Hirsch ignored him, addressed Kellaher. ‘A young woman who works in the Tiverton shop said a man came in asking if she knew where the woman from the video lived.’

‘Description?’

‘She was vague. Average, in his forties.’

‘We’ll need to speak to her,’ Kellaher said.

‘It might help if I sat in,’ Hirsch said. ‘She knows me.’

‘Everyone knows you,’ Dock said.

Now we come to it, Hirsch thought. He decided to face it head-on. ‘Eighteen months ago I was unlucky enough to find myself in a corrupt outer-suburban CIB squad. It was disbanded. Some of the shit stuck to me and I was demoted to uniform and stationed up here in the bush. End of story.’

‘Not end of story. You didn’t keep your mouth shut.’

Hirsch leaned forward. ‘Friends of yours wind up in jail, did they sergeant?’

‘Enough,’ Kellaher said. He breathed out. ‘You were first on scene yesterday evening, Constable Hirschhausen, and you spent this morning there. Kindly describe what you saw. Feel free to speculate.’

Hirsch recounted his discovery of the bodies, his search of the sheds and nearby paddocks, the morning’s line search with volunteers, the footprints. He concluded: ‘It seems the girls escaped on foot and were later picked up by the side of the road. By the killer or a local weirdo or someone passing by—who knows. Where they are now, I have no idea. They could be lying dead somewhere, someone’s sheltering them, or they’re tied up in the boot of a car.’

Kellaher selected the contacts on his phone and passed it to Hirsch. ‘Add your details.’

Hirsch complied. Kellaher said, ‘Go home and take the rest of the day off. Get the shopgirl ready for interview tomorrow. Sharp at noon.’

‘Bring her here?’

‘That’ll only intimidate her. Home turf, noon tomorrow.’

‘Sir.’

Hirsch paused. ‘Any ballistics results, sir?’

Hirsch thought of Wayne Flann and his little .22 rabbit gun. ‘What I thought, sir, judging from the size of the wounds.’

Hirsch walked downslope again, the sun blasting him between the shoulder blades. He was thinking only of a shower as soon as he got home. Aloe vera on his sunburn. Clean set of clothes, cold beer. Dinner with Wendy and Katie—then he thought, damn, he’d promised to drive up to the river with them tomorrow. He agonised: the task force was in full swing and would manage without him—but it was important to be the go-between in the Gemma Pitcher interview.

Outside-broadcast vans had filled the town square. He climbed into the cab of the Toyota and drove slowly home along the Barrier Highway. Lengthening shadows striped the land; the glare was intense. Next up on his old fart’s CD was Canned Heat, ‘On the Road Again’. Hirsch listened through to the end, then tried the radio.