Now Hirsch was wondering if perhaps the Fullers’ dog had been stolen. He sipped his tea. ‘I understand Kip has won some ribbons in his time.’

Monica shrugged, modest. ‘Best sheepdog at the Redruth Show, four years running—back when we had sheep.’

It was a common story. The family farm no longer sustained a family. It was either sell out to a richer neighbour or a Chinese-owned agri-company, or shift career gears and stay in the district. Graham Fuller now serviced windfarm turbines; Monica worked two days a week at the Clare hospital. A lot of driving involved.

Hirsch said, ‘All those prizes…How did the other dog owners take it? Anyone get their nose out of joint?’

Monica moistened her fingertip, dabbed at the crumbs on her plate, looked at him wryly. ‘It was ages ago. And I mean…the Redruth Show? It’s small-time.’

‘People store grievances.’

Monica shook her head. ‘Actually I’m wondering if it’s related to the time our phone line was cut—though I don’t see how.’

An evening last January. Monica and Graham had just gone to bed when they heard noises in the yard and a knock on the door. Kip barked and strained at his chain until it broke—Graham was just in time to see him charge into the darkness—as Monica tried to call the police and realised the phone was dead. Kip returned eventually. Meanwhile Graham found the phone line severed, a neat, clean snip through insulation and wiring, and some garden tools missing.

Copper, again. Not much copper, though, and it had simply been cut, not stolen. ‘A long shot,’ Hirsch said.

Monica waved a hand as if to deny the direction her mind had taken her. ‘I know, I know; hard to imagine they saw the kennel and thought, ah, a dog, we’ll come back and steal him at the end of the year.’

‘Anyway, he’s back, that’s the main thing.’

Still, two incidents involving police within twelve months. That was well over par for this area. Hirsch stood, stretched his back, said he’d better be going. He could see, through the little archway that dated the house, a sitting room with a small, overdecorated pine Christmas tree, cards on a string looped beneath the mantel above a fake log gas fire, loops of red, green and silver tinsel. ‘Season’s greetings,’ he said. ‘Thanks for the cake.’

‘You too. And thanks heaps for bringing Kip home,’ Monica said.

She took him out onto the veranda, watched him bend to knuckle the kelpie’s head. ‘Those cuts—someone’s taken a stick to him.’

Hirsch allowed that that was one possibility. ‘Or he got into it with another dog.’

‘No, that was a stick,’ Monica Fuller said flatly.