It was the embittered screech that reached him first, followed by stout indignation. Chandler had been talking to Tanya about amending the KLO4 to include a warning about approaching the suspect, when a strange man limped into the station, his limp exacerbated by the shotgun barrel jammed into his lower back. The shotgun was wielded by Ken ‘Kid’ Maloney, fifty-six years old, born and as oft-said, ill-bred here, sporting a beard that was as wild as his eyes. He mumbled something about catching this bastard on his land, the rest was hard to make out in the garbled tongue few understood.

Sneaking a glance at his colleagues, Chandler offered a reassuring nod. A reminder not to react. Not yet. This was the second time Ken had marched someone in at the end of his shotgun this year. The first time it had been a young backpacking couple who he claimed had stolen things from his house. A claim that turned out to be nothing more than a thirsty couple in need of some water and – on Ken’s part – wilful misunderstanding. This time he had a single victim. Chandler drew his eyes from the gun to the shaking hostage to try and calm him. His heart stopped.

The man at the end of the gun exactly fitted the description of Heath.

Around five foot six and, as Gabriel had described, with the stout, low centre of gravity of a farmhand, engineered to lug heavy equipment around. His nut-brown hair was tousled, as if it had evaded a comb for months, the week-old beard a shade darker than the hair. Sweat dripped from it. A small cross dangled underneath a green-checked shirt which was minus a ripped pocket. Accompanied by the three-quarter-length trousers he resembled a lumberjack, at home in the outdoors, at home with keeping someone locked up outdoors before murdering them. The blood staining his clothes lent credence to this hypothesis.

‘Someone gonna come arrest him then?’ said Ken, the gun firmly wedged into the small of the man’s back.

With a flick of his hand, Chandler signalled his colleagues to back away. Ken’s face was a picture of frustration. Dangerous frustration.

‘We’ll take him now, Ken. Just put down your gun.’

Chandler had hoped to convey authority in the command but wasn’t sure he’d succeeded.

‘Why the hell should I put down ma’ gun?’ demanded Ken. ‘Someone’s gotta keep him under control.’

‘Just drop it, Ken,’ said Chandler. He couldn’t help but think that if Ken knew who this man probably was he wouldn’t have dared approach him. Ken was crazy, not stupid.

‘I’m not puttin’ down ma’ gun ’til someone comes arrest him,’ said Ken, his voice trapped by the beard as if the hair had wired his lips shut.

Chandler inched forward to hear him better. A bad move. Ken readjusted his position menacingly.

There was an indecipherable mumble from his hostage now. Begging.