She was young and tanned, and gave him a sceptical smile that filled him with doubt. ‘Christmas present,’ he explained, as if she might come clean about her misgivings.

‘Wife? Girlfriend?’

‘Girlfriend.’

‘She likes long-stemmed flowers?’

Hirsch didn’t know for sure. What he did know was that he liked the vase and hoped that would be enough. This was a nightmare and all he could do was come through it intact, and a minute later he was leaving the shop with the vase securely and beautifully wrapped.

Katie was next on his list. The latest Andy Griffiths title and four iPhone cases similar to her current case, which was chipped and inky. Also gift-wrapped in Christmas paper.

Then cards for friends and family which, if posted instantly, should arrive well after the big day, in keeping with every Hirsch Christmas. But he’d caught up. Items crossed off list. Back to police work.

He returned to the hospital carpark, stowed his shopping, and stepped into the blessed cool of the foyer just as his phone beeped for an incoming text. Dr Pillai: Releasing the little one soon.

Time to check on Brenda Flann.

Hirsch found her in a ward with three elderly patients who seemed to shrink from her purpling bruises, ballooning eyes and foul tongue. The sons were sitting on either side of her and all gave Hirsch scowls of such malevolence that he told Brenda he’d catch up with her another day and backed out.

Half an hour later he was making the return trip with his passengers. Exhaustion had set in; few words were spoken, the child slept. As they drew into Tiverton, he mentioned that he was putting on the Santa suit that evening and would Denise like to bring Anna along…?

All he got was a grunt.

8

8

SATURDAY, 5.30 A.M.

Insomuch as the Natives are slippery to a degree almost inhuman, it behoves the police to be proportionally canny, lest they be outwitted.

Hirsch closed Mrs Keir’s handwritten history and drained the first coffee of the day, feeling unready for the dawn. After playing Santa—what, a mere ten hours ago?—he was bone-sore, bone-weary, completely addled.

He activated his phone and replayed Katie’s video. The ghostly dimness of evening in Kitchener Street, which ran from the side wall of Ed Tennant’s shop to Nan Washburn’s little horse stud. The darkness deepening as the last shreds of sunlight winked out along the western hills, then unnatural light creeping in: mobile phone screens, sparklers, one or two cigarettes flaring, and the fairy lights on a Christmas tree in a builder’s bucket in the middle of the street. Bright voices on the soundtrack, the town and farm kids gathered with their parents and grandparents.