‘That I’m following up a lead.’

‘Okay . . .’ said Nick, sounding less than sure.

Chandler retrieved his keys and jacket and was within arm’s reach of the station door when Mitch floated out of his office.

‘Where are you off to, Sergeant?’

For an instant Chandler thought about making up some excuse.

‘I’m going to check out the woods behind where Heath was picked up.’

Mitch’s face turned to stone again, his eyes darting side to side, determining whether there might be traction in this idea, a bandwagon that he might want to jump on.

‘I’m coming with you.’

Chandler formed a backup plan. ‘Do you remember Turtle, Mi—, Inspector?’ he asked.

‘Turtle Siefert? Yes I do, Sergeant.’

‘Good. But Turtle won’t remember you. His memory’s gone. He shot the last guy who tried to tell him John Howard wasn’t prime minister. And that guy was his own brother!’

Chandler stopped short of mentioning that he’d only managed to wing his brother in the arm and no charges had been pressed.

‘I’m coming with you, Sergeant,’ said Mitch.

And that was that. Chandler had a partner once again.

The car ride was silent; a silence that Chandler dared not break in case he said something ill-judged in a confined space that neither could escape.

Thankfully it was a short silence. Twenty minutes later he pulled the car into Turtle’s front yard. The first welcome sight was the banged-up Chevy tied to the concrete post like a horse in lieu of a working handbrake. Second was that Turtle himself wasn’t in the yard, brandishing his shotgun at them. It was where his nickname had originated: always on the defensive, a shell on his back and another in his shotgun.

‘Remember, he’s not the biggest fan of the police,’ said Chandler as they got out of the car.

‘I know,’ said Mitch, batting the concern away as he scanned the front yard.

‘So let me do the talking.’

Mitch didn’t reply as they cautiously weaved their way between the dilapidated barns and machinery, the subsided porch sloping away from the wooden building as if trying to flee. It was a farm in need of repair. A farm with plenty of places to hide.

They made it halfway to the farmhouse when they were greeted by a gnarled old man, who stepped out the screen door. His shotgun rested low, but high enough to make a point.

‘What’re you doin’ here?’ asked Turtle, in typical drawn-out fashion, his jaw grinding like one of the threshing drums in the harvesters now rotting in the yard.

Before Chandler had a chance to answer, Mitch spoke up.

‘We’re the police, Mr Siefert.’

‘I ask’d what you’re doin’ here,’ said Turtle, not advancing from his porch.

‘Mind if we come closer rather than having to shout?’

‘You mind tellin’ me your name, boy?’