Kip whimpered and slobbered, his tail whipping the seat.

‘Where have you been, you monster? You poor thing, you’re filthy.’

A glance at Hirsch as if uncertain of the proprieties. ‘May I?’

Hirsch grinned. ‘He’s not under arrest, if that’s what you mean.’

Monica Fuller laughed, helped the kelpie to the ground. ‘Thank you so much. Where on earth did you find him?’

Hirsch explained, Monica cocking her head as if mentally tracing a route on a map. ‘So he was more or less on his way home,’ she said. ‘God knows where he’s been. Come and have a cup of tea. I’ll text Graham, he’ll be that thrilled.’

She chattered on, a simple release of tension. Within minutes she’d settled Kip on the veranda with a bone to chew, stowed tins and packets into pantry and refrigerator, and placed a mug of tea and a slice of Christmas cake at Hirsch’s elbow. A tired kitchen, a hint of 1970s orange here and there, Formica and laminated chipboard. A house where there was a kitchen reno on the to-do list, but money was tight. Some meagre light came through a window above the sink, more from a screen door to the veranda. Hirsch could see staked tomato plants in the backyard, an old stone dunny and an implement shed. No implements these days, only rusty ploughshares and rotting hay and empty grain sacks.

Monica’s phone pinged. She was round-faced, comfortable in herself, her wiry black hair laced with silvery filaments. About forty, a face in the crowd if you saw her on the street, but Hirsch sensed her shrewdness, her quality of watching and waiting. She read the message on her phone and grinned happily at him.

‘Graham says he owes you a beer.’ She frowned. ‘Is that allowed?’

‘I’ve been known to go off-duty.’

She grinned again. ‘So I’ve heard. Mrs Street, Wendy, teaches my youngest.’

I’m the talk of the high school? wondered Hirsch. ‘I’ll take down the wanted posters when I get back to town.’

She laughed. ‘Wanted posters.’

Graham Fuller had come into the police station on his way to work Monday morning with a dozen A4 printouts in his hand: a photo of Kip on his haunches, sizing up the photographer. Have You Seen Kip? Reward Offered in big black letters. Hirsch had pinned one to the wall next to the wire rack of police, district council and public health notices, and all week he’d seen Kip’s face elsewhere in town: on power poles, fence posts, the shop window. Privately, he’d thought it was a lost cause. Kip had been bitten by a snake or shot by a neighbour or stolen. Or, worst case, he’d run away because he’d been beaten once too often.