At 1 p.m. he crossed the road to wander back and, as he passed the bistro, a face in profile caught his eye. He stopped, looked in. No clear sightline to the back corner, so he shifted position. Vita Roesch and Inspector Kellaher. Kellaher spotted Hirsch and nodded, prompting Roesch to turn her head. She rewarded Hirsch with a smile. Discomfited, he moved on, not wanting them to think he was spying.

He paused at the window of Redruth Real Estate, the only agency in the district. Houses, farms, businesses for sale. A couple for rent. And an idea tugged at him. He was about to push inside when Vita Roesch was nudging his arm and saying, ‘Great minds think alike.’

The kind of cop who catches suspects, culprits, witnesses and victims unawares. Dressed in a plain, bold-patterned sleeveless dress, a hint of shampoo, warm and grinning, the air faintly electric around her. Hirsch said, ‘Okay, what am I thinking?’

‘You’re thinking did Denise Rennie buy or rent the house on Hamel Road and if so, from whom, and what might the paperwork reveal?’

‘I was, in fact.’

‘Got there before you—we checked yesterday.’

‘And?’

‘Rented it, fully furnished. No takers for two years, the agency was glad she took it off their hands.’

Hirsch glanced past Roesch’s shoulder, expecting to see Hansen lurking. ‘Where’s Mr Personality today?’

She gave him a crooked smile. ‘Be nice.’

‘Always,’ Hirsch said. ‘Did you find out who owns the place?’

‘Some anonymous agri-company.’

‘How did she pay?’

‘Excellent question. Cash.’

‘Cash,’ Hirsch said. ‘Did she have access to a bank account? You’d have monitored that, right?’

Vita Roesch gave him a sunny smile. ‘We did. It seems the day before she and her husband went into witness protection, they withdrew fifty thousand dollars of their savings.’

Hirsch nodded. Forethought.

Roesch prodded him in the chest. ‘You’re wasted out here.’

‘Not country-town cop material?’

‘I’m from a country town,’ Roesch said. ‘Nothing against country towns. You just don’t want to get trapped in one.’

The remainder of his workday was quiet; he was back in Tiverton by 6 p.m.

On Sunday morning he packed an overnight bag, pinned his mobile number to the police station door and headed south along the Barrier Highway again. On any other long drive, he might have slipped a CD into the slot, but his mind was racing today, his thoughts chaotic. He hated not knowing what the Internals had on him, or who’d be grilling him tomorrow. He tried to think it through: ran various scenarios in his head. Pictured himself clinically demolishing every accusation, holding his head high. Then the doubts. He imagined them dredging up old charges—supported, this time, by new and unanswerable proof.

Or was it something new? Had he fucked up in Tiverton without knowing how?

The YouTube clip? He’d thought that was old news.