There was no other evidence. No discarded blades or bloodied clothing along the fence lines or in the shrubbery. Head down, he worked a grid pattern, advancing deeper onto the grounds of the property. Stopped before he reached the horses huddled in the back corner: he was distressing them. The bloodied miniatures were surging around Radish’s withers, eyeing Hirsch wildly, snorting, tossing their heads, one or two uttering little squeals of panic. He took more photos and backed away. Seven o’clock. The town was stirring, distant doors slamming, motors firing, breakfast table radios tuned to the ABC news.

Unwilling to leave the property unsecured while fetching crime-scene tape, he sealed off the driveway and entire backyard with a length of nylon cord from Nan’s shed. He could feel a bite in the sun now. He was damp and sticky, and soon the air would stink, the sun super-heating the carcasses, the blood and shit.

At seven-thirty a forest-green Nissan twin-cab fitted with a camper shell rolled up Kitchener Street, Redruth Veterinary Services scrolled along the side panels. The driver parked short of the pony in the driveway entrance, got out, crouched as if to ascertain it was dead. She looked young, barely out of vet school, and Hirsch saw that she had the slight, hard grace of a runner.

He quickly texted Yvonne Muir—Come now—and ambled over, offering his hand to the vet, conscious of his shorts, T-shirt, battered Dunlop Volleys and overnight whiskers. They shook. He told her to call him Hirsch.

Her grip was dry, firm, brisk. ‘Cathy Duigan,’ she said, already looking past Hirsch at the pony he’d found on his walk. ‘That one’s still alive.’

‘It was down the street, in someone’s front garden,’ Hirsch said. ‘There are three more dead ones near the stable block, and a couple in the paddock with what look to me like stab wounds.’

‘Where’s Nan?’

‘Still asleep. But one of her friends is on the way.’

‘She’ll be devastated.’

‘You know her?’

‘I do. You might call me the district horse vet.’

She looks about nineteen, Hirsch thought. ‘Look, this is a cop question, okay? Do you think—’

‘…that Nan was responsible? Absolutely not,’ Duigan said, unlocking the camper shell; plastic crates, metal lockers and sets of drawers containing vials, syringes and bottles. She shouldered a bulky surgical case and pushed past Hirsch, ducked under the rope, squatted a moment at the wounded pony, and disappeared in the direction of the backyard. Hirsch stayed where he was. Yvonne Muir was hurrying up the street.

A minute later, hovering just outside the bedroom and hoping his presence would be reassuring, Hirsch watched Yvonne shake Nan Washburn’s shoulder. The air was stale, overwarm; Nan propped on her elbows in a singlet top, slow to respond. Then slow to comprehend.

‘Dead?’ She sounded amazed more than anything. Then she scooted to the side of the bed.