‘Sir,’ Brandl interrupted, ‘I received a call from police headquarters in Sydney, requesting a welfare check. We were tied up with a traffic incident, so I asked Constable Hirschhausen to do it.’

‘I’m asking Constable Hirschhausen. You arrived here when?’

‘About three hours ago.’

‘Found two dead.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Hirsch said. Beyond the inspector’s shoulder he could see the crime-scene crew setting up external floodlights.

‘Touch anything?’

Hirsch cast his mind back. ‘I checked they were dead. Walked through each room. Knelt to look under beds. Opened doors, wardrobes and cupboards.’ He added: ‘I wore gloves.’

‘Why did you go through the house? Weren’t you told not to?’

‘Not at that stage. I was looking for other victims.’

Either the inspector was obtuse or hadn’t been told a thing—or he was being a prick. His words came at Hirsch in mocking, testing spurts. ‘Looking for other victims. Then what?’

Hirsch used cop-speak. ‘In what little light was available to me I undertook a search of the sheds and adjacent paddock areas.’ He paused. ‘Sir, we need a search party here first light tomorrow.’

‘Oh, do we now? When you made this search, did you find anything?’

‘No, sir.’

‘It didn’t occur to you that you might get shot?’

‘I wanted to find the missing girls, sir.’

Alwin grunted. He turned away. ‘Good thinking with the crime-scene tape. That was you?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Alwin clapped his hands. ‘Right. Detective Comyn will take your statement. Then when the crime scene officers have checked in and around your vehicle, you may go.’

‘Sir.’

‘Sergeant Brandl, I’ll need that Sydney contact, and then you may also go.’

‘Sir.’

‘But I want you both working the phones tonight. Volunteers from all over, start searching at first light. If any of the local graziers have a spotter plane, well and good. I’ll see if the air wing can give us a chopper.’

‘Sir,’ Brandl said.

‘And Constable Hirschhausen, you’ll need to make yourself available for interview sometime tomorrow.’

‘Homicide Squad, sir?’

‘Whoever they throw at you.’

17

17

BOXING DAY. HIRSCH, bleary in the dawn light, was walking along the creek bed, sandwiched between Martin Gwynne and a Redruth pharmacist named Delia Paley. Straggling lines of volunteers kept pace with them on each bank. The search helicopter chattered above the mallee scrub to the north-east. Separate line searches, fanning outwards from the house on Hamel Road, were covering the dry wheat flats.

And Gwynne was going on and on. ‘It’s just that I have had some experience.’

Miffed because he hadn’t been put in charge of a search team.

‘Out of my hands, Martin,’ Hirsch said.