Hirsch gave that last statement some consideration. Amazing how the guy’s mind worked. One gleeful part of Martin Gwynne was saying, ‘I hope you do have a drink, so I can report you,’ and another was saying, ‘Bet you don’t know I’ve already reported you.’ The remaining parts of Martin Gwynne were pure trash.

Hirsch stepped through the fussy wrought-iron gate and into Gwynne’s personal space. ‘I was raked over the coals by Internal Investigations yesterday. Do you know anything about that, Martin?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ The watering can dropped like a rock, splashing their shoes.

‘You reported me. Not once, several times. Why did you do that, Martin?’

Gwynne stepped back, eyes darting.

‘Paul. What on earth are you on about?’

‘Why, Martin? What is your problem with me?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ Gwynne said, with the weak bluster of a man caught out in lies.

‘No more meddling, Martin, let me do my job. And for god’s sake find yourself a hobby.’

Gwynne straightened his back, inflated himself. ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, Paul, Constable Hirschhausen. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to finish watering.’

There was a shape in the front window, hazy behind a lace curtain. Poor old Joyce; imagine being married to him. Hirsch turned away and stalked back along the street towards the police station, feeling better—but not much better.

He was halfway there when a memory surfaced. It was the day he’d freed Anna Rennie from the backseat of her mother’s Hyundai. Martin waving his phone around. It was Martin who’d filmed the tussle and uploaded it to YouTube. Martin who had brought killers to the district.

Whether or not that was the case, Hirsch would deal with it later. He showered, dressed, ate a second breakfast, checked in with Sergeant Brandl by phone, locked the police station and pinned his mobile number to the door. Contemplating his patched driveway gloomily, he backed the Toyota out onto the highway and trundled around to the pub.

Kev the publican, a thin man with bulky, unrealised dreams for his establishment, was hosing down the veranda. He told Hirsch he wasn’t expecting trouble, there hadn’t been a New Year’s Eve punch-up in the main bar for as long as he could remember—but every year he hired the Bagshaw brothers as bar staff and bouncers, just in case.

Hirsch eyed the metal struts supporting the roof section damaged by Brenda Flann and said, ‘Have a good one.’

Two minutes later he was parked in Nan Washburn’s driveway. Craig’s voice floated to him from the veranda again, disembodied behind the screen of ferns in hanging pots. ‘All packed and ready.’

Hirsch mounted the steps. How long had Craig been waiting? At his feet were an old kitbag and supermarket bags distorted by cans, bottles and packets. ‘Nan still asleep?’