Pip considered for a moment. ‘Not much. Country copper. Solid as far as I know. You want me to ask around?’

‘God, no!’ I said. ‘Last thing I want is to hex this new job. You know coppers are the biggest gossips in the world. If it got back to him that you were asking—’

‘Relax,’ said Pip. ‘My lips are sealed. But yell out if you need anything.’

‘Look, I gotta go,’ I said. ‘Due in court. Can we catch up soon?’ We made arrangements for Pip to visit the homestead on Sunday and, after several references to needing gumboots and camels and cut lunches, I reluctantly hung up the phone.

The nearest magistrates court was a half-hour drive along the coast. The scenery lifted my spirits; the wild sea crashing against the cliffs of Deception Bay gave me an instant shot of perspective. Its power and majesty made Bill Wheeler and Jack Barratt seem small.

Wozza and I arrived just before 10 am and turned off our mobile phones. Magistrate Charles Buckley—we called him Buckles, but never to his face—was renowned for confiscating them. If a phone rang in his courtroom, he would point to the large sign over the door warning people to turn them off and say, ‘Just like me, it’s not here for its looks.’ He would then direct his Clerk of Courts to fetch the small mesh wastepaper basket and carry it over to the hapless phone owner. ‘In the bin!’ Buckles would demand. If the owner tried to argue, he threatened them with a contempt of court charge. Wozza did a very accurate impersonation of this performance.

The old courtroom smelled like a stationery cupboard, of paper and leaking pens, even though it was getting towards fully electronic these days; both the police prosecutor and Jack’s solicitor had laptops in front of them.

Jack was led in just after ten thirty. His clothes were still dusty and now creased from a night in the cells. The colour palette of skin beneath his eyes had darkened into shadows. As soon as Jack saw me, he glared. I held his glare and raised it with one of my own until he looked away.

Chicken shit, I thought.

Buckles sat up on his bench, glasses at the end of his nose, peering down at the paperwork. ‘Hmm, we seem to have a dispute here.’ He looked up and raised pale bushy eyebrows at Jack’s solicitor.

‘Um, yes, Your Honour.’ The suit spluttered to life. ‘My client alleges that he was assaulted last night in the car park of the Commercial Hotel after he turned down the advances of Senior Detective Pollard.’

I sucked in a breath. Can’t say I didn’t expect that.

‘Mmm, is that so?’ The magistrate’s words were drawn out and pompous. ‘Sergeant?’ He turned his beady gaze towards the police prosecutor.