45.

They met at the Vic Market again. The vegetable stall this time, Caleb with his walking stick, Henry Collins with his wicker basket. Only two potatoes in it so far. A rain-washed day, the concrete path slick with mud and rotting leaves, but plenty of people out shopping, coats buttoned to their chins, breath steaming towards the arched steel roof.

The therapist was pawing through the avocados, poking each one as he sought the softer flesh. He looked at Caleb, golden hair flopping across his brow. ‘You haven’t mentioned the ultrasound.’

‘All good.’

Or so the doctor said; he hadn’t been able to look at it. Kat had – a first for her. She’d gripped his hand and smiled and cried, and taken a copy home to show her family.

A gentle smile. ‘That’s good news, Caleb. It’s OK to be scared, but it’s OK let yourself be happy, too.’

He nodded. Tedesco had said much the same thing during the one stilted conversation they’d had so far.

Henry added, ‘You haven’t mentioned the coroner’s report, either.’

‘This “haven’t mentioned” thing’s a bit passive aggressive for a therapist, isn’t it?’

Henry stood waiting, face open and eager. Their fourth session in the two weeks since Tilda, but the therapist hadn’t run out of patience with him yet. God knows why; he certainly had. ‘Sorry. There’s nothing much to say. Quinn killed a lot of people, and now she’s dead.’

Still couldn’t quite get his head around it. Bright, funny Quinn behind all that death. The informant, Jordan, had been first; a brutal decision to try and head off any danger from their panicked clients. She must have been terrified when Maggie was attacked, thinking she’d be next, running to hide in the childhood home she’d worked so hard to leave. But she’d still been quick-thinking when he and Frankie had turned up with news of Tilda’s kidnapping. Distanced herself from her hit man and decided to kill Tilda, directed their suspicions towards Delaney. The damp solicitor had been the perfect fall guy: a new recruit with no criminal mates to protect him, or obvious links to Quinn. His guilt-induced family holiday had probably saved his life.

Henry had moved on to the cauliflowers. Caleb followed, careful on the wet ground with his cane. A passing thought that the city’s original graveyard lay beneath their feet. Bodies never moved, just paved over. Early settlers lost to accidents and illness, the local Wurundjeri people slaughtered and infected with disease. Children. Lots of children. The bones of nine thousand people crumbling in the clay.

Henry was watching him, a robust-looking cauliflower cradled in his hands. No new additions to the wicker basket. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘That we’re standing on a graveyard. You going to buy that or did we come here for two potatoes?’

Henry examined the cauliflower, didn’t look up as he spoke. ‘Are you having suicidal thoughts?’

‘No.’

The therapist turned the cauliflower over to study its underside. ‘Are you sure?’

‘You think it might have slipped my mind?’

‘How would you describe your emotional state?’

Bereft, rudderless, empty. ‘Angry.’

‘With Frankie?’

‘Yes.’

‘With yourself?’

‘No, I’m great. I made all the right decisions, and everything turned out fine.’

Henry lowered the cauliflower. Direct eye contact now, no waver to his focus. ‘A lot of people did terrible things – Frankie, the hacker, Tilda’s mother. Do you blame yourself for their decisions?’

Back to this again. Asking for this session had been a mistake; he was too tired to cope with Henry gnawing at his brain. Should have just stayed in the office, buried in mindless paperwork.

The therapist was opening his mouth to take another bite.

No. Couldn’t do it right now. ‘I’m sorry,’ he told Henry. ‘I have to go.’

He went down the aisle towards the street. People jostling and talking, stuffing their baskets with produce. At the kerb, a swirling pool of grey water where the gutter had flooded its concrete banks; a dank scent, the rubbish and ruin of the city flowing out to sea. He stood for a moment, then stepped into it and headed across the road.