They walked for five kilometres, Hirsch relaying their progress to the other teams and to Sergeant Brandl, who was coordinating from the house. Hot, getting hotter, nothing to deflect the sun. Hirsch’s bare arms were burning. Delia Paley turned an ankle when one round stone rolled against another, and switched places with Bob Muir.

After a while Bob said, ‘Search and rescue dogs?’

‘Two dogs and handlers expected late morning.’

‘Police or SES?’

‘Police.’

Trained in tracking and air scenting, probably. Hirsch visualised it, the handlers offering a T-shirt to one German shepherd, a little singlet to the other, before setting them on their way.

‘Have to do a damn sight better job than us,’ Muir said, ‘trampling over everything.’

‘Yes, Bob, but as Paul said, they won’t get here for some time,’ Gwynne said. ‘Meanwhile it’s imperative that we conduct line searches.’

He’s going to say time is of the essence, Hirsch thought.

‘Time is the critical factor here,’ Gwynne said. ‘It could mean the difference between two dead girls and two live ones.’

‘Mmm hmm,’ Muir said.

Hirsch shot him a look. Neutral. Steadfastly sweeping the ground with his gaze. Irritation in the set of his head.

They came to a ford, the creek bisecting a dirt road. Hirsch glanced at his map: Hope Hill Road. Before they could cross, Martin Gwynne snapped, ‘What are these idiots doing?’

The Flann brothers, approaching along the bed of the creek from the other direction. They stopped, Wayne offering a sleepy smile. ‘Constable Hirschhausen, sir.’

Hirsch wanted to say, don’t be a smartarse, but it would be wasted on Flann, who was lastingly derisive to everyone. He was slim, loose-limbed; on the surface a charmer, but no one was fooled. Women saw, beyond the good looks, a certain deadness and turned away. Men were wary.

Now, a little .22 rabbit rifle slung over one shoulder, he was wearing a tight khaki T-shirt with rolled sleeves, oil-stained jeans and elastic-sided boots. With the firearm, and his dark hair, lean face, olive-toned skin and lithe grace, he might have been playing a role. Not the hero, though.

Ignoring the rifle for now, Hirsch looked past Wayne to Adam. He seemed to be hiding behind his brother’s shoulder. ‘All right, Adam?’

‘He’s fine,’ Wayne said.

Martin Gwynne cut in. ‘Are you part of the official search? If not, how can we know that every area has been thoroughly checked?’

Flann smirked. ‘I’m here, aren’t I? I know what I’m doing.’

Hirsch touched Martin’s forearm warningly. ‘How far up did you boys start?’

‘Three or four k’s.’

‘See anything?’

‘Nope.’

‘I suggest you register with Sergeant Brandl at once,’ Gwynne said.

‘That’s what you suggest, is it?’ Flann said. ‘Good to know.’

Hirsch said, ‘Why the rifle?’