like a big bloody spider web. Two women, related to one another, marry the same man; one vanishes, and the other one is murdered. I wondered if Keir was into poetry and literature, and if he’d ever heard the line from Sir Walter Scott’s Marmion: ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.’ Only, this was a case of: ‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave when both my wives end up deceased.’

‘It was a really happy marriage between them,’ Christine continued. ‘Rosalina’s aunt and uncle were having a housewarming out in Bringelly yesterday. It was a BBQ lunch, and Rosie was really excited. I can’t believe this has happened.’

‘How did a day start full of excitement and anticipation for the family end up in tragedy and despair?’ I wondered. ‘Was he the obsessively jealous type, or a guy who just flies off the handle at the slightest thing?’

Christine obviously had more to say, but her voice started to waver, her bottom lip started to quiver, and she was clearly on the verge of breaking into tears, whereupon Clifford instantly took over. Sensing I’d seen something in his face, he looked straight at me. The whole time Christine had been speaking, I’d noticed him stealing looks at me more so than at Mick, almost as if he were trying to catch my eye. Now his eyes met mine. It wasn’t a penetrating or piercing stare, but a look of shared knowledge, father to father.

‘Detective Seymour, you know our daughter Jeannie went missing three years ago, but I never liked Tom from the moment I met him.’

‘Can you elaborate?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, when Jeannie first met him, he still lived with his parents, not far from us. Whenever I’d walk past their place on my way back from the pub, he’d have his cattle dog with him, and he’d encourage it to have a crack at my border collie. One day, I said to him, “If your dog ever gets out and attacks my dog, I’ll kill it!” He just thought it was funny to stir me up. I always referred to him as “That bastard English boy from down the road.”’

The expression on his face suddenly became dark and melancholic, as though a shroud had descended over his thoughts and hopes. That ‘bastard English boy’ had married his daughter, and I knew he was certain Jeannie had suffered the same fate as Rosalina. ‘So you haven’t heard from Jeannie since her disappearance?’ I continued.

‘No,’ Clifford said. ‘She hasn’t contacted us, or any of her friends.’

‘Can you give us the details of her closest friends, so that maybe they can shed some light on her relationship with Tom?’ I asked.

‘Yes, of course,’ Christine said, having recovered her composure. ‘There were the twins, Fiona and Shona Chalmers, and there was also Maria Mateo. Jeannie had so many friends but those girls were the closest. Fiona lives in Sydney, I think, and Shona got married and moved out to the country. I think she’s Fiona McDonald now. They became best friends around the age of thirteen. The girls had been together since kindergarten, and they all lived in the same street, but it wasn’t until they went to Plumpton High that they became friends. Jean also became friends with Maria Mateo at Plumpton.’

‘Can you tell me the circumstances under which Jean and Tom met?’

‘A friend of mine, Barbara, told me that a company called Freeport Furniture was looking for a machinist. I was doing it tough, and I needed the work. I think it was early in 1979. Anyway, they gave me a trial. Tom was the boss. One day he brought over some cushions for me to sew. Jean was getting ready to go to school, and answered the door. Tom asked if he could speak to me. Jean said ‘yes’, but that I was in the shower. She came into the bathroom and said, “Mum, there’s a man at the door, and he’s the ugliest man I’ve ever seen. He looks like Frankenstein. He has one big long eyebrow.”’

‘And can you tell us how they came to form an intimate relationship?’ I asked.

‘Um, the girls would often come to the factory after basketball practice on a Friday afternoon, and wait for me to finish. One afternoon, the guys decided to have a game of cricket in the car park, and Tom asked me if the girls could join in. To be honest with you Detective Seymour, I was becoming a little bit concerned.’

‘Concerned about what?’

‘He was a little too keen, if you get what I mean. She was only fourteen, for God’s sake, and he was in his twenties.’

The longer I listened, the harder I found it to maintain a calm demeanour. Every new revelation only served to intensify my dislike of Thomas Keir. I also began to imagine what I would do if a twenty-something-year-old guy took an inappropriate fancy to Ashleigh when she turned fourteen.

‘So did you act on these concerns?’ Mick asked.

‘Well, during the game, he said, “If you bring Jean in on Saturdays, I’ll pay her to put the buttons on the cushions.” I still had my concerns, but I figured I’d always be around, and it was a good chance for her to earn some pocket money. She was getting twenty dollars a week, and she loved working with me. A year or so later, in 1981 I think, he came up and asked me if he could take Jean out on a date. I said no way, she’s only fifteen, she’s not going on any dates!’

‘Yeah, he kept turning up all the time after that,’ Clifford said. ‘He’d get all dressed up and come around to chat to us. I didn’t like him, so I’d go off to the pub. I used to always tell Christine that there was something about him I didn’t like.’

