Introduction

Detective Kate Farrer returns to duty after three months of leave following her traumatic abduction. Fearing that she has lost her edge, she reluctantly partners homicide newcomer Oliver Parke, and they are thrown into the investigation of a woman burnt beyond recognition in a house-fire. The post-mortem reveals she had recently given birth, but there is no sign of the baby. With homicide short-staffed, Kate and Oliver are also ordered to look into the disappearance of a teenage girl. Suspicion falls on Mark Dobbie, a steroid user who is obsessed with the missing girl’s sister. When the detectives find explicit photos of unconscious women in his home, they wonder if they have found their prime suspect. While the pressure to identify the charred body and find the teenage girl escalates, a quadriplegic is burnt to death in his bed. Shocking links to all three crimes emerge and Kate Farrer’s past demons come back to haunt her. But she must fight them – her partner’s life depends on it.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

Kate Farrer struggled to open the car door. The muscles in her chest had tightened like a vice. If only she could get more air. Her cramped fingers clawed at the contents of the glove-box, spilling a map and interstate guidebook onto the floor.

Pulse erratic, and struggling to stay focused, she located the bag. Burying her mouth and nose in the open end, she breathed in, then out, counting two, three, four. The paper crackled with each deflation. The flow was slow but reassuring. The lightheadedness began to recede as Kate's chest muscles loosened their grip on her ribcage.

Pull it together! Her body now coursed with anger, and her fist paid the price with a jarring thump on the steering wheel. Despite three months off work, the trauma remained raw. She had two choices - one was to stay a victim, the other, to become a survivor. Until today she had worked hard - damned hard - to be a survivor.

A fireman passing the passenger window startled her. She shoved the bag into the glove-box and closed the lid, rubbing the heel of her hand. For twelve weeks she had tried to come to terms with her emotions. At this moment, her stomach felt like a spin dryer with a cat trapped inside. The worst part was feeling out of control, not knowing when the panic symptoms would take over - again.

She knew it was now or never. Taking two deep breaths, Detective Sergeant Kate Farrer yanked on the door handle and stepped out of the sedan. Residual smoke stung her nostrils, and the smell of wet burnt wood was heavy in the air. The fibro cottage at the end of the tree-lined Moat Place bore little resemblance to other dwellings in the street. The left section of the house had been decimated and only a shell of the rooms remained. Black soot stained the outside walls, having escaped through shattered windows. The sound of glass smashing caused a flurry of firefighters to rush to the side of the house. Flames poured through the window in a plume and ignited the external overhang and the roof.

Kate stayed well back, talking into a hand-held recorder as teams hosed water from inside and out to extinguish the fire. Despite being at least fifty feet from the flames, her face tingled with the intensity of the heat.

She thought of her psychologist. He had made her scoff the first time he described linking thoughts and feelings as 'detective thinking'. The irony of his analogy was completely lost on him; so much for professionals having insight.

'Think of a stressful situation and ask yourself, “What's the worst that can happen?” Then ask yourself, “How likely is it?” '

The trouble was, Kate knew exactly what could happen on the job and how probable it was. She had seen hell, locked away by a psychopath for days, and she continued to suffer nightmares and flashbacks. A phrase, smell or noise that reminded her of her captor could reduce her to a sobbing mess in seconds. Now, her leave was almost up and she had been asked to return early because of a staff shortage. Police work was what she had always done best, until the abduction.

She imagined how a firefighter would deal with the psychologist's questions, designed to trivialise the causes of anxiety. The worst that could happen to any of them was that one day they'd go to work, attend a fire and get cremated on the spot So much for police shrinks. Some neuroses were justifiable, particularly in the emergency services. The difficulty, she knew too well, was in controlling them.

Stay calm, you can do this. Back to basics. Work the scene, from the outside in.

Despite the beginnings of fine drizzle, portions of the garden continued to smoulder. Police tape cordoned off most of the Castle Hill road, restricting the number of curious onlookers. Ambulance officers waited, backs to their vehicles. Two other white sedans were parked in the area, along with a firetruck and investigator's station wagon.

The arrival of a television van at the blue and white tape caught her attention. Damn reporters were like tow-trucks and blowflies. The uglier the carnage, the faster they appeared and multiplied. More used to feeling irritated than vulnerable, she looked around for her new partner while continuing to dictate: 'At eight thirty am, four local constables maintain crime scene. Fire investigators present. Press pack beginning to push their luck.'

'Detective Sergeant Farrer?'

