Hirsch grabbed Brenda Flann’s keys. ‘Thanks, Martin, I’ll take a formal statement from you later. Great job, by the way.’

It was the right thing to say. In the hot, still air of the little waiting area, as the sluggish fan stirred the public notices and tipped over one of Hirsch’s Christmas cards, Martin Gwynne beamed.

Milking the moment, he gave a tut-tut shake of his head. ‘I hate to think what damage or injury might have occurred if I hadn’t got to her in—’

‘Actually, Martin, did you check Brenda for injuries?’

Gwynne blinked. ‘What? No. She’s fine. Snoring her head off when I left.’

Hirsch thought of Brenda Flann with more urgency now. Alone—husband in jail, Adam in town, Wayne on the fire truck…

‘I’d better get going,’ he said, grabbing his uniform hat, strapping on the service pistol and equipment belt that helped keep his chiropractor’s kids in private schools.

Gwynne seemed reluctant to see him go. ‘You still haven’t collected the Santa suit, Paul.’

Martin, keeper of the town’s Father Christmas costume, had been asking for days when Hirsch might be expected to come by and collect it. And stay for dinner. Another dinner in the Gwynnes’ oppressive dining room, Martin’s avid questions, his fierce gossip, the meek wife he called Mother.

‘Thanks for reminding me, Martin. I’ll come by tomorrow morning some time.’

‘Or tonight, stay for dinner. You can tell me how it went with Brenda.’

‘I’ll be judging the Christmas lights tonight, sorry,’ Hirsch said, gabbling a little. ‘But maybe I could come for a meal once the seasonal madness is over?’

‘Holding you to that, Paul.’

Hirsch locked up, pinned his mobile number to the front door and followed Martin Gwynne into the drenching sunlight. A gritty wind had been added to the mix, pushing paper scraps along the footpath, rattling the Fullers’ missing-dog poster on a nearby power pole. Hirsch tore it down, screwed it into a ball and said, ‘Thanks again, Martin.’

‘You’ll be checking the pub first, I expect, so you’re in a better position to know what charges you’ll lay on Brenda?’

Martin had no doubt been telling people their jobs all his life. His wife, his employees, repairmen, next-door neighbours, the district council. Public servants. Hirsch was beginning to understand why he, not Martin, was this year’s Santa. It was the town avenging itself.

‘Actually, Martin, the first thing I need to do is check if Brenda’s okay,’ he said. In case she’s got whiplash, concussion, internal bleeding, vomit in her dead lungs, okay?

Gwynne wasn’t quite sure it was okay, the disapproval clear in his eyes as they stood there next to the driver’s door of Hirsch’s police vehicle. But he didn’t get to express it. Instead, within seconds, he was saving Hirsch’s life.

3

3

HIRSCH PUT IT together later.