I'm Anna. I'm Saruti. And welcome to red-handed, down under. Kind of. I can't remember if we decided that we could say that or not? I think yes. I think it counts.

Well, what definitely triple counts is that we came across this case was I was in the pub.

Yes.

As usual.

And a listener, I cannot remember her name.

And I feel awful.

But it began with an S, I'm almost sure.

Good enough.

And she was talking about how the show has helped her after moving here from New Zealand and feeling really lonely, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

And then on her table were some other Kiwis.

And I do what I always do when I meet New Zealanders.

And I'm like, do you think David Bain did it?

And the reaction is either straight onto a really interesting conversation or how

the fuck do you know about David Bain. Anyway, then they said, oh, and the Lundy 3-Hundee. And I was like,

I don't know what that is. And now it's now. Yeah. So here it is. So what is the Lundy 300?

I'll tell you when we get to it.

Okay, right.

I'm ready.

Today, we are taking you to the lush rolling green hills of New Zealand,

somewhere that you're more likely to associate with hobbits than homicide.

But behind the tidy suburban streets of Palmerston North in August 2000, a dark story was

waiting to unfold. Mark and Christine Lundy's modest home on Caramere Avenue was just like

...