‘No, Constable Hirschhausen, sit tight, and that’s an order. Senior Constable Hansen is running a check on McAuliffe as we speak; I’ll contact the Hamel Road team as soon as I get off the phone. They should be with you in less than half an hour.’

‘And if McAuliffe makes a run for it in the meantime?’

‘Follow discreetly, if you can. Just don’t get shot.’

‘Sir.’

Hirsch rejoined the Dunners. ‘I don’t mean to alarm you, but I’d like you both to drive home now. Go inside, lock the doors, don’t open to anyone. I’ll let you know when it’s safe to come out.’

They exchanged numbers. Eleanor, jittery, said, ‘Hadn’t you better tell us what’s going on?’

‘There are stolen numberplates on the film producer’s car. It might mean nothing, but with the shooting at Mischance Creek, we’re not taking any chances.’

‘What about Mr Whiteman?’ Rex said.

‘Good thinking. Can you call his room for me, please?’

When Whiteman answered, Hirsch said, ‘This is Constable Hirschhausen, South Australia police, Mr Whiteman.’

A shocked pause. ‘My wife? My—’

‘Nothing like that,’ soothed Hirsch, ‘but I do need you to pack a bag quickly and get in your car and drive somewhere safe. Turn right at the gate and follow the signs to Mount Bryan.’

The photographer, alert to the tension in Hirsch’s voice, simply said, ‘Will do,’ and they exchanged phone numbers. ‘Now your turn,’ Hirsch said, turning to the Dunners.

They shook his hand. Eleanor gave him a brisk hug and said, ‘Take care.’

He watched from the office door. Doors slammed, and the Range Rover crunched away on a bed of expensive white gravel. A short time later he glimpsed Whiteman’s silver Camry head slowly out along the driveway.

Time passed. He wandered outside, retreated to the office again, beaten back by the heat. Fifteen minutes, twenty minutes. He idled by the door, looking down the driveway to the road. Four cars passed the property, slowing, one stopping for a stickybeak, perhaps curious to see a police vehicle parked at the rear of the woolshed. Thirty minutes.

He left his station at the door, fetched a can of lemonade, returned. Thirty-five minutes.

Then, as he stood looking out, waiting for his backup to arrive, Hirsch saw movement. A shape flicking away from the rear of his police Toyota.

25

25

HE RACED OUT, cut between the woolshed and the Toyota, stopped short. Hissing air. Slashed tyre. A precious moment lost, he ran to the corner of the woolshed and pounded upslope to the accommodation block. Too late: the Audi was fishtailing down the slip road, onto the driveway, and speeding towards the entry pillars. Hirsch saw brake lights flare, a wing mirror spin away in a sideswipe, and then the Audi swung right and powered out along the Razorback road.