Now Daryl could see where this was going. He shifted in his chair, his soft, pale thighs adhering to the vinyl. The rising sun had meanwhile begun to paint the yard, illuminating his bony feet.

‘Daryl? Did Adam complain about yesterday?’

‘Might of.’

‘Was he just a bit pissed off? Or was he angry?’

A shrug.

‘Any plans to see him today?’

Daryl went very still. He didn’t know the correct answer.

‘How’s your mum been?’

Daryl struggled to find the words. ‘She’s, like, it’s the start of a down time, you can tell the signs.’

‘Things she says and does?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Did she enjoy last night?’

‘She went to bed right after.’

‘How long do the down times last?’

Daryl laughed, fully awake now. ‘Weeks, months.’

‘Laura’s helping Mrs Washburn today.’

Daryl shrugged as if barely aware he shared a house with his sister. Hirsch went on: ‘Perhaps you could stay in and keep an eye on your mother.’

Daryl stared at nothing; at the layout of his life.

Hirsch walked back to the police station. It was probably his imagination, but already the town seemed stunned and cowed. The smell of slaughter hung in the air, which he knew must be a memory trace. He was several hundred metres from Nan Washburn’s house now.

For distraction, he took the Santa suit down from his backyard clothesline, folded it as if Martin Gwynne were watching his every move, and tried to slip it back into the David Jones shopping bag. Gave up. The suit as folded by him proved unequal to the bag, full of fabric, clips, buttons and air, and Hirsch thought that pretty much summed up his day and his situation in this fucking town.

Five minutes later, he was parked outside the Gwynnes’ house and knocking on their door. Joyce answered, and, as always, seemed to fall back as if he was carrying news of a death in the family. ‘Paul,’ she murmured, an acutely shy woman with short, wispy grey hair and thick-lensed glasses.

She rallied. ‘I heard about Nan’s ponies…’

Hirsch would have to deal with days of this. He was the law, he’d be able to fill in all the gaps. He gave her a non-committal nod.

‘Nasty business,’ Joyce Gwynne said harshly, as if he’d said it wasn’t.

Hirsch nodded and proffered the Santa suit. ‘I’m just returning this. Tell Martin it was very kind of—’

‘Paul!’

The intrusion and eclipse were seamlessly choreographed; Martin Gwynne appeared in the hallway behind his wife and tucked her out of sight in the same movement. She seemed to evaporate, leaving a hint of floral perfume and muffled footsteps back in the dark reaches of the house.

Hirsch tried again. Thrusting the suit at Martin, he gabbled, ‘Just returning this, many thanks, it’s been washed.’