‘I will. Why do you think he did that?’

‘He was flying, man.’

‘Drugs?’

The answer seemed obvious to Adam. ‘Ice.’

‘Does he use often?’

‘When he can get it.’

‘Every time you’ve gone out?’

‘Not really.’

‘So he went in shooting. Then what happened?’

‘Freaked me out.’

Hirsch found himself offering the boy a defence. ‘You were scared of your brother.’

Gemma caught it. She glanced at Adam and nudged him. He said, ‘He’s fucking scary, man. Always having a crack at me.’ He lifted his T-shirt. A mottled bruise under the ribs.

‘Did he steal anything?’

‘Yep. A toolbox, a phone and a kid’s bike. I never touched nothing.’

‘He took photos?’

Adam winced. ‘He showed me.’

‘Did you both go home after that?’

‘Yep.’

‘And the next day? Boxing Day—I saw you with Wayne in the creek, remember.’

‘He freaked out when he heard on the news there were two kids missing. He thought they might of seen him and said we had to find them before anyone else did.’

‘Adam had no choice, he was that scared,’ Gemma said, hugging Adam hard against her cushiony torso. ‘But soon as he got a chance, he rang me, and I come and got him.’ She shrugged. ‘I wasn’t going to let him get blamed for everything.’

36

36

TWO SOLICITORS PRACTISED in Redruth. By mid-afternoon on that first day of the new year, Hirsch had arranged representation for each of the boys in their interviews with Homicide Squad detectives at the Redruth police station.

After dropping them there, he continued through town and out to the Wesley farm above Porters Lagoon. He showed Trevor Wesley two arrays of photographs. The sun, dropping on the other side of the valley, flared on a stretch of water not yet evaporated in all the days of heat.

Wesley was clear. ‘That one.’

Wayne Flann. ‘How about this lot?’ said Hirsch.

Adam Flann and boys of Adam’s age and appearance. Wesley shook his head. ‘It was dark, mate. The second one hung back, hoodie on. He was younger, though. I think.’

On the afternoon of Thursday 2 January, Hirsch headed across country to Munduney Hill. Kip wandered out to greet him; Graham Fuller, seated on the veranda picking grass seeds out of his work socks, offered Hirsch a beer.

‘Won’t say no,’ Hirsch said. He could go hours without any kind of refreshment on this job.

‘Inside. Too hot out here.’

Monica joined them in the sitting room. Hirsch realised how alike they were: calm, solid and attentive, seated opposite him on a fraying sofa.

‘Been busy,’ Graham said.

‘I’m here about Wayne Flann, in fact,’ Hirsch said. ‘Did you ever have a run-in with him?’

‘Barely know the bloke.’

‘He never did any tractor driving for you, shed-hand work?’

‘Mate,’ Graham said, ‘I could barely afford to pay myself, let alone Wayne Flann.’