It was an old refrain. Hirsch drove on, merging with the Mischance Creek road again. At one point a few kilometres short of Washburn’s caravan he saw the flash of a windscreen down at the creek. A farmer? There was an old hayshed on the opposite side of the road, but no sheep that Hirsch could see between the fence and the creek.

Then they were crossing at the Hamel Road T-intersection. ‘Almost here,’ he said.

Washburn said nothing. Instead, he glanced in the direction of the kill house and crossed himself. Hirsch was astounded. Washburn might be a little bonkers but he was a scientist—surely a man of reason. Not someone who’d fall back on superstition to ward off evil.

The cloud cover was almost fully gone when Hirsch turned at the wagon wheel marking the track that led to the camp. Washburn sighed and smiled. ‘Still the same.’

Had he been worried someone would tow his caravan away? Hirsch pulled into the speckled shade of the gum tree. They got out and stretched their spines, then retrieved the kitbag and shopping from the back seat and carted them across the red dirt to the caravan.

Hirsch stopped suddenly at the door, a bag in each hand. Something…

He glanced around the immediate area, trying to spot the source of his disquiet. The day was like all the others: hot, still, peaceful. Then a water droplet, seeping from the base of the shower bucket, was struck by the sun. It hung, blazing like a diamond for a moment, before it fell to earth.

Hirsch placed the supermarket bags at his feet and said, ‘Craig.’

Washburn had unlocked the caravan. ‘What?’

‘Come here.’

Intrigued, a little spooked, Hirsch stood beneath the bucket, looking up, then down. He heard the kitbag thump onto the floor of the caravan, heard Craig’s boots. Then they were both peering at damp soil; a child’s heelprint.

‘Something to tell me, Craig?’

Washburn’s stare was unfocused, but his face was mobile, one memory or emotion touching off another.

‘Craig?’

Washburn blinked, turned, hurried to the caravan. Hirsch, hard on his heels, found him halted beside the sink, opening cupboards and drawers.

Empty spaces. Hirsch said, ‘You’re missing containers of food and water, right?’

‘Yes.’ A murmur.

Running his gaze around the interior, Hirsch pointed and said, ‘And a mattress.’ From the spare bed. Thin foam, easily carried.

‘Yes.’

Hirsch gripped Washburn’s bony elbow and squeezed hard to wake some sense in the man. ‘Come and sit at the table.’

Washburn, dazed, let himself be guided to one of the bench seats, Hirsch taking the other. The table top was dusty, untouched. Old nicks, stains and burns.

‘Did you hide the Rennie girls here?’

Washburn struggled towards comprehension. ‘No.’

‘You didn’t come back here at any stage?’

‘I’ve been at Nan’s since you took me there.’

‘Has Nan been out here?’