‘No, it was pretty noisy because there were trail-bike riders nearby.’

‘And they didn’t see anything unusual or anyone with a gun?’

‘The riders were on the opposite side of the river and obscured from view. They’re there most weekends apparently, some form of club. So with all the din they were making, they didn’t hear or see a thing. The shot appears to have come from behind the anglers, where the terrain varied from paddocks, to stands of bush, to flood-protection willows. They couldn’t determine the angle the shot came from because the victim fell and floated a bit before his waders filled up. It was pure guesswork. The police speculated it could have come from someone potting rabbits or something.’

‘And you think this is linked to the other murders?’

‘Only because it occurred when the Darling Brothers Circus was in town, on the sixteenth of March, and was an unexplained death. It seems too coincidental to leave out.’

‘Fair enough. Who’s next?’

‘Timaru, Monday, the twenty-fourth of March, exact date of death unknown. This is another in that didn’t-look-like-a-murder, but-now-I-wonder category. Michael George Anderson, AKA Mick, a well-known drunk and bum. A bit of a local icon for all the wrong reasons. Found drowned off the wharf at the port. People assumed he got himself pissed and fell in. His blood alcohol was high enough to start the embalming process prior to death. His was one of those sad lives, made sadder by the fact it would now appear he had been murdered and people didn’t take much note of his death other than to think the local bum fell in the drink.’

‘I suppose he’d be an easy target.’

‘And he was targeted, frequently. The local skinheads used to take particular pleasure in tormenting him. For someone determined to finish him off, all they’d need to do was feed him a big bottle of grog and give him a bit of a push – no worries. The world’s easiest killing, all for the price of some cheap whisky.’

‘He probably even thanked his murderer.’

‘Probably toasted his good health.’ Mick’s picture was of a scrawny, bearded, stooped-looking creature in an oversized coat, with too-long trousers draping over sandalled feet with scary toenails. The officer holding him up looked dressed for Arctic conditions. My eyes kept pulling back to Mick’s exposed feet.

In contrast, the next photo got me all teary again. Sparkling eyes shining out of a slightly acned face, braced teeth showing no signs of self-consciousness and bared in a huge grin. The school uniform another telling giveaway as to this victim’s youth. I handed the picture to Paul and watched as his expression too, darkened.

‘God, how?’ He asked.

‘Yeah, a waste, eh?’

‘I’ll say. A sure murder?’