A slim, tall man in a grey suit adjusted his lilac tie. His fair hair was cropped close to his head, without looking too military.

'Oliver Parke,' he said, with an outstretched hand. In the other, he held two takeaway coffee cups in a cardboard tray. 'Hello, and good to meet you.'

Kate had been briefed about her partner the previous week when she was asked to cut short her leave. The unit's long-term issues with chronic understaffing and old-style attitudes had led to the recruitment of new blood, mostly academic types. The last thing she wanted was an inexperienced partner with no common sense and a university degree that had nothing to do with the real world. She had no say in the matter, though, and at that moment just wanted to re-establish a healthy work routine.

She shook the newly-promoted detective constable's hand and noticed the strength of his grip. He was obviously trying to make a good first impression.

'I took the liberty, seeing as though I went right past the coffee house. One's black, the other's white.'

Mouth dry, Kate had to admit he had good timing. She accepted the black.

'Thanks, but don't make it a habit.' She resented the buddybuddy, your turn, my turn, routine. Partners didn't have toilet breaks together, so why should they always drink at the same time?

'How many cases have you worked?' she asked.

'If you mean homicide, two so far. This could be three.' His chest deflated, just perceptibly.

She felt hers do the same.

'How was your break?' His voice was hesitant.

The female detective had no patience for small talk. Banal conversation was something she tried hard to avoid, even more so lately.

'What do you know about the scene so far?' Kate said, unsure whether she saw a smirk flash across her partner's face. He had probably heard stories about her. If they came from the chief inspector, they should have been positive, but anything from the male detectives would be less flattering.

'Fire's just about out. An engineer is checking the place for structural damage. Local boys have sealed off the street, as you can see.'

The neighbours in pyjamas tut-tutted and spoke eagerly to a camera crew leaning into the barrier at the cross-street three houses down. Their witness statements would probably be broadcast before the police had a chance to interview them.

'Make sure we get all that footage,' Kate said, a little too briskly. She needed to be calmer; she was supposed to be in charge and that meant being in control. The only advantage of the media was that they often recorded vital information. 'And we need to check all witnesses. Anyone with amateur videos, digital photos. Make sure you check the mobile phones for images.' The familiar patter was beginning to feel comfortable. 'Any survivors?'

Oliver shook his head. 'Apparently there's one body on a bed. The firemen left it in situ.'

Kate nodded and sipped her coffee. If there'd been any chance of saving a life, the fire crew would have pulled the victim out. That meant the body had to be in pretty bad condition. She used to think that dying in a fire would be one of the worst ways to go, before discovering what it was like to be tortured. The only reassuring thing about a house-fire was that the poisonous gases were more likely to kill than the heat or flames. At least dead bodies couldn't feel pain.

'So we're waiting to get the all-clear from the engineer?'

Oliver nodded. 'He's still assessing whether it's safe for us to go inside.' He cleared his throat before launching in to the facts he had uncovered so far. 'The house is owned by a Doctor Gorman and his wife, from Mosman. It's an investment property but apparently they've never had long-term tenants. One of the neighbours reckons they planned to knock it down and rebuild. And before you ask, Doctor Gorman's receptionist says that he and his wife are away in Nepal and can't be contacted for a couple of weeks. Seems he does charity work in hospitals there.'

A blue Monaro growled up behind Kate's car. Dr Peter Latham, forensic pathologist, climbed out.

'Welcome back,' he smiled through his salt and pepper beard. 'You've been missed.'

'Thanks,' was all Kate could muster. She respected Peter Latham and did not want to offend him. But if he offered some meaningless platitude about her time away, she might just snap, or worse, burst into tears.

'This is Oliver Parke. He's pretty new to homicide,' she added, hoping to draw the attention away from herself.

'We've already met,' Peter said, removing items from his car boot. He stepped into a white plastic body suit. 'How's the family?'

'Growing by the minute, only four weeks to go.' Oliver beamed.

A forensic services vehicle swung into the remaining space at the crowded end of the street. Crime scene officer John Zimmer peeled himself from the driver's seat and shoved a police baseball cap on his head. 'Looks like the gang's all here.' He became serious as he took in the house. 'Something caused some fast, impressive heat in there.'

Kate assumed he was referring to the fact that big, intense fires always destroyed the most evidence. What the fire did not obliterate, the thousands of litres of water poured on it by the fire crews did. Investigating fires was, in many ways, more art than science.

