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oversight.’
    ‘We’re going to have to make a report.’
    ‘Yeah. Look – what would you say if I talked to your duty sergeant . . .’
    All of a sudden, Cadel was distracted by the distant sound of approaching footsteps. He recognised the slap-slap-slap of large, rubber-soled feet galloping down the side path. Mace, he knew, was heading for the kitchen, kicking over flowerpots on his way.
    ‘. . . has to come through official channels . . .’ the uniformed policeman was saying. Cadel tensed as he heard Mace thudding up the outside stairs. Even Saul Greeniaus had noticed the racket by this time. Hazel shuffled towards the back door, but Mace reached it first. He flung it open, exploded into the room, then stopped abruptly when he saw the uniformed police.
    His face reddened. Cadel was by now familiar with that dull rush of colour, which was always a bad sign. When Mace was really, really angry, he always turned red. Then he would sit somewhere out of the way, swearing under his breath for perhaps ten minutes, before his rage erupted in a series of destructive acts.
    Cadel found himself edging closer to Saul Greeniaus.
    ‘Oh. Hello.’ The policewoman addressed Mace in a friendly voice. ‘It’s Thomas Logge, isn’t it? How are you, Thomas?’
    There was no reply – just a glower.
    ‘I’ve heard good reports about you,’ the policewoman continued. She was small and stocky, with a hard-edged drawl and stiff blond hair cut short. ‘I’ve heard that you seem to have settled in here pretty well. Been going to school. Good on ya.’
    In response, Mace slammed out of the kitchen, heading for his bedroom. He must have hurled his bag at the wall as he went, because there was a huge thud , followed by a rather nasty crunching noise. Then a door banged at the other end of the house.
    The policewoman sniffed.
    ‘You’ve got your work cut out for you there,’ she said to Hazel. ‘I’ve had dealings with his family.’
    ‘Oh, Thomas is responding very well,’ Hazel rejoined, sounding almost defensive. ‘You don’t have to worry about him .’
    ‘Good,’ said the police officer. But she didn’t seem wholly convinced.
    There followed a brief burst of activity, which was kicked off by Fiona – who suddenly appeared and dragged Hazel out of the room for a talk with Janan. Saul Greeniaus then accompanied the uniformed officers to their car, while Cadel, left alone in the kitchen, wondered what he should do about Mace.
    Mace was already in a foul mood; he would probably explode when he saw that his football boots were sitting under the pile of dirty sheets that Cadel had dumped on them. To prevent Mace from trashing all his belongings, Cadel would have to keep an eye on the boy. But that in turn would require staying within easy reach of Mace’s fists.
    Cadel considered his next move. The smartest tactic, he decided, would be to shut himself in his own bedroom for the rest of the day (with something shoved against the door, perhaps). Even if Mace set fire to the house, Cadel could always crawl out the window. Not that he really expected Mace to commit arson. But there was bound to be trouble of some kind, and Cadel was determined to stay well away from it.
    As he made for the kitchen door, however, he found Fiona blocking his escape route.
    ‘Oh, Cadel,’ she said. ‘Where’s Mr Greeniaus?’
    ‘He went with those coppers, back to their car,’ Cadel replied.
    ‘You mean he left?’
    ‘I don’t know.’
    ‘He could have said something,’ Fiona remarked crossly. ‘A simple “thank you” would suffice!’
    ‘Is Janan okay?’ Cadel asked, suddenly remembering that the six-year-old, when last seen, had been disappearing under a bed. ‘Did you get him out of my room?’
    ‘Oh yes. Don’t worry. He’s in his own room now, with Hazel. Poor little kid, he’s so traumatised.’ Fiona’s gaze shifted, and Cadel turned to see what had caught her interest.
    It was Saul Greeniaus, quietly re-entering the