‘Why not just poison the baby too?’

‘She wasn’t a complete monster.’

‘And what happened to their bodies?’

‘Chopped up, I expect.’ Veronika smacks her lips. ‘Did you know that Connie and Rose’s father was a butcher? Very handy for body removal. I don’t know for sure, of course, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the bones are buried in those big flowerpots with the busy lizzies all along Scribbly Street.’

‘And what about Rose?’ asks Sophie. ‘Was she in on it too?’

‘Accessory after the fact,’ pronounces Veronika. ‘Helped with the cover-up.’

Sophie thinks about that day at Grace’s house when Rose said, ‘We’ll tell you the truth about what happened to Alice and Jack.’ It is extremely tempting to reveal this information to Veronika, just for the satisfaction of telling her something she doesn’t know, but Sophie has never broken a promise, especially not one made to an old lady with fervently pleading eyes.

‘It seems a bit odd to make a tourist attraction of the crime scene.’ Sophie raises a wry, detective-like eyebrow at Veronika.

‘The woman had balls,’ agrees Veronika.

‘Really?’ Sophie widens her eyes. ‘Gosh. How did Jimmy feel about that?’

‘This isn’t funny. She murdered my great-grandparents and she got away with it! She probably laughed all the way to her grave!’

Veronika blows her nose noisily and Sophie feels remorseful, because if Aunt Connie did kill Alice and Jack she’d find it more intriguing than dreadful. Murders that happened over seventy years ago don’t seem quite as serious as murders that happen today. After all, the victims would be dead by now anyway, so the point seems sort of moot. But Veronika acts as if it all happened last week.

‘Would you prefer a hot lemon drink to the wine?’ Sophie asks Veronika.

‘No,’ snuffles Veronika. ‘The wine is OK. Look, I want you to help me prove that Aunt Connie killed Alice and Jack. Then I’m going to write a book about it. I’ll mention you in the acknowledgements, of course. You owe me. You wouldn’t have got this house if it wasn’t for me.’

‘But how could I help you?’ Sophie is aghast. It doesn’t seem good etiquette to help prove someone a murderer after they’ve left you a house and a selection of potential new boyfriends.

‘You can talk to my family. Rose and Enigma. Even Mum and Dad,’ says Veronika. ‘They’re all hiding something. I know it. I’ve always known it. I used to hear comments all the time. Once I overheard Mum and Dad fighting and he said, “I could blow this whole Alice and Jack thing sky-high at any time,” and Mum just laughed and said she didn’t mind, it would be Aunt Connie he’d have to face. I confronted them of course, and they just laughed at me. It happened when I was about fourteen. I keep forgetting about it for years at a time and then remembering and getting angry. It’s a cover-up! My own family is involved in a cover-up and I don’t know the truth.’

Sophie thinks about how hurt Veronika would be if she knew what Enigma and Rose had said to her. Now Sophie is involved in the cover-up too. Even though she has no idea of exactly what she’s covering up. It’s quite exciting.

‘I really think you should ask them yourself.’ She tries to sound soothing and not patronising.

‘Oh, you think I haven’t? Like a million times? My family likes you better than they like me!’ Veronika drains her wine glass and pushes it towards Sophie for a refill. ‘Not one of them would back me up about Aunt Connie’s will. They didn’t want to help me contest it. They didn’t want me to have the house. They wanted you to have it. They’d rather have you living here than me. I annoy them. I’m fundamentally annoying. Are we going to eat soon? Do you think you should check that chicken again?’

Veronika crunches her cough lolly between her teeth and looks meaningfully towards the oven, seemingly determined to prove that she is indeed fundamentally annoying.

At that moment the oven timer shrieks like a fire alarm and they both jump.

‘I think Aunt Connie might be cross with us,’ jokes Sophie a touch nervously as she opens the oven for the chicken.

Veronika shakes her fist at the ceiling. ‘I’m going to prove you did it, Aunt Connie! You always told me I needed to focus; well, I’m focusing all right. I’m focusing on you! Murderer!’

Sophie puts the chicken on top of the stove, noting hopefully that it smells delicious, and watches Veronika curiously. ‘Are you OK? You look a bit pale.’ And you’re acting even nut-tier than usual.

‘I guess I shouldn’t be drinking when I’m taking antibiotics.’ Veronika’s words are softening at the edges. ‘Also, I think I forgot to eat today. Oopsie!’

And at that point her eyelids droop and the top half of her body tips forward in slow motion until her forehead rests gently on the table.

The next morning Sophie leaves Veronika sleeping in Aunt Connie’s spare bedroom. She is lying flat on her back, breathing snuffily through her mouth, one thin arm thrown dramatically across her eyes as if she can’t bear the sight of something. It’s strange to watch Veronika sleeping; she’s so rarely quiet. Watching someone sleeping, thinks Sophie, is a bit like sneaking through their house when they’re not home. Sophie notices for the first time that Veronika has elfin, pointy-tipped ears and she feels a rush of motherly affection for her, so much so that she even considers tucking the blanket under Veronika’s chin, except she doesn’t want to risk waking her and feeling her affection evaporate.

After stealthily leaving a cup of tea, a glass of water and some Panadol next to Veronika’s bed, she tiptoes out of the house. It’s Sunday, and Sophie is meeting Grace for her first training session on the Alice and Jack tours.

She reaches the Alice and Jack house via the paved private footpath that snakes along the island shore. It still gives her a thrill to ignore the friendly but firm signs saying, ‘Sorry! Only Scribbly Gum residents past this point!’

The river is different every day. Today it’s grey-blue and choppy, like someone vigorously shaking out a picnic rug. A huge pelican makes an ungainly landing on the rocks just beneath her. ‘Good morning!’ calls out Sophie. The pelican modestly lowers its swooping beak and shoots her a glinting glance from its mean squidgy yellow eyes.