Wesley launched straight in. ‘It’s only me and the missus here, the kids have flown the coop. Once in a blue moon we get someone come in off the highway to ask for directions or a can of petrol, that kind of thing, and usually in daylight. But when it’s eleven on a still night and there’s a knock on the door and no engine sounds or headlights, you err on the side of caution. I grabbed the twelve-gauge—don’t worry, all legal, I’ve got the paperwork—and opened the door. Two blokes standing there. Took one look at the shotgun and ran off. I was in bare feet or I’d’ve gone after them. A minute or two later, I hear a vehicle take off halfway down the hill.’

‘You tried to call it in?’

Wesley rubbed his chin, smearing it. ‘I did. The line was dead. Went and had a look, cut clean through.’

‘Anything stolen?’

‘Chainsaw.’

‘I’ll give you a case number for the insurance—’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Wesley said. ‘The saw was cactus. They’re welcome to it.’

‘Can you describe these men?’

‘Not really. Youngish, wearing hoodies and jeans. Quick on their feet.’

‘The vehicle?’

‘No idea. There was a bit of moon to see by, and they didn’t turn on their headlights till they hit the highway.’

‘Which direction?’

‘Redruth.’

Hirsch returned to Redruth, parked near the town hall and went looking for Kellaher or Roesch in the incident room.

Only Hansen was available, working on an iPad and not inclined to be available to Hirsch. In a nod to the heat, he was wearing shorts and a short-sleeved shirt. He looked less like a banker but not less like a prick. ‘What do you want?’ he said.

Hirsch told him. ‘That’s three cases of cut phone lines now,’ he added. ‘There could be more, in other police districts.’

‘Mate,’ Hansen said, ‘I’m New South Wales police. Nothing to do with me.’

‘It could relate to the Rennie murders.’

Hating to be torn away from the screen of his iPad, Hansen said, ‘Log it in, write it up, ask around, you know the drill.’

‘You don’t think it’s important?’

‘Everything’s important. Log it in, et cetera.’

‘Thanks for your help,’ Hirsch said, but the irony passed over Hansen. He gave a shrug that said it was the least he could do and returned to his iPad.

Back in the Toyota, Hirsch checked his phone. Brandl: Call me. Not right now, he thought. Places to go, people to see.

He found Monica Fuller in her backyard, repairing an arrangement of stakes toppled by tomato vines heavy with fruit.

‘Want some? More than we can eat.’

‘A few would be good,’ Hirsch said. Ed Tennant’s tomatoes were generally soft and floury.