‘He was always such a gentleman, though,’ Christine added.

‘Even so, I said to him that the only way he could possibly see my daughter was if he brought me a case of beer every Saturday and, bugger me, he did.’ Clifford shook his head.

‘We eventually said he could take her out, but Jeannie’s sisters had to go too,’ Christine continued. ‘I don’t know if he was happy about it, but he agreed. When Jeannie turned sixteen, he came to the house with sixteen red roses and a bottle of champagne for me. I told him I didn’t drink champagne, but he was so insistent. They kept seeing each other and he brought her a ring when she was seventeen. They went out for a dance one night, and she came home all upset because he wouldn’t let her dance with anyone. She got angry and chucked the ring at him and ran out of the house.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell us that might shed light on the nature of their relationship after that?’ I asked.

‘Yeah,’ said Clifford, ‘he asked to take her out for her eighteenth birthday. I wasn’t too happy about it, but she was an adult, so what could we do? Then a bit later, we found out that Jean was pregnant. Chris was so pissed off she smacked him in the side of the head. She hit him that hard she knocked him straight on his arse.’

We looked at Christine’s tiny frame as she nodded her affirmation. I looked at the wedding photo again. Tom towered over Jean, and I wondered how someone Christine’s size could have put him on his arse, and how he’d felt about it. Even Jean and Rosalina were bigger than Christine, and I couldn’t even begin to imagine his sheer psychopathic fury when he’d overpowered them and allegedly killed them.

‘They told us they were going to get engaged,’ Christine said, ‘and they were married on 11 August 1984 at the Holy Family Church in Emerton. The reception was held at Rooty Hill RSL. It seemed okay at first, but before long, things started to go bad. Jeannie began to tell me what her marriage was like. I knew something wasn’t right, and she just seemed to get sadder and sadder, but then her son was born and she came to life again.’

Mick and I were having trouble believing most of what we were hearing. It wasn’t that we didn’t think it was true; it was just that everything seemed rather bizarre.

‘It was really weird though,’ Christine continued. ‘Jean loved her son like you wouldn’t believe, but Tom didn’t like it. He would even pull his son’s hand away from Jean’s breast if he tried to touch it, if you can believe that? Tom would say it wasn’t right for him to touch her there, and not to let him do it again. I only have one photo of Jean and her son together; Tom cut the rest of them up because he reckoned she was showing her bum. There were photos of her in her swimmers, and he used to make me change her costume because he said her nipples were showing. He often left work early so he could go home and check on her. She rang me one day and said, “Mum, he gets angry with me if I ever muck around with my cousins, especially when I hug them. He even gets jealous of me hugging my son, and he won’t speak to me for days. It’s as if he gets depressed or something.” I went over there, and she was listening to that song, you know the one about the girl who’s getting bashed. It starts, “My name is Luka.” Jeannie started to cry, and I asked her what was wrong. She told me that they were just having a few problems, but everything would be alright. I had a chat to Tom, and it all seemed alright.’

Both Mick and I were extremely interested to find out more, but we were suddenly distracted by a child’s voice, and swung our heads around to see the son and Irene Page.

‘This must be your grandson,’ Mick said with that exaggerated voice you use when you first meet a child and want them to be comfortable with you.

‘Yes, this is my grandson,’ said Christine, as he ran to her. She swept him up in her arms and embraced him in the way only a grandmother can. She sat him on her lap and wrapped her arms tightly around him, as if trying to protect him from all the bad things in the world.

I examined him closely. He had a slight build, with fair skin, like his mother. From his father, he’d inherited short dark hair and similar facial features, with the exception of the monobrow.

‘He’s six years old, aren’t you?’ Christine said, bouncing him on her knee.

‘Yeah,’ he replied, not too sure about what he should or shouldn’t say. It’s funny how kids instinctively know when someone is there to ask questions, and instantly become guarded.

‘Would it be possible to ask your grandson some questions about what happened yesterday?’ Mick said.

Christine leant in to talk into her grandson’s ear. ‘Will you tell these nice men about what happened yesterday?’ Despite bowing his head and drawing it back between his shoulders, he nodded affirmatively.

‘Young man,’ Mick said softly, ‘We’re going to go out to our police car and get a typewriter so that we can write down what you tell us. Is that okay?’

The boy nodded.

I ran out to the car, returned with the typewriter, and set it up. Once the carbon paper was in place, I nodded to Mick.

‘Young man, do you know the difference between right and wrong?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And you know the difference between telling the truth and telling lies?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Will you tell us everything that you did, in order, from when you got up out of bed yesterday; who you saw and who you spoke to?’