An hour later, the fire investigator and a younger man who Kate guessed was the engineer appeared from around the side of the house, accompanied by a black labrador.

'You're clear to go in,' the investigator assured the group. 'We're looking at an accelerant spread through the house. Fire boys smelt it when they arrived. And Bella here agrees.' He bent down and patted the dog's shiny black coat. 'Don't know how we managed before the old girl joined us. Have you all met our number one expert witness?'

'How do you swear her in for court?' Oliver smiled.

'Detective, you are in the presence of the first four-legged creature whose evidence is totally acceptable in a courtroom. She's more trusted than any other witness.'

Oliver bent down to give the dog a scratch. Her handler was like a doting parent.

'She's highly trained, and with that sense of smell, she can detect accelerants up to days later, even if surfaces or clothing have been washed. She's what we call a passive identifier. Instead of barking or becoming agitated she just sits when she detects an accelerant. We couldn't budge her once we got to the back door of this place,' he said, looking around.

'So we're looking at arson?' Kate asked. Any suspicion of a deliberate fire meant the body inside would be a homicide case until proven otherwise. Local detectives were off the hook. 'In most cases that's extremely difficult to prove, but this stuff was spread all over the house and finished, or should I say started, in the bedroom,' the investigator said. 'My guess is our guy used petrol.'

'Kate, it's been far too long.' John Zimmer had reappeared. He sidled up to her with his camera hanging around his neck. The CSO fancied himself and assumed every woman shared the same view. Kate felt her skin prickle at his proximity. This was going to be a very long morning, she thought, as he handed her a flashlight.

Returning to work was supposed to be like getting back on a bike, or so everyone had said. By the look of the gutted house, and knowing there was a homicide victim inside, it would be more like getting on two wheels without brakes, gears or handlebars. Kate braced herself for what would come next.

'Let's get this over with,' she managed, and put her halfempty coffee cup on the hood of the car.

Fire crews packed up their hoses and equipment as a small gust of wind spread some ash across the lawn. Kate pulled her suit jacket around herself and protected her eyes with one hand.

The group stopped at the front window. Glass shards lay on the outside, either blown out by the heat of the fire or smashed out by someone in a hurry to escape. Kate bent down looking for traces of blood on the fragments. John Zimmer clicked away, placing small yellow tags on the ground for scale and location in his photos. Kate looked closely at the windowsill. No sign of blood there either.

The CSO photographed that too. 'We sometimes find fingerprints in the window putty,' he said.

For Oliver's benefit, Kate added, 'Anything the fire softens can show up prints.'

The new detective seemed to be paying attention - in fact a little too closely. She felt his breath on her neck and told him not to crowd her. Like a scolded schoolboy, he blushed and apologised. Zimmer seemed to find something about that amusing.

Working the house from outside in, they followed the CSO down the driveway and around to the back door. Peter Latham trailed behind.

'There's no sign of a break-in so far. This was closed and unlocked,' the fire investigator announced before opening the white wooden door. 'Stay,' he instructed Bella, and she obeyed.

'He could at least have left the door open,' Kate muttered.

'Is that because soot would have got onto the outside surface if it had been open during the fire, highlighting any fingerprints?' Oliver enquired.

John Zimmer turned and grinned. 'There's that, but if our guy poured a trail of petrol, he would have been surrounded by a cloud of vapour. When he lit the match . . .' He made his large hands into a ball then opened them quickly. 'Kaboomza! He'd be easier to find, flash-burns and all. It's the most common mistake arsonists make.'

'He poured petrol over the threshold, shut the door, then lit it under the door.' Oliver seemed impressed by the planning. 'So he knows something about fires.'

'Exactly,' the CSO said. 'Which means?'

'He's probably done it before.' Oliver nodded and took notes in a small pad pulled from inside his suit jacket.

Kate ignored the obvious deduction, preferring to concentrate on what she saw, smelt and heard. The stench of death was always stale and heavy, but burnt flesh had a distinct, noxious odour, like nothing she could describe. Bile rose in her throat and she gagged, quickly coughing to keep face, hoping no one noticed.

Stepping across the threshold into the hallway, she saw that the burnt wooden floorboards had two distinct markings - dark and lighter wood. The darker shade was in an almost straight line, in the centre of the hallway, the discolouration strongly suggesting where the accelerant had been poured. They followed it into the kitchen, relatively unscathed apart from paint hanging in tabloid-sized sheets from the blackened ceiling. The soot began at hip-height on the walls of the hallway and around the room, and continued across the open kitchen door, as if someone had drawn a line on the walls with a marker and

Kate rubbed the linoleum floor near the skirting board with the sole of her shoe and revealed a red and white checked pattern. Soot, not burnt lino, covered most of the floor - again, a sign that the arsonist had travelled in a line with the accelerant.

