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Chapters (47)
  1. COVER PAGE
  2. TEXT LOGO PAGE
  3. ABOUT THE BOOK
  4. DEDICATION
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  43. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 1
  44. CONSOLATION CHAPTER 2
  45. ALSO BY
  46. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  47. NEW MARKETING PAGE

‘Just wait, all right?’

Hirsch joined the others in the stingy shade of a crumbling wall. They all stared at the creek bank, where a patch of powdery dirt held prints: shoes with patterned soles, and tiny bare feet. The girls had paused there, Hirsch thought. Maybe the older one had carried the younger one. She’d have been wearing sandals or runners if she was still awake, helping her mother wrap the tricycle. When the shooting stopped she ran inside, snatched the little one from her bed and made a run for it. Got to the road, set her down to rest and…

And apparently vanished. No other prints that Hirsch could see. If someone had stopped to pick them up was it the killer? No scuff marks in the dirt. Too exhausted to struggle?

Fifteen minutes later he saw the handlers and their dogs, shapes shimmering and coalescing on the flatland between Mischance Creek and the kill house. Their progress was inexorable, destination inevitable. Standing to greet them, he saw the dogs halt, run their noses along the ground, try to catch fugitive scents in the air. The end of the line. They panted, gulped, sat. One of the handlers called: ‘This is as far as they went.’

Hirsch nodded glumly. He knew the road itself wouldn’t reveal anything useful. He’d driven along it yesterday. This morning, Wayne Flann had driven along it; half the volunteers had driven along it. He looked up in the crazy hope that one of the airborne searchers might magically spot the vehicle that had saved—or snatched—the girls twelve hours earlier.

The volunteers straggled in. They were given tea, oranges, sandwiches that curled in the heat. And Hirsch was told he needed to get his arse down to Redruth.

‘Sarge?’

‘The incident room’s up and running in the town hall, and a Homicide inspector wants a word.’

‘Now?’

‘Soon as you can get down there.’

Hirsch climbed back into the Toyota and drove away. Heading, he supposed, into the teeth of another bollocking.

18

18

IT WAS MID - AFTERNOON by the time Hirsch reached Redruth. The main street, which would have been deserted on any normal Boxing Day, was crammed with marked and unmarked police cars, vans and SUVs—all nose-up to the kerb outside the town hall–shire offices. He rolled on by and found a parking spot outside the Wool-pack, the pub opposite the rotunda. Cutting across the square, touching the little rotunda for luck along the way, he headed uphill again.