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  ‘Quite a media storm you cooked up, mate, even in Sydney,’ Hansen said. ‘Big headline in this morning’s Daily Tele: “Massacre central”.’

  Hirsch recognised the tactic: use disparagement to unbalance an interview subject, hoping they’ll reveal a chink you can exploit. ‘You don’t think the media cooked it up by themselves?’ he said lightly.

  Hansen curled a grin at Hirsch, set for another swerve, when Roesch interrupted.

  ‘Be fair, Robert. Constable Hirschhausen merely stumbled upon these, ah, crime scenes. I’m sure he doesn’t welcome the attention. Isn’t that right, constable?’

  Hirsch nodded. ‘Senior sergeant.’ He didn’t know if he could trust her smile.

  ‘We flew in this morning and headed straight for Redruth,’ Roesch said, all business now. ‘Quick briefing from your Homicide Squad people then a quick look at the crime scene, and now here we are, gracing you with our presence.’

  Kellaher would have told them about Gemma Pitcher, Hirsch thought, tensing up. ‘How can I help?’

  Hansen leaned forward, forearms on his knees, still intent on unsettling Hirsch. ‘Where were you just now?’

  Hirsch bit, wondering if he’d regret it. ‘I’m the only copper in this district. I’m not going to be sitting in the station all day.’

  Hansen smirked. ‘One would hope you were out looking for a certain shop assistant we’d like a word with.’ His features hardened. ‘Someone you promised would be available for interview.’

  ‘I was looking for her, in fact. And the two boys she’s probably with.’

  Hansen gave him an empty smile. ‘But no luck.’

  Roesch said, ‘We really need to speak to this girl, Constable Hirschhausen.’

  ‘Gemma Pitcher,’ Hansen said, with the air of a man in possession of all the facts, ‘who claims a man came into her shop and asked if she knew where a Mrs Reid lived. We’d like to know more about this man. Did she tell you anything—a description, for example? Did you ask?’

  The guy was a prick, but Hirsch didn’t want to bite again. ‘She’s young, vague, didn’t take much notice. Average build, forties, that’s about it. She only raised it with me because she wondered if he’d been to see me, which is what she’d suggested he do.’

  ‘And now she’s missing. Any idea why, or where she might go?’

  Hirsch shook his head. ‘All I know is, she’s using her mother’s car, and two boys, friends of hers, are probably with her. It’s the holidays, maybe they’ve been partying and they’re sleeping it off somewhere. It’s just that they didn’t tell anyone where they were going. On the other hand, we’re not talking fully functional families. It wouldn’t occur to them to tell anyone.’

  Hansen looked all set for another snide comment when Roesch interrupted. Giving her colleague a glance that had a little slap in it, she said, ‘Let’s move along, shall we, Robert? Keep in mind that Constable Hirschhausen isn’t this girl’s keeper. At least he got her to agree to make herself available, right, constable?’

  Hirsch nodded, grateful. There was an answering flash of warmth in Vita Roesch, something that glimmered and was gone. He cleared his throat.

  Roesch went on, ‘What matters is, two members of a family have been shot dead and two are missing.’

  Hirsch waited.

  Roesch said, ‘We met your sergeant. She said the search is being wound back.’

  Hirsch shrugged. ‘I was out there yesterday morning. I’m not up with the latest strategic thinking. But…we haven’t found anything, and if the girls were picked up by someone driving a vehicle, well, it makes sense to concentrate the search elsewhere.’ He shrugged. ‘Family, friends…’

  Then he paused, waited. Another interrogation technique, aimed at eliciting information. Not that he expected it to work on them. It was more likely he’d be sidelined further.

  But Roesch surprised him. ‘Why don’t you give us your take on the case?’ she said. ‘Not just the facts—theory and opinion as well.’

  His mind raced, looking for traps. On the face of it he was merely the local plod, who’d happened to have a run-in with Mrs Rennie—and later happened to find her shot dead in her house. What else could he offer the Sydney detectives? Then he thought: they’d done their homework. Someone’s said something and they’d dug around in his past and discovered he’d once been a detective and wasn’t, in fact, merely the local plod.

  Who were they, anyway? Roesch—Organised Crime. Hansen—Homicide. Some New South Wales task force? How well did they know each other? How well did they work together?

  ‘It occurred to me that Mrs Rennie and her kids were in witness protection,’ he said. He watched the pair of them carefully.

  Hansen glanced at Roesch and said tightly, ‘Why would you think that?’

  There was an odd dynamic between them. Maybe they didn’t work together, or hadn’t for long. Was it Hansen who’d called Sergeant Brandl requesting the welfare check?

