Hirsch nodded. Any news at all soon flashed around this town. ‘Live another day. Meanwhile, about this morning…’

‘One thing I want to make clear: it wasn’t my idea to take frigging Brenda back to her place. That was Martin’s brainwave.’

‘He can be forceful,’ Hirsch allowed.

‘I thought she should have been seen by a doctor, frankly. When we got her home, there was no one to keep an eye on her. God knows where the boys were.’

‘Wayne was on the fire truck,’ Hirsch said. ‘Adam was visiting Daryl Cobb.’

Tennant shook his head: indifferent or philosophical, Hirsch couldn’t tell.

‘Quick question, Ed: did you and Martin arrest Brenda? Say those actual words?’

‘God, no.’

‘Hurt her in any way?’

Tennant gaped. ‘I’m starting to wish I’d kept my nose out of it. Are you saying this is all going to come back and bite me?’

‘Nothing to worry about, Ed. I doubt she remembers a thing.’

He shook Tennant’s hand and went in search of Brenda Flann’s sons.

4

4

HIRSCH SOUGHT WAYNE first, the responsible older one—‘responsible’ having other nuances when applied to any member of the Flann family.

On the little fire station forecourt, Hirsch found Bob Muir hosing down the elderly CFS truck, a mess of road dust, pollen and chaff swirling at his feet. Hirsch waited and watched. Muir was methodical: top to bottom, front to back; wheels last.

‘Good as new,’ Hirsch remarked, as Muir coiled the hose.

Muir patted the shiny flank. ‘Held together with fencing wire and sticky tape. What can I do you for?’

‘Wayne here?’

Muir stowed the hose, taking his time. Contemplating his cop friend as if weighing his loyalties. Wayne Flann belonged to the district; he was a CFS member—but he was also trouble. Hirsch was accustomed to seeing these mental machinations in the locals. He let the process play out.

‘Went home an hour ago,’ Muir said finally.

Hirsch explained: Brenda, the pub, Gwynne and Tennant, Brenda’s blazing return.

‘What you might call a busy morning,’ Muir said, unsurprised. He’d heard and seen a lot from Brenda over the years. ‘She in hospital?’

‘For a few days at least.’

Muir calmly shook water from his hands, wiped his palms on his thighs. He cocked his head at Hirsch. ‘You know about her husband, right?’

‘Currently incarcerated.’

‘Half a dozen armed holdups over a two-year period,’ Muir continued. ‘We’re not talking guns—Stu prefers screwdrivers and cricket bats. Service stations, the odd milk bar. Last time he stepped it up a bit—knocked off a bookie after the Clare races, got away with close to thirty grand.’

Hirsch nodded; there was a story coming on. A point to it, knowing Bob.

‘On his way home, he feels a bit peckish. Pulls into a roadhouse, grabs a Coke and a packet of chips.’

Muir eyed Hirsch sleepily. The point was coming.