‘It’s not tourist season, is it? Too hot. Were there any guests staying the nights the place was graffitied?’

‘Well…’ Dunner gave a slow nod. ‘Now that you mention it, no.’

Was it that helpful, knowing the place had been empty? Any fuckwit could drive past, see there was no activity and think: hey, let’s spoil some rich bastard’s day.

Someone local, thought Hirsch. He followed Dunner indoors. The reception area comprised a desk, armchairs and a drinks machine, with a spacious office behind it. Eleanor Dunner was in there, listening on a landline phone. Dressed similarly to her husband, and just as skinny and vigorous. She twinkled her fingers at Hirsch.

Rex Dunner crossed to the drinks machine, yanked on the door. ‘Coke? Lemonade?’

‘I’m fine. Who belongs to the Audi?’

‘Film producer. Scouting locations,’ said Dunner, with a little inflation of his chest, as if touched by Hollywood glamour.

‘One big location.’ Hirsch gestured towards the endless landscape beyond the thick, cool walls. ‘Is he travelling alone?’

‘Yes.’

Hirsch cocked his head. ‘You heard what happened at Mischance Creek?’

Dunner turned his face north-east unconsciously, as if the creek ran just outside the building. ‘Nasty business.’ He paused. ‘Hang on, are you saying he’s involved?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Hirsch easily. ‘But I do need to ask if you’ve seen any odd activity in the past few days. People, vehicles, anything at all.’

‘Mate, any passing car is strange. People drive past just to see the woolshed, they don’t necessarily call in. Quick selfie at the side of the road and off they go to the next tree or hill or ruin. I’ve stopped noticing.’

‘Any other guests?’

‘A nature photographer in four,’ Eleanor Dunner said, emerging from the office, her hand out.

Hirsch shook. Her fingers were strong, her palm dry. ‘Man? Woman?’

‘Man.’

‘What’s he drive?’

She shared an amused glance with her husband. ‘His car’s there now, Paul, if you’d like a look.’

‘Bear with me, Mrs Dunner. What’s he drive?’

‘A car’s a car to me,’ she said. ‘A silver car, will that do?’

Just happy to look down on other motorists from the cockpit of her Range Rover, thought Hirsch. ‘Would you mind showing me the reservation book? It’s important.’

She was amused. ‘We are computerised, Constable Hirschhausen.’

She stepped behind the counter, tapped on a keyboard, swivelled a monitor so that Hirsch could read the screen. Philip Whiteman, an address in Ultimo, Sydney, a New South Wales registration number. Hirsch was uneasy. Parked where it was, his police Toyota was not presently in view of the shearers’ quarters, but had he been seen driving in? Making a note of the Whiteman number plate, he asked for the film producer’s reservation details.

‘Paul, what’s going on? I don’t feel comfortable about any of this.’