Half an hour later, he was trundling through the outskirts of Redruth. Glancing up at the old mine buildings ranged across one of the town’s little hills, he wondered if the museum—once an old pump shed—would be interested in Mrs Keir’s journals. Who owned them, though?

At the town square he downshifted and crept around it, giving half-reproving headshakes to half-apologetic jaywalkers, and out along the Adelaide road for a short distance. He turned into a side street and pulled up behind a dusty SA Police patrol car. A further two police vehicles in the car park at the side of the police station. It was nothing like his little house in Tiverton: purpose-built, with red brick walls, tiled roof and aluminium window frames. Offices, interview rooms, a tearoom and a lockup.

Laden with his shopping, Hirsch went in, familiar with the place from weekly briefings. Nodding hello to the auxiliary support officer—a retired clerk of the council—he stepped through an inner door to the main part of the station. Voices and laughter drew Hirsch to the tearoom. A small Christmas tree in one corner, streamers looped around the windows, a huge felt stocking pinned to a noticeboard. A couple of rickety tables had been pushed together, laden with cups, plates, napkins and a bowl of rum balls.

And the children. ‘You brought crackers—fantastic,’ Jean Landy said.

She was short, pale, round-faced, pixie-like; black hair in a stubby ponytail. She’d worked for the ambulance service for five years, got tired of being attacked by strung-out ice addicts, and retrained as a police officer. Late twenties, but only recently out of the academy. Hirsch hadn’t known her for long. She’d always eyed him coolly, as if she’d heard the rumours: Hirschhausen the dog.

But right now she was warm enough, her fingers resting on his forearm briefly before she helped him unpack the chips, drinks and crackers. Hirsch didn’t quite trust it, until she said, ‘Just so we’re on the same page: me and Tim know about the YouTube thing and we think it’s shit. So unfair.’

Hirsch assessed her briefly. ‘Thanks.’

‘Could’ve happened to any of us,’ Tim Medlin said.

Younger than Landy, he was angular, awkward, balding prematurely. He shot Hirsch a shy smile, looked away again and said, ‘Can you get it taken down?’

Could he? Hirsch doubted YouTube would listen if he complained, but maybe they’d listen to Police Command? ‘It’ll blow over,’ he said, placing the last bottle in the tearoom fridge.

‘Paul? A word,’ said a voice behind him.

‘I’ve been tasked to ask you certain questions.’