Thank God. He’d spent hours making calls and setting up a phone-tree last night, then, on four hours’ sleep, had been one of the first to arrive at the kill house. He’d helped oversee the parking of the volunteers’ vehicles, but after that he’d been told where to go and what to do, same as everyone else.

‘For example, those tourists last Easter,’ Gwynne insisted.

A Japanese couple who’d wandered into the bush after puncturing a tyre on a stone reef, to be found a couple of hours later by a scratch search party of Tiverton townspeople. Probably the quickest and least onerous search in mankind’s history.

‘We’re all equal here, Mr Gwynne,’ Delia Paley said—warm, polite, but with an edge.

A spasm of disparagement on Martin’s face, what Hirsch could see of it under the sensible broad-brimmed hat. A blob of zinc cream on his nose, turning greasy.

Hirsch swung his attention back to the creek bed. It had been pointless trying to spot shoe prints in last night’s half dark; he was hoping the sunlight would yield the clues they needed. The helicopter banked, swooped over them and disappeared towards the Mischance Creek ruins. It’s going to be a morning of false sightings, Hirsch thought. A different note cut the air and he looked up: a crop-duster based at the Clare aerodrome.

Martin halted importantly, his palm pushing at the wall of hot, still air, and peered down at the pebbles and sand. Crouched. Straightened, took out his phone and photographed whatever was at his feet, then glanced left and right for markers. Photographed a bent tree on one side, a dimpled hollow in the red dirt bank on the other.

Delia Paley had stooped to look at Martin’s find. ‘Star Wars figure,’ she said, reaching out a hand. ‘Chewbacca.’

‘What on earth do you think you’re doing. That’s evidence.’

Standing again, Paley flushed. ‘It’s old.’

‘It could be significant.’

Hirsch said, ‘I think Delia’s right, Martin. It’s been here for a very long time.’

Sun-bleached, cracked, missing an arm. He glanced up onto the bank, where Bob Muir waited patiently, looking in on them.

‘Bob, do the locals use this as a picnic spot?’

Muir nodded.

Hirsch turned back to Gwynne and clapped him on the back. ‘But thanks for spotting it, Martin. I would have missed it completely.’

Gwynne gave that some thought, then nodded. ‘Can’t be too careful.’

‘Absolutely,’ Delia Paley said, sharing a look with Hirsch.

He gave her a strangled grin. His life often consisted of standing between antagonistic parties. He took a swig of water from the bottle clipped to his belt. ‘Better keep going.’