Finally he was slowing at the wagon wheel and bumping down the track to Craig Washburn’s caravan—where a car was parked. One of the patrol cars on loan to the investigation; driven, presumably, by Hansen. No sign of Roesch’s rental car. Hirsch got out, locked up and headed for the creek.

Then stopped. One hand went to the butt of his service pistol.

A gunshot. Curiously flat, as if contained by the creek, but with an echo that snapped around the sky.

31

31

BUT THE SHOT had come from the direction of the old ruins, not the dugout. Hirsch thought about that; decided it made sense. Downstream was all untamed nature, and city-boy Hansen would have been drawn by instinct to signs of civilisation—the old ruins—after searching Craig’s camp.

Had he stumbled on Craig and the girls? Had something persuaded them to leave the dugout? Or was Hansen shooting it out with Roesch? Had Roesch parked at the ruins and walked downstream?

Hirsch thought all of these things in an instant but, before he could take another step there was a shriek—a man’s voice—followed by a flurry of shots, so rapid they spelt panic or anger. Or sheer enjoyment.

Another shriek—unearthly, despairing. Hansen? Craig Washburn? He ran, and as he ran the shrieking faded, dissolving into something more like keening: a sound of loss, or of grief. No other voices.

Arms spread for balance, Hirsch picked his way over the stones. Faster when he reached a stretch of sand, slowing at pools of brackish water collared by bulrushes. At each bend he’d pause to dart a quick glance at the stretch ahead. No sense in tearing blindly around a corner and getting a bullet in his belly. But there was no sign of Hansen. Surely he could hear Hirsch coming?

He powered on, dreading the next bend, and the next, his shoes clicking and rattling on the impenitent stones. There was silence for some time, then a low, distressed moan, close by now. Reaching the next bend, Hirsch stuck his head around. A shot whanged past his cheek, spitting dust and grit into his eyes.

‘Jesus.’ He jerked back, reeled, sat.

Touched himself gingerly. A trace of blood on his fingertips; a coarse paste of dust and tears in the corner of one eye. He blinked, trying to make sense of what he’d just seen: Hansen, wearing shorts, sandals and a short-sleeved shirt, on the ground, propped on his elbows. No one else.

Unholstering his gun, he called, ‘Rob?’

A pause, and Hansen croaked, ‘I thought you were Vita coming for me.’

Hirsch thought about that. He said, ‘Where are the girls?’

‘No idea.’

‘What was all the shooting?’

Hansen moaned. ‘A snake bit me. More than once.’

Hirsch’s insides curdled. He found himself listening—for what, he didn’t know.

‘You shot it?’

‘Killed it.’