The young fella fiddled with his hands and looked down at his lap as he began to speak. ‘I woke up in the morning and put the telly on and then I watched it.’

As kids do, he interpreted things literally, and meant to tell us everything. This was why it was always good, as a detective, to talk to kids because they did tell you everything, while adults had a more refined sense of themselves, and of what they would say to suit the circumstances, and sometimes it was hard to separate the smoke from the fire (again, pardon the pun).

‘And when me mum and dad woke up, me mum and dad watched telly too. I made myself some breakfast, and then I went into the lounge room and sat on the chair and put my breakfast on the table. Then I ate my breakfast and then when I’d finished I helped me dad wash the van. Mum was still watching telly and Dad told me to go and play with my friends.’

‘What happened then?’ Mick interjected, interested that the boy’s dad had ‘told’ him to go and play with his friends.

‘Then I went inside and got me car out and then I was playing with it. Then I went outside and me friends came over and I let them play with it, and when I let them play with it I decided they could make some jumps in the dirt and we made some big ones. Then I tried my one out.’

‘What happened after you played with your car?’ I asked.

‘I played another game outside. In the middle of the game me dad told me we had to go to the shops, and then we went to the first shop, then we went to the Great Western shops at Mount Druitt. Then first we went to buy some T-shirts for a birthday and then we went to the bank and then we went to get me a pair of shoes and then we went to get a plant and then we went home.’

‘What happened when you got home with your dad?’ I continued.

‘There was a fire at the house. I saw broken things and broken windows and the Fire Brigade man said “I had to do that”. I saw heaps of police cars and I saw two fire engines. Then, a bit later, I saw an ambulance come.’

‘Which was the first shop you went to with your dad?’

‘The Tregear shops.’

‘What did you buy at the Tregear shops?’

‘Me dad bought some smokes and a new lighter, just in case the black one runs out. Sometimes he takes the black one too when we go fishin’. He bought me some lollies.’

The boy was more confident now, his voice becoming louder.

‘Where did you go after the Tregear shops?’ I pushed.

‘Home, just in case, because me dad asked me mum if we needed to buy some birthday cards. She said two of them and then we went to the Great Western shops.’

‘What did you do when you got home after being at the Tregear shops with your dad?’

‘I waited in the van for me dad. Dad went inside and then me dad asked me mum if we needed two birthday cards and me mum said “yes” and then he came out the back gate and then he came over the front gate. Then he got in the van and then we went to the Great Western shops.’

Now the apparent inconsistencies became more obvious and, more alarmingly, he was repeating things as though he’d memorised the answers.

‘Hang on, how do you know your dad asked your mum about the birthday cards?’ I asked.

‘Because he told me,’ he replied, rather annoyed I’d questioned him.

Not wanting him to clam up I changed my tone. ‘Sorry, when did he tell you?’

‘No, he didn’t tell me,’ the young fella corrected himself. ‘He told me he was going to ask Mum about the cards. When we went to the Great Western shops I knew he was going to get them when he went into the shop and there was one “Uncle” one.’

‘Did you see your mum when you got back from the shops at Tregear?’

‘Me dad saw her but I didn’t because she was still inside watching telly. I don’t know what she was doing because I think she was cleaning up the house.’

Tapping away at the typewriter, I knew he hadn’t seen his mother. He’d been ‘told’ to go outside and play and he’d been ‘told’ to stay in the van. However, I needed clarification. ‘Did you see your mum after you were playing with your friends and before you went to the shops?’

‘No, because when me dad first told me to go and play with me friends I changed me T-shirt. I saw me Mum at breakfast.’

I shook my head at Mick. ‘I don’t think he’s seen anything.’

‘No,’ Mick agreed. ‘I think we’ll leave it there for the moment.’ Mick grabbed the piece of paper from the typewriter and handed it to Christine. He asked her if she could read the answers back to Keir’s son to confirm that they were correct. Mick then asked the boy to sign it, which he happily did. Irene and Christine were also asked to sign. Irene then took the boy from the room.

‘So you’ve had no contact from Jean since she disappeared?’ I asked Christine.

‘No, nothing at all.’

‘Has she contacted anyone else, any friends or relatives, apart from Tom?’

‘No, and this is the strange thing, Jeannie would never have left her son. He was everything to her. No matter how bad things may have been between her and Tom, she would never have left her son. I just don’t understand it.’

I started to feel particularly bad for the little boy who’d just left the room. How do you cope at such a young age when you lose both your mothers?

‘She would never have left her son and never have taken off without contacting us,’ Clifford reaffirmed, his voice sounding desolate. One father to another, I could tell he was shattered, and I wondered how I would, or if I could, cope if I was in his shoes. Mick, sensing I was elsewhere, took over the questioning.

