The vet frowned at him, as if he were slow. ‘I’ve just administered poison. If a fox or a dingo feeds on the carcass…’ Then her face relaxed. She touched his forearm. ‘I’ll make a call. There are professional cremation services for the disposal of large animals.’

She cocked her head, itching to say something. Hirsch waited for it.

‘As a policeman,’ she said slowly, ‘you’ll have seen this kind of thing before…’

Out with it, Hirsch thought. ‘Actually, no—but I’ve met the odd axe murderer type who probably tortured cats as a kid…’

‘I did a special subject in my honours year,’ Duigan said. ‘The psychological underpinnings of animal cruelty.’ She paused. ‘It was interesting.’

‘Interesting,’ echoed Hirsch, giving her a look. ‘Does that mean you have a theory about this?’

Duigan countered with a question. ‘Does it seem random to you?’

He’d decided against that notion in the first thirty seconds. ‘As in a warped stranger happened to stumble on the place? No.’

‘No,’ Duigan agreed. ‘This was personal.’

‘And?’

‘Whoever did this was targeting Mrs Washburn—in particular, her emotional attachment to her ponies.’

‘Mm.’ That seemed obvious to Hirsch. ‘Why?’

Duigan shrugged her bony little shoulders. ‘A grudge of some kind? Payback.’

‘It’s extreme, though. This is a seriously screwed-up person we’re talking about.’

‘Yes. Someone with a sadistic disorder of some kind, which he keeps hidden…under control…except that one day Nan offended him in some way.’

‘He?’

The vet looked at Hirsch levelly. ‘Don’t you agree? And he’d be local. Maybe you already have your suspicions?’

Hirsch smiled, shook her hand goodbye. ‘Thanks for everything you’ve done.’

‘Tell Nan I’ll call in again tomorrow.’

‘Will do.’

Hirsch wandered back to the house, planning his day. Wait for other police to arrive, then knock on doors. The Cobb house first—because it was within walking distance—and then Adam Flann’s. How likely was it, though, that a pair of vacant, unmotivated boys had risen before dawn with blood lust in their eyes? Unless they’d been up all night—drinking, maybe taking ice—and been hit by a sudden brainwave. Or they’d been smouldering with humiliation since the apology. Or both. Hirsch thought he should probably pounce now, before weapons and clothing could be hidden or destroyed, but found himself halting in the driveway. Nan Washburn, desolate, frail, diminished, was still cradling her pony. Yvonne was at her side.

He crouched with them. So much blood on Nan: her cheek, arms, hands, torso, probably her lap. And darkening the dirt all around. ‘The vet will drop by again tomorrow,’ he said. ‘And she’ll arrange for the, ah, disposal of the bodies.’

‘Okay.’

‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions?’

‘Paul, no,’ Muir said.