27.

They arrived at the remand centre half an hour before visiting hours. A modern building on the outskirts of town that looked like a regional art gallery. Large stone urns instead of bollards at the entrance, filled with swaying native grasses. Not quite the glamorous surroundings Jacklin was used to, but almost hospitable if you ignored the razor wire and cameras.

‘Classy,’ Frankie said as they walked up the path. ‘You reckon they’d let me live here?’

Spoken like someone who didn’t own a redbrick Edwardian in Brunswick. So she’d sold her house – that must have been a wrench after twenty years. Smart, though, if she had debts; the place would have gone for a packet.

‘Sold your house?’

‘Wasn’t mine to sell.’ She headed through the automatic doors.

The centre was less welcoming inside, with metal detectors and bullet-proof glass, double security doors. A sign by the front desk warned of firearm and drug scanning. Frankie had made a show of stowing the gun in the boot, but he hadn’t thought to remind her about drugs. She was pretty distracted, could easily have forgotten a stray baggie of smack. Risk her anger, or risk her getting arrested? Hard decision. As they approached the counter, he tapped her arm and pointed discreetly to the sign.

She turned a stony face towards him. ‘Do I look like a fuckwit?’

He waited a beat. ‘Rhetorical?’

He retreated at her glare, leaving her to deal with the first wave of bureaucracy.

It took forty minutes to go through the paperwork and scans, but they were finally shown into a cafeteria-like room, metal tables bolted to the floor, floating stools emerging from their central poles like strange white lily pads. A lot of people already seated, prisoners in olive-green overalls, visitors in jeans and tracksuits. The familiar smell of close-held bodies, sweat and anxiety. The old stress rose unexpectedly in him. Ant had only been nineteen when he’d done a stint for possession; six endless months, every visit leaving Ant only slightly less distraught, Caleb shattered.

Frankie led the way to an empty table near the internal door where the prisoners appeared. Some of the frenzied energy had left her, but she was still on edge, shifting on the stool and rubbing her hands on her jeans, eyes never leaving the door. A strong temptation to ask more about her living arrangements. She’d been in the same house for two decades; not just unusual in Melbourne’s vicious rental market – extraordinary. That kind of long-term lease only happened between relatives. Which had to mean Maggie.

She spoke without looking at him. ‘I can feel you thinking from here. Just ask the damn question.’

‘What exactly is the deal between you and Maggie?’

Her eyes met his. ‘She gives me the odd job and occasionally lets me mind Tilda. That exact enough for you?’

Lets her mind Tilda: a lot of history held in that one small word. Maggie was the one with all the power in their relationship, and Frankie resented them both for it. Glimpses of his own sibling fuck-ups there. He’d done more to harm Ant than just dragging him into a case; he’d been too controlling, too judgemental. Never giving him money or encouragement, greeting every happy period with distrust.

A cold worm of an idea burrowed into his brain. Was that how his own kids would come to see him? A father incapable of giving love without criticism? It’d be an apple straight from the Zelic family tree.

Frankie straightened. ‘That him?’

A prisoner was standing in the doorway, looking around the room. Fine brown hair and a dimpled chin, the kind of superficial handsomeness that didn’t stand up well to stress or olive-green overalls. Caleb raised his hand. Jacklin looked at him but didn’t move, face wrinkled in doubt.

A fellow prisoner was trying to get past. One hand on Jacklin’s shoulder, shoving hard. Repeated movements, as though punching his back. No, not punching – stabbing.

Caleb rose from his seat.

Jacklin staggered forward and dropped to his knees, the whites of his eyes showing. Blood spilled from his gaping mouth. People standing, running, lights flashing. Guards sprinted to the door and tackled the assailant. A spattered trail of blood as one of them kicked the attacker’s shiv aside.

Jacklin toppled slowly forward and lay unmoving, his head angled as though still watching the room, eyes unblinking.