‘We’ve been told that Tom would sometimes bury items in his backyard. Were you aware of him doing that?’

Christine’s eyes opened wide. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘The neighbour’s daughter knew our kids, and she’d tell them that Tom was burying things in the backyard. He also used to burn things in a big drum, which annoyed them. I asked him about it once, and he said he did it because he couldn’t be bothered taking it to the tip. He’d go the tip sometimes, but then other times, he’d bury things.’

‘What was the name of the neighbour?’ I asked; my mind back on the job now.

‘Max Wormleaton’s daughter, Lisa,’ Christine said.

Clifford’s face became even more wrinkled and even more pained. ‘Why…why…do you ask?’

‘It’s just a line of inquiry we’re required to follow up,’ I said, realising that I needed to alleviate his concerns quickly. ‘Do you know when he last buried something?’

‘Wouldn’t have a clue,’ Clifford replied, seemingly satisfied. ‘He’s probably done it for years. He was always a bit odd, you know. Not too many of Jeannie’s friends liked him either.’

‘Mr Strachan, can I ask you exactly why you didn’t like him?’ I continued.

‘A lot of things,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t trust him. He was very possessive of Jean, and would make her change her clothes if he thought what she was wearing was too revealing. I remember I was doing some tiling at their place during the summer. It was very hot, and Jean had a pair of shorts on; just normal shorts, for God’s sake. He came home and had a huge row with her and made her change. Now, what sort of bloke does that?’

‘Like I said,’ Christine interrupted, ‘Tom would even alter Jean’s clothes, like swimmers and shorts, if he thought they were too revealing. He’d always give her the filthiest looks if she hugged another man, even her own relatives.’

Keir’s modus operandi had now become as clear as a bright blue sky. Needing to know the extent of his jealously, I pushed further. ‘So would you say Tom was insanely jealous?’

‘Oh, yes! Jeannie could never go anywhere without Tom wanting to know where she was going and who she was with,’ Christine said ardently.

‘Do you know if Tom was doing any digging around the time of Jean’s disappearance?’

‘He might have done. Why do you ask?’ Christine said, her voice quivering. She must have known that the question was largely rhetorical, but I could tell that she didn’t want to know the answer.

‘I know why they want to know,’ Clifford interjected. ‘You think he might have done something to Jeannie at the house,’ he said, looking me squarely in the eye.

‘There is that possibility, and it’s something we have to consider,’ I said, as gently and as reassuringly as I could, but both of their heads dropped. My reassurances were as hollow as a drum. Christine clenched her hands tightly together and her body quivered. Sheer pity was all I could feel for them. In the deepest recesses of their souls they must have known that their daughter was gone, but I knew, as a parent myself, that they clung to even the slightest sliver of hope. It was understandable that, considering Keir’s apparent personality, a girl would run away. The Strachans had pushed the worst-case scenario out of their mind and allowed themselves to believe that their daughter had run off, but now reality started to dawn. Christine now recovered and suddenly became quite animated. ‘And to think we introduced him to Rosie! We actually felt sorry for him when he said that Jeannie had left him! I just can’t believe this is happening!’

‘Can you tell us what happened when he met Rosalina?’ I asked.

‘Well, Rosie had to go back to the Philippines at the end of 1988, and Tom went with her to meet her family. He came back early in 1989, then went back to the Philippines and married her. He brought her back here, and they lived with Tom’s parents while they rented the house out to a lady and her son for a few months. Her name was Denise Wilkes. Then he told her that she’d have to leave, because he wanted to move back in. I helped Tom to clean up the house before they moved back in. There were lots of mice running around the place, and there was a God-awful stench. I remember picking up a large bone in the backyard, and asking Tom what he was feeding his dogs.’

I suddenly knew that my first priority after we left the Strachan household was to talk to the tenant. ‘Do you know where we can find Denise Wilkes?’ I inquired.

‘Yes, she still lives around here. I see her at the shops sometimes,’ Christine replied.

‘I think that’s all we need for the time being,’ Mick said. We could have sat there all day and pressed further, but there was an ongoing murder investigation.

‘We’ll have to speak to you again, and probably other family members as well,’ I said, ‘if that’s okay?’

‘Yes, that’s fine,’ Christine said.

Mick and I stood and shook hands with both of them. When I took Christine’s hand in mine, an emotional bolt of lightning shot between us. I hated her having to go through this. No mother deserved to suffer what she had.

Christine smiled at me as she stood at her front door seeing us off. Her smile melted my heart, and I made a silent vow: I’d discover what had happened to their daughter. No matter how many hours, no matter what it took, I’d find the answer. The family deserved to know the truth.