‘Water, mate,’ Hansen said. He sat back finally, surrendering to the sofa, a small man with pouchy cheeks and the tidy precision of a banker: a man who’d look brushed and combed whatever he did. Out on the street, your gaze would pass over him. But you’d look twice at Senior Sergeant Roesch and wonder when she’d come gunning for you.

Hirsch strolled through the archway leading to the kitchen nook and made a production out of opening and closing overhead cupboard doors and running the tap, and when the Sydney detectives were sufficiently disarmed by that bit of domestic flimflam, he sneaked a photograph of them on his phone. Then he filled three glasses, returned to the sitting room and sat opposite Roesch and Hansen. His fingers twitched: the print of Andrew Wyeth’s Christina’s World, on the wall behind the Sydney detectives, needed straightening.

‘Quite a media storm you cooked up, mate, even in Sydney,’ Hansen said. ‘Big headline in this morning’s Daily Tele: “Massacre central”.’

Hirsch recognised the tactic: use disparagement to unbalance an interview subject, hoping they’ll reveal a chink you can exploit. ‘You don’t think the media cooked it up by themselves?’ he said lightly.

Hansen curled a grin at Hirsch, set for another swerve, when Roesch interrupted.

‘Be fair, Robert. Constable Hirschhausen merely stumbled upon these, ah, crime scenes. I’m sure he doesn’t welcome the attention. Isn’t that right, constable?’

Hirsch nodded. ‘Senior sergeant.’ He didn’t know if he could trust her smile.

‘We flew in this morning and headed straight for Redruth,’ Roesch said, all business now. ‘Quick briefing from your Homicide Squad people then a quick look at the crime scene, and now here we are, gracing you with our presence.’

Kellaher would have told them about Gemma Pitcher, Hirsch thought, tensing up. ‘How can I help?’

Hansen leaned forward, forearms on his knees, still intent on unsettling Hirsch. ‘Where were you just now?’

Hirsch bit, wondering if he’d regret it. ‘I’m the only copper in this district. I’m not going to be sitting in the station all day.’

Hansen smirked. ‘One would hope you were out looking for a certain shop assistant we’d like a word with.’ His features hardened. ‘Someone you promised would be available for interview.’

‘I was looking for her, in fact. And the two boys she’s probably with.’

Hansen gave him an empty smile. ‘But no luck.’

Roesch said, ‘We really need to speak to this girl, Constable Hirschhausen.’

‘Gemma Pitcher,’ Hansen said, with the air of a man in possession of all the facts, ‘who claims a man came into her shop and asked if she knew where a Mrs Reid lived. We’d like to know more about this man. Did she tell you anything—a description, for example? Did you ask?’