I’M MEANT TO be writing a book about murder, a particular murder. It took place five years ago in Lismore, northern New South Wales. The victim was a young woman who came from a small village in Germany. I was initially drawn to her Missing Persons photo. It ran for days in the local paper: a picture of her standing on a white beach, barefoot, her mahogany mane tangled from a recent swim. Directly behind her a low-slung branch looped into the frame, protruding from the sides of her head, like antlers. The antlers gave the already statuesque girl a proud, majestic look.

She did not look like a victim, my mother and I agreed as we studied the front page of the newspaper in a café. I thought she looked familiar, but not like anyone I knew.