Leaving Nan to retrieve the ute with the help of a neighbour, Hirsch drove back to the police station, parked, and made for Marie Cobb’s house on foot. He phoned the Redruth hospital as he walked: Brenda Flann was awake and cranky. Cuts, bruises, re-set nose, rib fractures. She’d be in for another three or four days.

He was stepping off the footpath onto the weedy dirt that was the Cobbs’ front yard when Laura appeared from the rear of the house, wheeling a bike. She had changed out of her school uniform and into an old T-shirt and torn jeans. Pale skin, dark hair; chipped pink nail polish on the fingers curled around the handlebars. A pannier hung over the rear wheel, crammed with a small backpack and a variety of curry combs. On her way to Nan Washburn’s, Hirsch thought.

‘Laura.’

‘Hello.’

She was shy, embarrassed, whenever she met him. It dated from an incident earlier in the year when she’d knocked on Hirsch’s door to say that her mother was acting weird, ranting, hadn’t slept for days, she and Daryl couldn’t cope. After checking for himself, Hirsch had called an ambulance. Rehab, a different medication, and two weeks later Marie was back with her children.

Now Laura gave him a frightened look. ‘Did Mum do something today?’

Hirsch smiled. ‘Nothing like that. I need a quick word with Daryl and Adam. Are they here?’

Worry creased Laura’s face, emphasising the curious half-centimetre-wide white flash across one eyebrow. An old injury? Finally, she said, ‘They’re in Daz’s bedroom.’ She stuck out her jaw. ‘Whatever he’s done, Adam would’ve put him up to it.’

‘Just a few questions,’ Hirsch said.

She was marking time, anxious to be off to her job, anxious to protect her brother. Her face cleared. ‘Is it about Mrs Flann?’

‘That’s one of the things,’ Hirsch said.

Still not satisfied, she propped her bike against the side wall and said, ‘Come around the back.’

They never use the front door, Hirsch thought, following her. Expecting more dirt and weeds, he found three raised garden beds. The staked tomatoes, broad beans and silver beet he could identify but there was a patch of leaf heads that defeated him. He crouched to read the small plastic tags stuck in the dirt: carrots, radishes.

Creaking upright, he asked, ‘Who’s the gardener?’

‘Me. Nan showed me. Mrs Washburn.’

‘Great,’ said Hirsch inadequately.