On the table a plastic tablecloth had shrivelled into a ball, but the table legs were remarkably untouched. Heat, flames and gas must have stayed in the upper section of the room, she thought, given the state of the floor.

Near the open door, Zimmer snapped more pictures, then moved to an overnight bag sitting on the soiled kitchen floor. He recorded it from various angles then bent down and with gloved hands removed something protruding from a sidepocket. It looked like a credit card.

'Name here says Audrey Lambert.' He checked the other side-pockets. 'No driver's licence, keycards or even receipts. And no cash.'

'Which means no photo ID,' Kate observed. 'If someone broke in, robbed her and took money and everything else, you'd think they would take the credit card as well.'

'Unless,' Zimmer said, 'she's been robbed before and keeps one card separate for emergencies. That's what I did after my wallet disappeared last year.'

'Don't mean to rush you, but I've got court in just over an hour,' Peter Latham said from the back of the group. 'Which way now?'

The group moved along the accelerant trail to the end bedroom. Kate checked her mobile phone to buy a moment and steel herself. She took a couple of deep breaths and entered.

In the middle of the bed was a blackened adult-sized figure lying on its back with arms and legs bent towards the ceiling The face was bloated and the lips were swollen. The tongue protruded in an almost defiant gesture.

Oliver excused himself and left the room.

Zimmer took photos and Peter Latham studied the remains.

'The hair is dark,' he said, pressing on the pillow. 'There's a clump at the back, untouched by the heat. We can get samples from here.' With plastic tweezers, he extracted some hairs and placed them in an evidence bag opened by Zimmer. He then leant sideways, allowing the CSO in for close-up photographs. They had obviously worked a lot of cases together, which helped speed up the laborious process.

The pathologist plucked tiny pieces of clothing from the creases at the deceased's bent elbows and bagged them too. At least they might be able to identify the colour and type of clothing he or she was wearing.

Kate had seen all she needed for the moment and retreated to the kitchen. The post-mortem, which she would be present for, would be tomorrow or the next day.

Relieved to be out of the bedroom, it occurred to Kate that the firefighters had been careful not to soak the house. At previous fire scenes she had worked, they had blasted their way through the blaze at high pressure, kind of like the way most men solved problems - the bigger the equipment, the greater the force, the quicker the solution. On this occasion, they appeared to have taken a more strategic approach and used smaller hoses with a wide-angle spray that delivered spurts of mist. It was enough to take the heat out of the fire with minimal water damage, and it made a homicide investigation that little bit easier.

Putting on the fresh pair of latex gloves she kept in her jacket pocket, Kate bent down and unzipped the overnight bag. It contained nappies, wipes, baby bottles with patterns partly scratched off, formula and two squeaky toys. Unscrewing the lid of one of the bottles, she gently sniffed. As far as she could tell, it was either unused or had been well cleaned. Replacing the lid, she returned it to the bag and got up to check out the rest of the house.

With a pocket flashlight, she navigated through fallen beams and debris, staying as close as possible to the middle of the hallway to avoid getting soot on her clothes. She checked inside two more bedrooms, both with double beds, the next room with what had to have been a circular bed. There were no other human remains. There was also nothing in the bedrooms that resembled a cot or bassinette; just a pile of melted DVDs and videos in a burnt-out cabinet against one of the walls. She opened a door and found herself in the garage. Fluid had been poured on the cement floor but igniting it hadn't done much damage. The sparse contents included relatively undamaged rakes, a hoe and lawn mower. Against a wall sat the scorched remains of a large, top-opening freezer, the sort used by people who buy food in bulk. Crime scene had already cordoned off the area with police tape.

Back at the main bedroom, she addressed the group. 'We could have a problem. The bag Audrey Lambert kept her purse in wasn't an ordinary overnight bag. It was a nappy bag, full of baby stuff.'

'Shit,' the fire investigator said, almost under his breath. 'I'll go check the outside bins.'

'I'll take the cupboards,' Zimmer said, matter of fact.

'I'm thinking the victim is a woman, but I won't be able to tell for sure until we're back at the morgue and can examine the pelvic remains.' Peter sighed. 'At least we can use the good bit of hair for DNA sampling, and hopefully we'll get some dental records.'

