Monica took him to the kitchen, washed and dried half-a-dozen tomatoes and stowed them in a paper bag. ‘Here you go. Tea, coffee, water?’

Hirsch settled for tea. He said, after a catch-up chat, ‘That time your phone line was cut.’

‘Yes?’

‘You were both at home?’

‘Yes.’

‘Could someone have thought you were out?’

She considered. ‘I don’t see how. Both vehicles were in the carport.’

‘Kip barked?’

‘He was beside himself. Broke his chain.’

‘And only the shovel stolen?’

‘Even then Graham wasn’t sure. It might’ve bounced off the back of the truck one day.’ She swallowed. ‘But if they’d got in the house…The TV isn’t much, but it’s not bad, and there was my laptop, that’s pretty new.’

‘Who fixed the line for you?’ Hirsch asked, thinking a local telco technician might know of other, unreported cases.

‘Bob Muir. No point calling Telstra; you get someone in Mumbai who doesn’t have a clue what you’re on about.’

Hirsch returned to Tiverton and called in at the Muirs’. Bob was rewiring a generator in his workshop. ‘Constable.’

‘Mr Muir.’

Hirsch watched for a while, mesmerised by his friend’s deft fingers and the gleaming copper. ‘I understand you fixed a damaged phone line for the Fullers?’

Bob’s gaze didn’t move from his fingers. ‘I did.’

‘Describe the damage?’

‘It wasn’t wear and tear, if that’s what you’re thinking. It was a cut, very neat, straight through, one snip.’

‘Have you had any other cases?’

Now Muir lifted his gaze. ‘No. But I’m betting you have.’

Hirsch explained, Muir listened.

‘Not statistically significant.’

‘No,’ Hirsch admitted.

‘But suggestive.’

‘Yes,’ Hirsch said, glad someone agreed.

He spent the rest of Friday afternoon searching for Gemma Pitcher, Daryl Cobb and Adam Flann. Eileen Pitcher was agitated because she needed her car for a hair appointment in Redruth, Laura Cobb was morose—her mother had been hoarding her meds again—and there was no one at home at the Flanns’.

Hirsch returned to the police station. Checked his phone when he got inside and remembered the sergeant’s message. He called her, and she said, ‘You’re wanted in the city, Paul. Internal Investigations, first thing Monday morning.’

22

22

SATURDAY MORNING HIRSCH phoned his parents.

‘I was thinking of driving down tomorrow,’ he said, ‘and spending the night.’

His mother was pleased, and she was shrewd. ‘Oh, good, a belated Christmas. Is everything all right?’

She was referring to his old troubles, the disbandment of his CIB squad, the Internal Investigations interrogations, the inquiry, the prosecutions. He came clean. ‘I’m due at Angas Street at eight-thirty tomorrow.’

‘Oh, Paul, what this time?’

‘Mum, I have no idea.’

‘Do you need a lawyer?’

‘I’ll ask for one if it gets tricky.’

His mother was brisk and practical. ‘Will you be here for lunch?’

‘Depends on traffic.’