Cardilini sat on one of two wrought iron chairs at a small, round, wrought iron table. Sheppard set the tea things down, gave a shrug and a smile and re-entered the house. A dog walked over and sniffed Cardilini’s leg then returned to a collection of hessian bags where it circled twice before sitting. Cardilini’s eyes wandered to the sheds, the trees and the parched and bristling paddocks.

Sheppard returned with a steaming sliced cake, fresh from the oven.

‘It’s been difficult, and now our youngest is away at St Nicholas . . .’ Sheppard said as he sat. ‘Mrs Lockheed said you were investigating a possible link between our boy and two others.’

‘I’m sorry. She shouldn’t have said . . .’ Cardilini started to protest.

‘Let’s not worry about that. You tell me what you’re doing?’

Cardilini inhaled the dry air and said, ‘I’m investigating the circumstance of the deaths.’

‘Is this something to do with Edmund?’

‘It’s possible.’

‘I’m not sorry the man is dead. I’m beginning to think he hurt my boy, the gist of which I believe you got from Mrs Lockheed,’ Sheppard said.

‘Yes.’

‘Dot will have none of it. She doesn’t understand there are deadset bastards in the world. But I don’t need to tell you that, I suppose.’

‘No.’

Sheppard sighed heavily. ‘So, what do you want to know?’

Realising the implications his questions could have for the Sheppards, Cardilini asked slowly and quietly, ‘Do you think it possible your boy’s death wasn’t an accident?’

To Cardilini’s relief Sheppard replied promptly and without hesitation. ‘Yes, and, no.’ Cardilini waited. ‘I won’t be disputing Saunders’s report,’ Sheppard emphasised.

‘I won’t be asking you to,’ Cardilini replied quickly.

‘And I won’t be helping you catch the fellow who shot Edmund.’

‘It was an accidental shot from across the river,’ Cardilini stated.

‘Did you go across the river?’

‘No.’

Sheppard continued angrily, ‘I did. You think we’re all idiots? I wasn’t going to send my boy to a school where some moron could shoot him. I met the farmer, made it my business. He doesn’t allow a .303 to be fired on his property. Neither does any other farmer out there. I believe them. They run cattle, expensive cattle. No one shoots for sport. They do roo culls. And professional shooters use .243s. Go and speak to him.’

‘I will. So you don’t think it was an accident?’ Cardilini asked.

‘Which, my boy or Edmund?’ Cardilini turned his eyes from the challenge in Sheppard’s. ‘Come a long way for nothing it would seem. Eat some cake. If you don’t eat her cake, she’ll be real cranky.’

Cardilini took a piece. It was dry in his mouth.

‘Don’t worry, I’ll say you liked it,’ Sheppard said as he rolled a cigarette. ‘You better understand, someone has done the world a favour by shooting Edmund.’