After five kilometres of bumping along a narrow gravel road full of blind corners, corrugations and erosion channels, heading directly into a sun that flared on the lone windscreen of an oncoming farm ute, glass shards in the ditches, mica in the dirt and gravel, he breasted a rise and headed down into a dip in the hill folds. The Flanns lived in a pale green cube-shaped fibro structure, its iron roof standing up in steep surprise from a veranda closed in on all sides. Two small farm-implement sheds, an empty dog pen choked with weeds, ragged pine trees, a listing water tank. The property also consisted of a hundred hectares of stony hillside that might run a mob of sheep if you were ambitious, hard-working and able to keep up a supply of hay—which ruled out the Flanns.

Reaching the bottom of the slope, Hirsch coasted into the driveway. Here the neglect and helplessness were more pronounced. A wheelless Datsun Bluebird crouched in a patch of star thistles; an old latch-door refrigerator yawned at the weeds, a trap for small children; a trailer more rust than sheet metal sat piled with bald car tyres beside the front steps.

No sign of Wayne Flann’s Holden ute.

Hirsch got out, locked up, approached the house. This was the time he hated most: alone in a land of suspicion, ignorance and untamed dogs. But the whole property was still and soundless and seemed to gather folds of apology, not belligerence, about itself.

He knocked, knocked again, and eventually walked around to the rear. The back veranda had been converted into a sleepout and someone was in there, moaning. Hirsch hesitated: it wasn’t pain, it was exertion. With an unmistakeable erotic note.

What now? He stood back, observing proprieties, and waited. The sounds escalated, then stopped. He waited to be sure and then cleared his throat.

‘Adam? It’s Paul Hirschhausen. I need a minute.’

The whole world tensed, the whole world shot him an alarmed look, and then a voice that sounded like Gemma Pitcher’s shouted, ‘Don’t come in!’

Right.

‘Okay,’ Hirsch said.

He waited. She’ll be his alibi, then? Unless both of them spent the small hours hacking up tiny horses.