‘Nothing for them to film. Knowing they might send in a drone or a chopper or come in over the back fence like you did, I had a word with Mrs Washburn and the vet, and the upshot was a few of the locals carted the bodies off in a truck and delivered a load of topsoil.’

‘Good thinking.’

‘And Mrs Washburn—brave lady—walked down and fronted up to the cameras a couple of hours ago. No histrionics, no blame, just a few facts. Didn’t take questions.’

But Hirsch knew that even with a victim statement, and without visuals, the evening news broadcasts would milk the story for all it was worth. ‘Tomorrow could get messy.’

‘A pleasant Sunday outing for some people,’ Comyn said. ‘Too bad there’s nothing to look at.’

They were almost chatting like equals, Hirsch’s lower rank and pariah status forgotten.

‘About tomorrow…’

‘Reinforcements,’ Comyn said. ‘Grudging reinforcements, a handful of reinforcements, and not till about nine in the morning.’

Port Pirie and Clare would each send a car and two officers, he said. Meanwhile he was due back at Port Pirie and Sergeant Brandl and her constables were about to go off-duty. A hard little grin: ‘That leaves you, pal, on the front line, all night long.’

‘Terrific,’ Hirsch said.

What he didn’t say, but wondered, had the area commander underestimated the incident? Thinking, who cares about a couple of mutilated horses?

Hirsch could answer that—about ninety-nine per cent of the population. Turn a blind eye to people hurting each other but weep buckets over an abandoned puppy.

‘With any luck, tomorrow will be a fizzer,’ Comyn was saying, ‘but a bit of crime-scene tape’s not going to stop anyone and nor is a wire fence, so: strategy.’

He laid it out for Hirsch. Beg, borrow and steal roadworks trestles and planks from the district council depot to block off the entrance to the street. Arrest anyone who came onto Mrs Washburn’s land. A politely antagonistic approach to gawkers.

‘Politely antagonistic?’ said Hirsch, half-warming to the Port Pirie detective.

‘Let them see you photographing faces and numberplates. If they want to know why, smile and say we fully expect the culprit to come back and gloat over his handiwork.’ He shrugged. ‘Could even be true.’

‘The good old us-and-them approach to police work,’ Hirsch said.

As darkness crept in, Hirsch—now the sole representative of law enforcement in the town—stood morosely at the entrance to Kitchener Street, contemplating his phone. He was supposed to celebrate Christmas with Wendy and Katie tonight: their place, a sleepover.

He dialled, Wendy answered, he explained. ‘Another thwarted roll in the hay.’

A tiny but significant hesitation. ‘They warned me not to get involved with a cop. You warned me.’ Trying to make light, not quite succeeding.