Only this time, the deception wasn’t sanctioned.

He took the Great Eastern Highway out of the city, a right turn and then a left. Soon car dealerships and fancy offices gave way to small leafy holdings fortified with brick walls to muffle the traffic noise. The traffic thinned as the road wound its way into the blue eucalyptus haze he’d so often stared at with longing from the carbon-coated windows of Perth Central.

At last he found himself on the road he wanted. He slowed down so he could read the signs on the gates of the passing properties until he reached Pete and Gloria’s ‘Roses By Any Name’ nursery. Open seven days a week 9 to 5.

He drove through the open gateway and down the gentle gradient of a contoured valley. The road followed the path of a landscaped stream until it passed over a humpback bridge with wooden railings and an artificial pond where orange koi lolled.

Monty parked in the almost deserted car park beyond the pond, inhaling the damp earthy smells as he climbed out of his Land Rover. Above his head a cloud of black cockatoos whirled, squawking out the bushman’s herald of rain. He saw no sign of it in the azure sky, although the clouds looked as though they’d been whipped into frenzied slashes and streaks by a giant egg whisk. A cold wind made the sides of his army jacket flap and bit through the worn fabric of his jeans. He zipped up his jacket, plunged his hands into the pockets and began to explore.

Up ahead was a narrow rammed-earth building and a variety of squeaking advertising signs on frames, one of them saying ‘open.’ The verandah was crowded with terracotta pots and hanging baskets of early-blooming bulbs. A blackboard declaring today’s special of scones, jam and cream was nailed to one side of the front door. The lights were on inside, but Monty decided to try his luck at the nursery first.

Slippery wooden planks divided the strips of rose beds, each spiked with an identifying label. Soon he heard the sound of digging. He followed it, leaving the garden beds behind until he found himself standing among a collection of long tables holding pots of small roses with shivering price tags.

‘Can I help you, mate?’

Monty pivoted, looking for the person behind the voice. His gaze settled on a hole in the ground and the protruding head and shoulders of a man who appeared to be covered with mud.

‘I’ve been looking for the damned solenoid,’ the man in the hole said by way of explanation. ‘The reticulation plan of this place is cactus; it’s just as well we don’t need to water at the moment.’ His tone was friendly enough, but the lines that cut through his muddy face like erosion cracks suggested it wouldn’t take much for him to turn.

‘Um, I’m looking for a rose to take to a friend who’s in hospital. I can’t find any with flowers on ’em.’

The man chuckled and hauled himself out of his hole.

A fit-looking fifty, he was of average height and build, wearing a muddied windcheater, shorts and work boots. With his greying goatee beard and a receding V-shaped hairline, he looked as if he was emerging from the underworld.

‘This is the wrong time of the year to be buying roses in bloom, mate, though we do sell cut flowers in the gift shop. Maybe you should look there.’

Monty ran his tongue around the edge of his lip. ‘Yes, sure, thanks,’ but he didn’t move. His gaze dropped to his trainers. He’d taken the laces out before he’d left home and without socks they were beginning to feel scratchy and uncomfortable.

‘Is there anything else you need, then?’ the man asked.

Monty drew a breath, as if trying to summon up his courage. ‘I need to see a bloke called Peter Sbresni.’

He felt himself being looked up and down. After a beat the man said, ‘You after work, mate?’

Monty shuffled his feet from side to side on the wooden plank. ‘No. It’s personal stuff.’

The man hesitated before wiping his hand on his windcheater and putting it out to Monty. ‘I’m Sbresni. What can I do you for?’

Monty said, ‘My name’s Steven Dunn.’

Sbresni switched his gaze from Monty to a young couple heading towards a shade house. If he recognised the name, he showed no sign of it.

Monty moistened his lips and continued. ‘I’ve been inside, see. Just got out.’

Sbresni turned back to Monty, shrugged and said nothing as he waited for more. A gust of wind blew an empty plastic pot off the table and it turned like a tumbleweed down the path.

‘Lorna’s mum and me haven’t been in touch for years,’ Monty said, pushing the emotion through a crack in his voice. ‘The only thing I know about my little girl’s murder is what I read in the papers and heard on the news. I remember hearing how you was the lead copper on the case.’

‘The second Park Killer victim?’ Sbresni said, as if to himself; then, in a louder voice, ‘I’m sorry for your loss, Mr Dunn.’ His hand dropped to his side in a convincing show of sympathy. ‘But I really don’t think I can help you. You see I’ve been retired for several years. I might be able to give you some names in Central who could help with your queries, although it’s now a closed case. As you probably know, the killer died in a car accident.’

‘Don’t get me wrong, Mr Sbresni, I’m not wanting to ask questions about the investigation, or out to get anyone over it. My daughter’s gone and so’s the prick who killed her. I just want to find some stuff out about my little girl, Lorna, that’s all. See, I never knew her. All I want to do is look up some of her old friends, find out what kind of a person she’d grown up into, what she liked, what she didn’t like. Hell, I don’t even know what her favourite flowers were. If I knew, then I could put them on her grave, couldn’t I?’

Sbresni rubbed his goatee and tried for a gentle tone. ‘It’s been several years now. I’m not sure if I can tell you much that would be of help.’

Monty drew a breath. ‘They said she worked on the streets. Is that true?’

‘I’m afraid so.’ Sbresni paused for a moment. ‘I take it you didn’t know?’

‘Not till I read about the murder. I haven’t seen or heard of Lorna since she was five years old.’ Monty managed a disheartened shrug and fixed his gaze on the horizon. ‘I reckon she had good reason to be where she was, they always do. Maybe she needed the money for uni, an operation or something—there’s all sorts of reasons for a girl to take to the streets, aren’t there? I mean, who’s to judge?’

Sbresni shook his head and clucked his tongue. ‘Why don’t you try her mother? I’m sure she’ll know all the details.’

‘She won’t talk to me. Blames me for everything that went wrong.’

‘I see.’ Sbresni went thoughtful for a moment. Then as if deciding that it could do no harm, he said, ‘She and her friends used to walk the pubs and clubs district of Northbridge. My wife and I went out to a restaurant there the other night. There still seems to be a bunch of girls who walk that same patch. I recognised one who was interviewed over the murder. It surprised me to see a familiar face. Girls don’t tend to last too long in the job, if you know what I’m saying.’

‘Name?’

Sbresni’s eyebrows shot up at the abrupt question. Monty reminded himself this was not a police interview and did some hasty backtracking.

‘A name would be really handy if it’s not too much trouble. Then I’ll let you get back to work. Hell, I’ll help if you like. I know something about reticulation.’

A muscle leaping around in Sbresni’s jaw suggested Monty was beginning to outstay his welcome.

‘Charmaine Carol’s her name, but she goes by the name of Champagne Charlie. Now, Mr Dunn, I really should be getting back to work. Why don’t you stop off at our tea and gift shop and pick up some long-stemmed roses? I’m sure your sick friend would really appreciate them.’

Inside, Monty was elated. He had a name, something with which to get his investigative ball rolling.