Kate felt her temples throb and her breathing quicken. There was no easing back into work. In less than an hour they had a body, possibly female, with a credit card but no other identification. The only other evidence so far was a nappy bag. If the unrecognisable body was that of a mother, then where the hell was her baby?

Chapter 2

Outside the house, Kate found Oliver squatting by the back fence, his face pale.

'I remember the first time I saw a burns victim,' she said, scraping the bottoms of her shoes on the grass. 'Teenager had a fight with his girlfriend. After a few drinks, he took off in his father's car.'

The male detective stared at the ground.

'Only trouble was, he misjudged a bend and hit a tree. The car went up in flames.'

Oliver turned his head towards his partner.

'I was on general duties when they took him in to casualty. I still remember the shock of seeing burnt flesh and the disgusting smell. You never get used to it.' She removed the latex gloves and shoved her hands into her trouser pockets. 'Look, some things just get to you - I mean, to everyone.'

Peter Latham came out the back door, doctors' bag in hand. 'The body is pretty fragile. It has to be moved carefully or we'll have bits falling off and getting lost. Must run. See you both at the PM?'

Kate gestured with her hand. They would be there. Moments later, the sound of his V8 engine broke the tension.

'We've got to ID the body and find out whether or not there is a missing baby.'

'What baby?' He stood, smoothing the creases in his suit pants.

'The bag in the kitchen had nappies and bottles in it. What do you think we should do first?'

'Canvass the neighbours. See if they know who was here, whether they saw or heard anything . . .'

'Well, what are you waiting for?'

Oliver nodded and seemed almost enthusiastic about the grunt work ahead. Maybe he disliked the gory side of the job, or was still too sensitive. That would have to change if he was going to last in homicide.

In contrast, Kate disliked the monotony of soliciting information by doorknocking. Busybodies outnumbered reliable witnesses and asked more questions than they answered, eager for any gossip they could extract. She followed the side path towards the road and watched the black labrador wandering slowly amongst the gathered crowd. She could imagine the dog making a monkey out of a defence lawyer on cross-examination. The idea made her smirk. She was beginning to think that coming back to work had been the right thing to do after all.

Bella weaved her way around the pairs of legs but this time failed to stop and sit. She remained on passive alert, sniffing for the arsonist who may have stayed to watch the aftermath of his handiwork. If she detected accelerants on any of the bystanders she would simply and silently sit. After a few minutes, she returned to the fire investigator by the station wagon.

'Nothing so far in the crowd,' he said to Kate, and handed Bella a biscuit. 'Sorry we couldn't give you a slam dunk.'

Kate had a feeling that nothing about this case would be easy.

In the foyer of police headquarters, Oliver pressed the button at the lifts.

'See you up there,' Kate said and headed for the stairwell door.

'But that's more than three floors,' Oliver mumbled.

Six flights of stairs later, at the entrance to the crime lab, the male detective puffed, hands on his belt.

'That was . . . refreshing.'

Kate gave him a sly look but concentrated on her breathing. She did not want to let on how much her leg muscles burnt, and even less that she wasn't ready to go into a confined space like a lift.

John Zimmer greeted them inside, dressed in fresh blue crime-scene overalls. 'Hope you know something about babies,' he smiled.

Kate felt her heart sink. It was one of the topics she knew least about.

'What do you need to know?' Oliver offered.

'We need to get some kind of idea how old this kid is, or was.'

Oliver glanced at the paraphernalia Zimmer had laid out on the bench. Two white cloth nappies, two empty bottles, a bright yellow bib and a sachet of formula.

'Any disposables?'

Zimmer reached his gloved hand into the overnight bag and extracted two nappies, holding them as though they had already been used.

'Well, one's meant for a newborn, probably in the first eight weeks or so, depending on the child's size.'

Zimmer shot Kate a glance and raised his eyebrows. 'And the other?'

Oliver laid out the second one. 'Next size up. I think these go up to about six months.'

'So we still don't know how old this baby is.'

'It's possible the newborn one was left over. It's been unfolded, so maybe the mother tried it on and realised it was too small. In the packaging they come in, they are always squashed flat. Or, the bigger one could have been a sample.'

'Aren't you either for cloth or against it?' Zimmer leant against the benchtop and gestured at the cloth nappies. 'My sister carried on about having to choose cloth for the sake of the environment when she was pregnant. I had no idea babies caused that many carbon emissions.'

