‘Nothing like that. I haven’t bred a single dud, as you call it. If I had, I’d have given a refund, no questions asked.’ The iron roof flexed in the growing heat, a series of cracks and creaks above their heads. ‘Your husband.’

Yvonne Muir bristled, but Nan Washburn said calmly, ‘What about him?’

‘You’re separated. Perhaps he doesn’t want that? Perhaps he thinks there’s someone else in your life? I’m sorry, Nan, but I have to ask these questions.’

‘Paul, stop it,’ Muir said.

‘It’s all right, Von, he does have to ask these questions. And I can say categorically that there’s no one else in my life, and it was Craig who left me, not the other way around. And not because we were fighting.’ She paused. ‘He has mental health issues. He needs to be alone. I see him once or twice a month and we get on fine.’

‘Non-violent health issues,’ Yvonne Muir said, with emphasis.

Nan touched Muir’s forearm, but followed up. ‘Yes, non-violent, he wouldn’t hurt a soul. Nuts, but harmless. It started a few years ago, and at first I made allowances. But it became too much in the end, he wanted to be by himself. I worry, of course. We all try to keep an eye on him, take him food and clothing from time to time, a quick chat, that kind of thing, whatever he can bear. Sometimes he’s lucid, other times…not, but in a gentle way. Muted.’ Tears came to her eyes. ‘One day a snake will get him, or he’ll wander off and die of thirst.’

Hirsch drained his tea. ‘Have you had any threats lately? Letters, emails, phone calls, social media posts?’

‘No.’

‘Rocks through your windows?’

‘No.’

‘Tyres slashed?’

‘Nothing at all,’ Washburn said irritably. ‘I live a quiet life, okay? I don’t make enemies. I don’t yell at the neighbours for leaving their bins out or letting their dogs yap. I don’t gossip. I don’t make waves. Breeding miniature ponies isn’t everyone’s cup of tea, but it’s a quiet business, I keep the place tidy, there are no bad smells, no mistreatment, no gates left open, no horses roaming the district. All this’—she gestured at the carnage on the other side of her wall—‘seems personal in some way, but I have no idea how or why. You’re looking for someone who’s, I don’t know, sick. And I’ve no idea who that is.’

Nor do I, thought Hirsch, but he had to start somewhere. He said goodbye and had barely reached Kitchener Street when the Port Pirie team arrived: one lone CIB detective, one lone forensic technician. They accepted Hirsch’s report and photographs without comment.

‘We’ll take it from here,’ said the detective, a bruiser named Comyn, looking intently at Hirsch with wide-set, doubting eyes.