She wore the lightweight summer uniform, a size too big, as if she’d lost weight, but had a habit of plucking at her shirt and pants as if she disliked the sensation of the fabric against her skin. ‘He knows the district inside and out.’

I wish, thought Hirsch, standing back while they negotiated. One of Sergeant Brandl’s young constables stood sentry at Nan Washburn’s driveway, the other was guarding the crime-scene tape, which had been moved to the entrance to Kitchener Street. Not going to be enough, Hirsch thought, to keep the gawkers and ghouls away.

Then Comyn was looking at him. ‘Constable Hirschhausen.’

Hirsch approached. He nodded, wary. Beads of perspiration stood out on Comyn’s upper lip and temples. The heat of the day and the heat of arguing with Sergeant Brandl. It was tricky: she outranked Comyn, but she was uniformed police and it was CIB’s case. ‘Yes, senior constable?’

With some distaste, Comyn said, ‘You were CIB before you got busted?’

I didn’t get busted, Hirsch thought. I found myself in a corrupt suburban CIB squad that got busted. Some of the shit stuck to me, and I was sent to Hicksville as punishment. He said nothing. Screwed an expectant look onto his face.

Comyn went on: ‘You’ve already questioned one kid?’

‘Yes.’

‘And?’

Hirsch summarised, concluding: ‘I don’t think he did it.’

Comyn waved that aside—he’d question Daryl Cobb himself. ‘The other kid lives out in the sticks somewhere?’

‘Just a few minutes away.’

‘And Mrs Washburn’s husband?’

‘Out in the sticks somewhere,’ Hirsch said.

Comyn gave him a look. ‘Time is a factor. I need you to take statements from both individuals.’ He turned to Brandl. ‘Sergeant, if you and one of your constables can help me with the doorknock?’

That’s what I’ve been suggesting all along, her face seemed to say. ‘Certainly.’

Hirsch got directions from Nan Washburn, promised not to harass or frighten her husband, and walked back down Kitchener Street to where he’d parked the police HiLux. A Channel 9 outside-broadcast van was arriving as he climbed behind the wheel. Not his headache.

Late morning now. He’d interview Adam Flann first, then Craig Washburn. Given that the latter was camped on the banks of Mischance Creek, in the general area of Hope Hill, he could look in on Denise Rennie and her daughter too.