He knows who I am, Hirsch thought. He’s thinking whistle-blower, dog, maggot, rat. Thinks I caused the resignation of some good CIB men and the suicide of another.

Hirsch smiled sweetly and set off to do some police work of his own.

10

10

HE RACED HOME, showered, shaved, stuffed himself into his uniform and hung his towel on the backyard clothesline. The Santa suit was dry. Note to self: return to Martin Gwynne asap.

Settling his broad-brimmed uniform hat at a stern angle on his head, he left the police station. A huddle of townspeople across at the shop; one of them beckoned to Hirsch. He waved cheerily and set off in the opposite direction. They know about Nan’s ponies, he thought. They want the official version. And reassurance.

Two minutes later he knocked on Marie Cobb’s door. Waited. Walked around to the rear. Laura was there in shortie pyjamas, plugged into an iPod, watering the tomatoes. And Hirsch thought: Shit, what will the news do to her? Unless she mutilated the ponies? Hirsch rejected the notion as soon as it popped into his head. Me in cop mode, he thought: trust no one, suspect everyone.

Laura caught him in the corner of her eye and started reflexively, placing her hand over her chest. Then, her expression resentful—masking apprehension, Hirsch thought—she released the hand-spray trigger, hooked the nozzle over the trellis and removed the headphones. The garden, still in shade, smelt coolly and cleanly of tomatoes and damp mulch.

‘Morning, Laura.’

‘Can’t you leave us alone?’

This was a kid who got up early and filled her days, thought Hirsch. Shopping, cooking, gardening, schoolwork, housework, work-work. Watching over her mother and brother. The little household’s youngest member, she shouldered most of the responsibility; had no other choice. But how was she going to cope by the time Year 12 came around? She might get some leeway if she broke a leg or caught glandular fever, but if her brother was in jail? If—when—her mother acted out? Shy, shamefaced, Laura had told Hirsch some of it: Marie staying in bed for weeks at a time; talking non-stop for days at a time; calling her kids out of class to say her sore throat was cancer; bundling them into the car at 2 a.m. because the secret police were coming.

Hirsch removed his hat and found that his mouth was dry. He swallowed, feeling clumsy. ‘Laura, there’s…I have to tell you something awful has happened to some of Mrs Washburn’s ponies.’

Her hand bunched the neck of her pyjama top. Fear. ‘What?’

He told her, and she was silent but tears ran down her cheeks. Then she gathered herself. ‘I need to go around there,’ she said. Paused minutely and added: ‘It wasn’t Daryl, he wouldn’t do that.’

‘But you understand that I need to speak to him?’