'Cloths are one size fits all, so they won't help us work out the baby's age. They can also be used for wiping up regurgitated milk and vomit.'

Zimmer looked repulsed. The man thought nothing of wading through rivers with decomposed bodies, or extracting maggots from a deceased's nose, but the idea of baby vomit made him sick. It was something he and Kate had in common.

'If you look carefully, there's an old milk stain in the corner of that one. The baby might be a refluxer. Some types of formula are thickened, to try and prevent it all coming back up.' Oliver looked inside the bag and in the side-pockets. 'No pins or nappy clasps. The mother used disposables, at least while they were out. And no clothes either, worse luck. That would have given us size and probably gender.'

'Don't the bibs mean the child is eating?' Zimmer asked, confirming that he knew even less about kids than Kate.

'It's a lot easier to pull off a bib than change a baby's clothes. If it throws up or regurgitates milk, bibs are an essential.'

Kate slumped against the bench. 'Great. We don't know if the child is missing, alive or dead, or how old it is.'

'Not necessarily,' Oliver said as he grabbed a pair of gloves from a dispenser on the nearest wall. 'Can I look at the teats on the bottles?'

Zimmer reluctantly handed them over. 'They were both empty.'

Kate watched her partner study the tip of the teat, with no idea what he was looking for.

'The size of the hole in the teat varies depending on the age of the child. A pinprick size is for newborns, whereas older babies can handle a faster flow, so you find teats that are punctured with an “X” shape. There aren't any teeth marks on either of these, and the openings are tiny. My guess is, these are for a pretty small baby, one who hasn't developed teeth yet.'

Kate hated to reveal her ignorance but asked the question anyway. 'How old are they when they start getting teeth?'

Zimmer raised both hands, surrendering to the new detective.

'It varies, but usually around four to six months. Is there anything else in the bag, like a tiny comb, or hair gel?'

Zimmer shook his head.

'That's a shame. If the mum did its hair, there might have been hairs left behind. At least we'd know the colour, whether it's straight or curly.'

Kate had to concede that her partner was a logical thinker. She was beginning to respect him. In a few minutes, he had provided information that would have taken her hours of research

to discover, not to mention embarrassment at having to ask experts such basic questions.

Outside the lab, Oliver went to press the lift button, and hesitated.

'Stairs, it is.'

Inside the stairwell, their footsteps echoed. 'How do you know so much about kids' stuff? Didn't you say your partner was expecting?'

'Haven't you heard?'

Kate paused and turned around. 'I suppose you only hear things if you're listening.'

'Or if people choose to tell you.' Oliver came down to Kate's level. 'My first day here, someone called me the drover's dog.'

Kate was familiar with the expression, which referred to the working dog - all prick and ribs. In their brief few hours working together, Oliver had not struck her as someone who slept around. Then again, she never was a good judge of male character.

'That's your business,' she said, and continued down the stairs. 'I just have to work with you.'

'It's because we have four kids already. This will be our fifth. And before you pass judgement, they are all to the same woman, my wife. It may be old-fashioned but I have a large family and every child is wanted. No mistakes, no accidents. They were all planned.'

Kate stopped. Four children. No wonder he knew so much. Then again, most fathers were clueless when it came to what was involved in looking after kids. Oliver was already very different from her previous partners. She was almost beginning to like him.

'All right, now that's sorted, let's find out who Audrey Lambert is.'

Oliver's mobile rang. During a one-sided conversation in which he agreed to what the caller was saying, he propped his notebook against the stairwell wall and scribbled something before hanging up.

'Audrey Lambert has a passport. Her appearance is described as five foot four tall, with medium-length brown hair, medium build. Fits with the burnt body. I have the parents' address.'

'We'd better go find some dental records and confirm the ID.'

'Before we do that,' Oliver closed his notebook, 'I need to know. What happened to the teenager in the car who hit the tree?'

Kate sighed. She was sorry to have brought it up now.

'He never had a chance. Burns were too extensive. They pulled the plug on the life-support once the family had had a chance to say their goodbyes.' She continued briskly down the stairs. 'Which is more than the Lamberts will ever get.' view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

When Kate and Oliver discuss the family photos in the office, does Kate have a valid reason to suspect the father of 'unnatural love', or does her point of view restrict fathers' ability to demonstrate true affection? Do her views go far enough?

Robert Penfold's behaviour at the end is legal. Is it moral? If not, why not. If so, why isn't it illegal? Discuss.

Is Toby Penfold a lucky survivor or is he the most damaged victim of all?

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