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Chapters (47)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TEXT LOGO PAGE
  3. ABOUT THE BOOK
  4. DEDICATION
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  43. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 1
  44. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 2
  45. ALSO BY
  46. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  47. NEW MARKETING PAGE

He could see that the driver’s side window was down, but the vehicle was tipped too far onto the passenger side for a clear view of the interior. He slid to the bottom of the culvert and peered through the windscreen. The driver had toppled sideways over the console and head-first onto the dash, his lower limbs partly secured behind the wheel by his seatbelt. Blood: on the dash, the passenger-side window. Why? Nothing about the Audi’s front-end damage indicated a high-speed collision or major road trauma. He half-expected to see the man lift his head and reach for a gun, but he didn’t move. Gave, in fact, every appearance of being dead.

Even so, Hirsch thumped on the bonnet. ‘You need to get out,’ he shouted. ‘I can smell petrol.’

It was a lie: there were only the usual odours of hot metal, oil and grease. No reaction from the driver.

The Audi was tipped at such an angle that Hirsch couldn’t open the driver’s door. He scrambled out of the culvert and around to the other side. The front passenger-side door was jammed against the culvert, so he pulled out his service pistol and tugged open the rear passenger-side door. Still no movement from inside.

Hirsch climbed in and edged along the tilted rear seat until the gap between the two front seats gave him a clearer view of the driver. About forty, dressed in chinos and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, a tanned, thin-faced man with dark hair, recently cut. You’d think: surgeon on his day off; film producer scouting locations.

You’d also think he’d been shot. A large exit wound behind his left ear was seeping blood.

26

26

HIRSCH CALLED REDRUTH again. Having been ordered to keep car and driver intact, he took a series of photographs in case the Audi caught fire, then settled in to wait.

Time passed. He was restless, itching to search the SUV. Eventually he got out a pair of crime-scene gloves, returned to the precariously tilted car and began to rummage awkwardly beneath the seats. Searched the glove box, under the mats, tyre-changing kit and spare tyre. No rifle. No mobile phone. No personal possessions apart from a wallet.

Stepping clear of the car, he flipped through the wallet. Credit cards, $560 in cash and three driver’s licences—same face—in the names David McAuliffe, Shayne Elliott and Christopher Baldwin. He took close-up photos of each licence and returned the wallet to the car.

Still waiting, he ran through some possible narratives. Why had McAuliffe run? Had he seen the police Toyota arrive; suspected something was wrong when first the photographer then the Dunners drove away? A cool character, since he’d had the forethought to walk downhill with a knife and slash the tyre and the radio handset cord before he bolted…