‘I called round to Ken Dollimore’s office,’ she told me. ‘He wouldn’t let me in the door.’ ‘Maybe he’s sick of reporters.’ ‘Bullshit. Publicity’s his meat and drink. I went to see his neighbours, asked if anyone saw him on the fourth of January.’ ‘I don’t—’ I began, but Gail went on impatiently. She hated being interrupted. ‘His neighbours on one side were away. I’ve checked back with them since. But the other side was home—a couple with two kids. They had a wading pool set up and their kids spent the afternoon in—’ ‘I don’t think—’ ‘What’s with you, Sandra? I’m doing you a favour here. Plus, someone told silver hair I’ve been up and down the street and now he won’t talk to me.’ ‘But—’ ‘Here’s the interesting bit. These neighbours were surprised at me asking if they’d seen Dollimore that afternoon, because they were expecting him to be in Melbourne. He’d told them he’d be away till the ninth.’ ‘I’ve got his statement.
