The new region sergeant was a fitness fanatic. She ran the little hills of Redruth every morning, to the bemusement of the locals, who, if they weren’t actually overweight, were generally unhurried.

‘A morning jog that I fear has been interrupted,’ Brandl said with good humour. ‘What’s up?’

As Hirsch explained, he visualised her lean face and the intensity of her concentration. When he’d finished she said, ‘They were game. You’d think they’d stay well away after causing a fire big enough to get the fire crews out. Locals, do you think? Watching and waiting?’

‘Hard to say, sarge. Five minutes of pub gossip would have been enough to keep them informed. It’s possible they came back because the haul was worth a bit of money—they might have stolen the copper to order, been paid in advance, who knows. Prints and DNA might be on record; they wouldn’t have wanted to leave it too long.’

Hirsch’s sergeant snorted. ‘I have to say, Paul, it’s been an adjustment, being posted to this place. If this was the city I would’ve had CIB on the scene within the hour and you or one of the children guarding the copper until we could get it off for forensic testing.’

The ‘children’ were her two young Redruth constables, Jean Landy and Tim Medlin. ‘It’s an adjustment, all right,’ Hirsch said.

‘You’ve been here a year. You’re used to it.’

Not quite.

‘I’ll knock on a few doors,’ Hirsch said, ‘see if anyone saw or heard anything last night.’

Doubtful. The nearest occupied dwelling was three kilometres away on the other side of a hill. And last night was a full moon—a truck could have been and gone, no lights, in a couple of minutes.

The fruitless doorknock sucked up an hour, then it was time to oversee the Cobb–Flann apology.

Hirsch returned to the police station, changed into a crisp, clean uniform and grabbed a briefcase: a touch of authority. He pinned his mobile number below the supermarket Christmas wreath on his front door and cut diagonally across the highway to the Institute. The sun was hot on his back, the road tar was soft underfoot, and his mind was on the stolen copper.

The Institute, a fine stone building on a corner block where a side street met the highway, was separated from the primary school by a house that had once been the Methodist manse. A white stone soldier stood, head bowed, above a granite memorial. A World War II cannon on a patchy lawn protected against approaches from the side street. Lavender beds. Rose bushes. A slender column on either side of the main door.