She tilted her face to him. ‘But I could’ve…’ She didn’t know what she could have done. She broke into tears again.

Hirsch said gently, ‘And after a while you heard him drive away?’

‘Yes.’

‘Was he in the house for very long?’

‘I don’t know. Ten minutes? He came in the shed.’

‘Looking for you?’

‘I stayed under the car.’

‘Thank goodness,’ Hirsch said inadequately.

‘He took stuff.’

‘Took stuff?’

She nodded, trembling. ‘Stole stuff. Nick’s toolbox and…other things.’

She’s reluctant to mention the bike, thought Hirsch. ‘He left after that?’

Another nod. ‘I went inside and saw Mum on the floor…’

She looked at him, a painful entreaty: she was saying that she hadn’t checked on her brother.

Hirsch shifted uncomfortably, unable to conceal his distress, and she read it in him. Checking that her sister wasn’t watching, she mouthed the words: ‘He’s dead?’

Hirsch gave an abbreviated nod. She closed her eyes tightly.

To distract her, he said, ‘Did you see the man’s face clearly?’

‘Fairly clearly.’

‘Do you think you’d recognise him again?’

‘Yes.’

Get her together with a forensic imaging specialist. Let her look at mouth, nose, chin, hairstyle and profile templates in the hope of creating a composite. ‘There was only one man?’

‘Two.’

‘Two? Where was the other one?’

‘He didn’t get out. I could see him sitting in the ute.’

‘The man who got out. Was he young? Old? Fat? Thin?’

‘Do we have to do this now?’ Craig Washburn said.

Hirsch felt chastened. ‘Sorry, Louise. Too much, too soon. Let’s—’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Pet,’ Washburn said, craning to look down at her as she craned to look up at him.

‘It’s okay,’ she reassured him.

The other child said nothing but was curious, listening. Hirsch would have to be careful. If Anna had been woken by the shots, she might also have seen the shooter, who surely had checked the bedroom—and spared her life, through some skerrick of humanity. But would she be able to describe him?

He returned to Louise. ‘Perhaps just give me a general impression?’

‘He wasn’t old, or fat or anything. Just normal.’

‘Short or long hair? Beard?’

‘No beard. Kind of short hair.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘Jeans and a shirt.’

‘How about the other man? Would you recognise him if you saw him again?’

‘No.’

‘How long were they at your place altogether?’

She shrugged. ‘Not long.’

‘Can you describe the gun?’

‘It was long.’

‘A rifle?’

‘Yes.’

Hirsch took out his phone and showed her the David McAuliffe licence photo. ‘Is this the man?’

She peered. ‘No. Who is he?’

How much to tell her? ‘His name’s Ian Lavau. He was staying in tourist accommodation not all that far from here.’

She craned her head towards the mouth of the cave, as if Lavau might appear there. ‘He’s dead, someone shot him,’ Hirsch said.