Hirsch rolled up Kitchener Street and into her driveway, noting the looping strands of fairy lights draped over shrubs, garden trees, the veranda and around several wire shapes: reindeer pulling a sleigh, a Christmas tree, Santa with a sack. Just now—unlit, bleached by sunlight—the display was nothing much, a pale ghost of Christmas. But it was stunning at night, and Hirsch had pretty much decided that Nan would win this year’s Best Christmas Lights award. He’d make one more tour of the town tonight, to make certain.

Following the driveway along the side of the house to the yard at the rear, he parked alongside a Volvo station wagon and got out. Engine heat wafted from the Volvo: she’s just got home, he thought. He checked the grounds: concrete troughs, four huge concrete tanks, a windmill, an old corrugated-iron shed, quince and apricot trees, a stable, two holding pens and a paddock for an old Clydesdale and ten faintly ridiculous miniature ponies. Only the Clydesdale registered Hirsch’s arrival, sticking its head over the top of a sturdy post-and-rail fence as if welcoming an old friend.

Hirsch returned the gaze balefully. Back when the town council had informed him the vote was more or less unanimous, he was this year’s Santa and expected to appear on a horse, kindly provided by Nan Washburn, he’d said why couldn’t he drive up in his police vehicle, lights and siren? That idea was shot down: it would terrify the little ones. Or how about he arrived on the back of a farm ute? No. Or simply strolled in from out of the darkness? No. Nan’s horse it was. Call it building bridges. He was fairly new to the district and it had been a rocky start.

He passed a tangle of staked tomato plants and a line of roses as he made his way along a crazy path to the back veranda. There was no clear indication that he was approaching a rear entrance: no external laundry, kitchen or bathroom plumbing, just generous windows and a wide doorway under a deep veranda set with worn decorative tiles and hung with grapevines. He stepped onto the veranda; knocked on the flyscreen door. Beyond it, the main door was open, revealing a dark hallway, closed doors on either side. He could hear a radio, drawers slamming, general kitchen business.

He knocked again. The noises stopped and the house seemed to listen, making certain. A third knock and Nan Washburn appeared, a woman in her fifties with untamed wiry grey hair, wearing a denim apron over loose tan pants and a white T-shirt. Stripping off rubber gloves as she approached, she saw at last who her visitor was. ‘Paul. You here to ride Radish again?’

The Clydesdale. Hirsch shuddered. ‘Another matter.’

‘Then come in, come in.’

Hirsch stepped into cooler air. Scented. Not furniture polish, not air freshener or perfume. Potpourri?

‘I’m in the kitchen. Cuppa?’