The phone went dead. Hirsch used the MRT to call up the registration details of Eileen Pitcher’s car and issued an alert. Almost 1 p.m. and some search party volunteers were straggling in from the patch of mallee scrub behind the house, Nan Washburn among them. Probably a badly needed distraction for her, thought Hirsch.

Where was Craig?

He got out and joined Nan at a shaded table that was set with tea urns, water bottles on ice, and plates of sandwiches. ‘Anything?’

‘One snake, one sleepy lizard.’

Hirsch unscrewed the top from a water bottle and passed it to her.

‘Thanks.’

He watched the motions in her throat as she drank. Dusty shoes, patches of perspiration on her shirt. ‘Is Craig here?’

She shook her head. ‘Too many people for his liking. Makes him jumpy.’

‘He back at the caravan yet?’

Nan Washburn stretched her spine and ran her gaze around the dry land, the house and the vehicles on the stretch of dead grass allocated for parking and didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Still at my place.’ She laughed grimly. ‘I just want my life back. Everyone in town’s been giving me space, but Craig’s driving me nuts, frankly. He means well, and I liked having him with me for the first couple of days, but now I just want him back where he belongs. Is that terrible of me?’

Hirsch shook his head. Some relationships withstood daily cohabitation. Others needed limits. He imagined the scene, Nan telling Craig he should return to the caravan, then the tense long drive to Mischance Creek with him beside her in the car…

‘Look,’ he said. ‘In a day or two, when it suits you both, why don’t I collect him and bring him back here? Save you the trouble.’

She put her hand to her chest. ‘Oh. I wasn’t…But that would be lovely.’

‘Okay, give me a call,’ Hirsch said.

He waved goodbye and bumped back along the temporary driveway to Hamel Road. He stopped the car. Had anyone searched Craig’s place beside the creek? He turned right instead of left, away from Tiverton, past the ruins to the caravan. He knocked on the door. Waited, then tried the door. Locked. He walked into the clearing and waited a while, letting his senses register and sift. But it was a windless clear noon in the bush. The sounds of the caravan flexing in the heat, that’s all. Perspiration salty on his lips.