With Ken gone, Chandler studied the suspect. His head was lowered to the ground with nothing in the sweaty, chubby cheeks that suggested he was capable of killing fifty-four people. The eyes that looked up as he approached, however, were narrowed and Chandler detected an undercurrent of malice in them. The man took a deep breath and grunted, teeth bared. Chandler’s hands slid to his gun, grazing the metal, ready to draw.

‘I had to steal the car. I had to,’ he whispered.

Luka paused at the suspect’s shoulder, awaiting further instruction. Chandler flicked his eyes to the side of the room. Message understood, his colleague backed away.

‘Are you Heath?’ asked Chandler, fingers curving around the butt of the gun. The seemingly wounded man slowly raised his head, jaw clamped firmly shut. The look of a man who’d been exposed.

The deep brown eyes stared at Chandler, before glancing at the others. Chandler prepared himself, his fingers tensing. If Heath were going to attempt escape it would be now.

Heath nodded once, confusion now rather than menace in his expression. ‘How did you—?’

‘Is your name Heath?’ repeated Chandler.

‘Yes, it’s Heath. Heath Barwell,’ he said, frowning. The pained expression had disappeared. It had all been an act. Though a very realistic one.

‘You’re from out East?’

‘Yes. Adelaide.’

‘And what brings you here?’ Chandler was starting slowly, easy questions to lull him, like excavating at an archaeological dig, better to use a brush than a bulldozer.

‘Work.’

‘What kinda work?’

‘Any. Farming, fruit-picking, labouring. You name it, I’ve done it.’

‘So you know the place well?’

Heath slowly shook his head. ‘No.’

Chandler noted the suspicion and tentativeness in Heath’s voice as if searching for the safe path through the minefield.

‘Mr Barwell, I’m going to have to arrest you—’

‘I needed to steal the . . . take the car,’ spluttered Heath. ‘I was running from—’

‘We’re not interested in the car,’ interrupted Chandler, easing Heath’s arms behind his back and slipping the cuffs over wrists that were chafed red, the palms of his hands blistered with heat or overwork. ‘We want to talk to you about some murders.’

‘That’s what I want to tell you about,’ said Heath.

‘You want to confess?’ asked Chandler, fighting a curious mix of anticlimax and excitement. But if a confession meant he didn’t have to bring in Mitch then—

‘What do you mean, do I want to confess? I’m the one who was attacked,’ said Heath, flicking his head as if signalling the direction. ‘Up there. In the woods.’

Tanya and Luka corralled the suspect into a seat. Chandler stood in front of him wondering what Heath was trying to achieve. Misdirection? Lying to save himself? A game?

‘What do you mean?’ he asked, playing along.