Then he was dropping into the bed of the creek. But the stones were noisy under his boots, so he climbed onto the bank, passing through dead grass that whispered against his trousers. Even so, he was posed against the sky. And there were snakes. Hirsch shuddered. He was trained for street shadowing and surveillance and couldn’t relate any of it to tracking someone in the bush.

He checked his phone: no signal. The terrain grew rougher, more difficult. Where the creek was shallow, Flann’s head and shoulders would appear above the bank and Hirsch would duck. He passed through the stabbing spines of star thistles, over a limestone reef, around a stretch of rabbit burrows and a handful of deeper, more treacherous holes that he guessed were collapsing mine shafts. A snake flicked into movement and reared. Hirsch bolted.

Slid over the bank to the noisy safety of the creek bed. Began to pick his way carefully, keeping off the stones as much as possible, looking for stretches of sand. Two reedy waterholes put him temporarily on the bank again. Looking down, he saw a yabby disappear, disturbing his soulless reflection in the water. His pistol was in his hand, he realised, safety off. He’d trip and shoot himself if he wasn’t careful. He reholstered the gun and carried on.

He couldn’t hear his quarry. He judged that Craig’s caravan was about a hundred metres ahead. He tried to get inside Flann’s skin, his thoughts jumping madly. Wayne was here to mop up. The killings had had nothing to do with Sydney or witness protection. It was a nasty, brainless local crime.

It felt to Hirsch that he was picking his way over booby-trapped eggshells. He reached the final bend. Heard the music of the stones ahead and—too late—found himself only a few metres from Wayne Flann, who was turning towards him.

Startled, Flann shrugged the rifle strap from his shoulder, swung the barrel tip towards Hirsch and stepped back onto a stone that turned under his heel.

His ankle buckled. He grunted, winced with pain, and placed all his weight on the other foot as he tried to work a cartridge into the breech and, in the same movement, nestle the rifle butt into his shoulder. He tipped to one side, his footing unstable as he fired, and the shot went wide.

Hirsch was moving, already on him, deflecting the barrel, powering his shoulder into Flann’s mid-section. They bounced apart again, slipping and slithering and windmilling for balance, almost comic. Toppling slowly onto his back, Hirsch propped himself on his elbows and hooked his right foot behind Flann’s injured ankle. Flann flipped onto his spine, the fall driving the breath from his lungs, and Hirsch was on him again.