Tears in his eyes, his hands bunching the grimy bedcover, Daryl said, ‘Are you arresting us?’

‘First offence, I’m wondering if a judgment call is in order,’ Hirsch said, stroking his jaw as if not fully convinced.

‘What’s that mean?’

‘It means that while I do think it would be a shame if you guys found yourselves sentenced to some young offenders’ program, a part of me is also thinking it’d be the best thing in the long run.’

‘Please,’ Daryl said wretchedly.

Hirsch checked Flann. Felt the full force of the boy’s concentration.

‘All right.’ Hirsch addressed the air. ‘Full admission of guilt, and a full apology.’ He held up a forestalling hand: ‘Not to me, not now, not here.’

The boys waited.

‘Admit you stole the ute and apologise to Mrs Washburn, in person, tomorrow morning at ten, the main meeting room of the Institute.’

‘No problem,’ Flann said.

He’s thinking: suckers, thought Hirsch. ‘By apology I don’t mean some vague, mumbling, sorry I took your ute without permission, won’t do it again kind of bullshit. I mean a carefully considered, heartfelt apology, with me as a witness. And if for one moment I doubt your sincerity, I’m charging both of you.’

Daryl was beside himself. ‘Does my mum have to be there?’

Hirsch shook his head. ‘No reason to stress her.’

A horn sounded in the street. Adam rose from the floor in one fluid movement, touched his knuckles to Daryl’s. ‘Good one, bro.’

‘Good one.’

He turned with lazy charm to Hirsch. ‘You have a good one, too, Constable Hirschhausen, sir.’

Hirsch gave him a look.

When Flann was gone, Hirsch turned to Daryl. ‘When you’re with Adam, think before you act, okay?’

Daryl stared at the floor.

Hirsch let himself out, returned to the police station. The Santa suit sat reprovingly on the doormat, stowed neatly inside a David Jones bag. Shit fuck bugger damn. The only cure was a shower and a beer before Wendy and Katie arrived for dinner.

6

6

THEY’D INTENDED TO dine at the Tiverton pub, where in winter the cook was apt to stand in the dining-room doorway and yell, ‘Hands up who wants soup,’ but Hirsch had scotched that idea.

‘I’d spend half the evening fielding questions about Brenda, and the other half being stared at and talked about.’

Wendy Street had patted his arm. ‘Poor darling.’

Now, small-boned, quick and watchful like her daughter, she was watching him prepare his famous taste-free spaghetti bolognese. The TV murmured in the corner, Katie watching Home and Away.

‘Did Bob tell you I reported a fire?’

‘He did,’ Hirsch said, draining the pasta, telling her about the stolen copper.

‘Huh,’ she said. ‘Sounds like a lot of work for not much reward. It also sounds like local knowledge.’

Hirsch considered that. She was right.