Wayne Flann gave a smile and a slow roll of his shoulders. ‘Don’t know if you’d noticed, but we’ve got a murderer running loose. Plus, snakes.’

He glanced at his feet, and Hirsch’s feet, then scanned the nearby dead grass. Hirsch scanned too, despite himself.

Which made Flann grin. ‘Be prepared, mate, that’s my motto.’

‘A shotgun would be better against a snake,’ Hirsch said, eyeing the rifle, a corner of his cop brain registering that it wasn’t the murder weapon.

‘Haven’t got one, you know that.’

Hirsch nodded. One of his duties was checking firearm licences and storage. He needed to get Flann to stow the gun away without publicly embarrassing him. He was grateful when Bob Muir murmured, ‘Wayne, it’s not a good look, walking around with a gun. Not after what’s happened.’

Not harsh. Not denigratory. Advising caution and good sense; sounding like a wise father. Hirsch saw a shift in Wayne, a nod of acceptance. ‘Yeah, okay.’

‘Anyway, good to see you both,’ said Muir. ‘How about you register with Sergeant Brandl and join one of the search parties so there’s no doubling up?’

The Flann boys climbed out of the creek, Adam giving Hirsch and Muir a swift grimace of apology before following his brother across the paddock to the house on Hamel Road. ‘What’s the betting they don’t register?’ Martin said.

Hirsch shrugged. He didn’t say that Wayne wasn’t a team-player kind of guy.

‘I don’t trust those Flann boys.’

‘Oh? Why’s that, Martin?’ Muir said.

‘The older one especially. The way he looks at you.’

Hirsch understood. The lazy grace and flat-eyed insolence. He kept walking. And then Martin was grabbing at his sleeve. ‘Have you looked at him for the horse mutilations, Paul?’

‘Martin, can we keep our minds on the search?’

‘It’s just that they’re very clannish, that family. I can well see the older boy getting back at Nan because she humiliated his little brother.’

Hirsch ignored him. Mid-morning now, the sun relentless. He’d almost drained his water bottle, and saw that the others had, too. He pointed. The Mischance Creek ruins were ahead, half-a-dozen lonely chimneys tethered to collapsed walls; a couple of corrugated-iron roofs held down by rusty nails and pointless doggedness.

‘Let’s find some shade and take a break. I’ll call Sergeant Brandl and ask her to send us more water.’

They walked on. A short time later, Hirsch grew aware that Delia Paley had stopped pacing him along the bank of the creek. Thinking her ankle strain had worsened, he looked up. Her face shone with discovery and expectation. ‘Shoe prints,’ she said. There was a tremor in her voice.

‘Secure the scene and wait,’ Comyn told Hirsch when he called it in. ‘The dogs are up and running. If they lead the handlers to you, then we’ll know for sure.’

‘We need water.’