Hirsch looked away, wanting to anchor his gaze to something ordinary. But the pepper tree, the tank stand and the house were crouching shadows in the starlight. And like any member of a police force, he knew all about the chaotic thinking of a domestic tyrant.

They were silent until Hirsch broke it. ‘Sydney, sergeant?’

Brandl cocked her head at him. ‘You’re thinking they’re a long way from home, if that’s where they’re originally from.’ She shrugged. ‘A good hiding place.’

‘Or not,’ Hirsch said. ‘Someone found them.’ Then a cold, clenching sensation. ‘Oh, God…’ he floundered, trying to squash the realisation. ‘The YouTube clip.’

‘Yeah.’ Brandl turned to him and touched his forearm fleetingly. ‘Not your fault, constable, okay? You might feel responsible, but you’re not to blame.’ She took a step back. ‘Rather than twiddle our thumbs until the others get here, let’s do a bit of brainstorming. What else can you tell me about the mother?’

‘Nothing, really,’ Hirsch said. ‘Doctor Pillai might know more. But someone was looking for her yesterday.’ He related his conversation with Gemma Pitcher. ‘Except he didn’t use the names Rennie or Redding—it was Reid.’

‘We’ll need a description from her. What did she tell him?’

Hirsch shook his head. ‘She couldn’t tell him anything. None of us knew anything about Mrs Rennie until last Friday. She only came in to Tiverton then because she needed a repeat prescription and Doctor Pillai has a clinic there on Fridays.’

Brandl brooded. ‘The way she overreacted. Gave you a different name and a false address. Sydney police all cagey and officious. It’s feeling more like witness protection than simply a family hiding from some unhinged bloke.’

The sounds of vehicles. Bumpy headlights. Port Pirie detectives and a crime-scene van, Hirsch guessed. He thought of his poor, damaged little town. ‘Two atrocities in one week, sarge. I’ll have reporters coming out of my ears.’

Brandl touched his arm again. ‘I will, you mean. The Homicide Squad’s setting up a major incident room in the Redruth hall. Half the accommodation in town’s booked out already.’

Hirsch doubted that would protect Tiverton from media attention. He watched an unmarked sedan park beside Brandl’s Commodore. The crime-scene van parked beside the ribbon of tape closest to the house.

It was Detective Comyn driving the car, his passenger John Alwin, the new Port Pirie CIB inspector, in a wrinkled shirt, his tufts of carroty hair arranged around a vulnerable-looking white scalp. The man himself didn’t seem vulnerable. He was a curt, take-charge type.

He scowled a hello to Brandl and turned to Hirsch. ‘I know who you are.’

Hirsch was fed up all at once. ‘Is that a fact. Sir.’

‘Don’t be a dick, constable. Now, you came out here because…?’