Roesch cocked her head at Hirsch. ‘Why don’t you tell us what you think this fellow was up to, Constable Hirschhausen? You’ve been on the ground from the start, after all.’

Hirsch was weary. ‘One scenario, he shot Mrs Rennie and her son—in which case he’d been staying somewhere else at the time, because he didn’t check in at the woolshed until after the shooting—and got rid of the rifle. When he heard on the news there were survivors, he stuck around to finish the job.’

‘The survivors were children. Why risk hanging around to kill them?’

Hirsch shrugged. ‘Maybe, for whatever reason, his brief was to wipe out the entire family. Or he thought they could identify him.’

‘Okay. Any other scenarios come to mind?’

‘Honestly, senior sergeant, this is above my pay grade.’

‘Humour me.’ The little smile again.

Hirsch took a breath and wished he hadn’t. The room was warm from the heat of many days, stale from the respiration of many people. ‘Okay. Someone else was the killer. Job done, he clears out. Then news breaks about the girls, and McAuliffe is sent in to clean up. Or there are two different outfits, after the same thing.’

Roesch was expressionless, but for the first time he felt a wave of coolness from her, a warning: he was alluding to the witness protection betrayal: bent police. Only Dock reacted. ‘A lot of trouble to go to if Mrs Rennie’s already dead. And is it such a big deal if the kids see something? They’re traumatised. Not likely to be viable witnesses.’

Roesch said, ‘Or he was there for some other reason.’

Hirsch was busy trying to decipher mood and body language. ‘Do you know who McAuliffe is, Senior Sergeant Roesch?’

Hansen’s phone pinged before she could reply. She glanced at it with a brief frown, then addressed Hirsch, speaking in sharp volleys, as if time was wasting: ‘We’re going around in circles. Why wasn’t this woolshed place checked days ago? How far is it from the Rennie house?’

‘Excuse me,’ Hansen said. He was staring at his phone, one hand raised.

‘What?’

‘We have an ID. Ian Lavau, an address in Sydney.’

‘Yes, thank you, Senior Constable Hansen,’ Roesch said, clipped.

Hansen, ignoring her, continued to recite from the screen of his phone. ‘He was police for many years. Regional—mainly in the Riverina. Not covered in glory but no red flags; more recently a compliance officer with Border Force.’

Hirsch gave a laugh without much humour in it. ‘Maybe there’s an international drug ring operating from Tiverton.’

This was Roesch’s show; she leaned forwards. ‘Don’t be a smartarse, constable.’

I’m not flavour of the month anymore then, Hirsch thought. He wondered how much information she’d given her SA Police colleagues. He said nothing. Watch, listen and learn.

Dock was interested. ‘Anything else you can give us, Rob?’