Arriving ten minutes after the appointed time was his way of showing passive resistance to Martin. Small-minded, but Hirsch didn’t care; it was still satisfying.

‘Come in,’ Joyce said. She stood aside, eyes cast down, watching his shins cross the threshold before she lifted her head and shot him a brief, searching look. He couldn’t read it. A warning?

The house was cool, hushed, dimly lit, everything in retreat from life. Down a long hallway to an open-plan arrangement of sitting and dining areas, with a kitchen on the other side of a long dividing bench. The table was set, with plain boiled potatoes in one bowl and pale iceberg lettuce and tomato wedges arranged depressingly in another. There was a pot on the stove. Some kind of stew? In this weather?

‘Smells great,’ Hirsch said.

‘It’s a work day for you tomorrow,’ Martin said, ‘so we thought we’d eat straight away. In any case…’ He checked the time ostentatiously.

‘Excellent,’ Hirsch said.

‘Sit here,’ murmured Joyce.

‘Thought we’d have a red with this,’ Martin said, when they were seated. ‘An interesting Barossa shiraz you might like.’ He poured for Hirsch, for himself—significantly more for himself—and sparkling water for his wife.

Hirsch reached to take a swig, thought better of it because Martin was speaking. ‘We like to say grace,’ he intoned, and Hirsch felt the man’s hot dry grip close around his right hand, Joyce’s tiny damp fingers creep into his left.

‘For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful, for ever and ever, amen.’

‘Amen,’ echoed his wife, barely audible.

Hirsch managed a strangled cough, and they ate.

‘Delicious,’ Hirsh said and, surprisingly, it was the truth.

The conversation didn’t stray from the events of the town. What a good job Bob Muir had done, installing night lights around the tennis courts. Ed Tennant might want to think about getting Gemma some on-the-job training, the girl was a useless lump.

And poor Nan and her ponies…

Then, his face shining with expectation, Martin said, ‘I know you can’t comment on an ongoing investigation, Paul, but am I on the right track in assuming young masters Cobb and Flann had something to do with it?’ He raised one hand and touched off the fingers one by one. ‘They’re friends. No other boys their age to spend time with. Crazy—for want of a better word—mothers. No father-figure to guide them. And they probably hated having to apologise to Nan.’

Hirsch mopped at his gravy with a potato. ‘Actually, Martin, I’m pleased to report that neither boy was responsible. So it’s still an open case.’

Martin raised his eyebrows. ‘Really. I’m surprised to hear that.’