  Hirsch shrugged. ‘Mrs Rennie was very evasive. She lied about her address, her husband and how many kids she had, so I wondered if she was in hiding.’

  ‘There’s a big difference between hiding and being in witness protection,’ Hansen said. He put his head on one side, curled his lip. ‘But that YouTube clip didn’t do them any favours.’

  Prick. Hirsch wanted to wipe the smirk off his face.

  ‘Robert…’ Roesch said.

  Hansen shrugged.

  With a last little frown, Roesch turned to Hirsch, her smile apologetic. ‘You were saying…?’

  He said, ‘I’m wondering what Mrs Rennie’s phone records might tell us, particularly calls to or from Sydney numbers.’

  ‘Are you now,’ Hansen said.

  ‘We’re looking into it,’ Roesch said, cutting her colleague off. ‘Now, presuming Mrs Rennie was hiding from someone—did you wonder who?’

  ‘The usual: husband or boyfriend. And for her to end up out here, in the middle of nowhere, he must be pretty determined or well connected. But, you know, I’m guessing; you probably know exactly who she was hiding from. And why.’

  Roesch gave him a tiny complicit grin. ‘Let’s keep guessing. Suppose this person found her—why didn’t he shoot them all?’

  ‘If he’s got the girls,’ Hirsch said, ‘they’re important to him in some way. Is he their father?’

  Roesch smiled again. ‘A good question. Would they willingly get into a car with him?’

  ‘I have no idea. They might not have known he was the shooter, so when he appeared in his car, they hopped in. Or they were exhausted and gave up. Or they knew he was the shooter but got into the car anyway, because they knew not to cross him.’

  ‘Very Sherlock,’ Hansen said, apparently amused.

  Hirsch had had enough. ‘I wouldn’t have to guess if you people weren’t so secretive and up yourselves. My sergeant gets a direct call to her mobile, from Sydney, asking for a welfare check—which suggests to me someone was a) keeping tabs on the Rennies and b) knew to contact the local police in an emergency.’

  There was a silence, as if that information was new to them. Roesch shot Hansen a fraught glance. She smoothed her dress over one slender knee and said, ‘I can confirm that a person of interest left Sydney a few hours after that video clip was posted. We have him in a silver Passat on the Princes Highway, before he dropped out of sight. Have you seen this car at all?’

  ‘No. Who is he?’

  Hansen said, ‘This conveniently missing shopgirl. Did she see what kind of car this stranger was driving?’

  ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to ask her when she shows up.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Vita Roesch said, ‘if Ms Pitcher didn’t know where the Rennies lived, how do you suppose the shooter found the right address?’

  ‘I have no way of knowing,’ Hirsch said.

  ‘And I expect you’re wondering if Ms Pitcher’s going to turn up dead,’ Hansen said, as if Hirsch might be to blame if that happened. He paused. ‘Tell us about the
YouTube clip.’

  Hirsch complied, for the millionth time. ‘And no, I didn’t post it.’

  Hansen smiled lazily. ‘Some people like a bit of free publicity.’

  Roesch interrupted. ‘I think we should come clean with you, Constable Hirschhausen.’

  Presumably, Hirsch thought, that meant mostly lies and a few half-truths. ‘Okay.’

  ‘I can concur that Mrs Rennie and her family were in witness protection.’

  Expecting more, Hirsch waited. Nothing. He looked from one to the other. ‘And?’

  He continued to wait. Then: ‘Am I allowed to know why?’

  With a look at Roesch, Hansen said, a little more human now, ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Hirsch said airily, ‘I’ll just google them, will I?’

  In a flash, an impregnable wall seemed to slam down between the Sydney detectives and Hirsch. He was being warned not to try scaling it. He raised his hands in surrender. ‘Okay. What I think happened is, Mrs Rennie had been hiding from someone, only to be spotted in a YouTube clip, and this someone come looking for her—driving a silver Passat.’

  ‘That’s a working theory,’ Roesch said, looking at her knees again.

  Hirsch had to keep playing along. ‘You know who he is, clearly. Why not wait till he goes back to Sydney and arrest him?’

  ‘A little matter of evidence,’ she said.

  Hirsch looked at her. ‘Can you at least tell me who he is?’

  ‘Above your pay grade, mate,’ Hansen chimed in.

  Hirsch ignored him. ‘Senior sergeant, shouldn’t we have been told we had protected witnesses living in the district?’

  ‘You know how it works, constable.’

  That seemed to be that. Roesch and Hansen stood and shook hands with Hirsch; he showed them to their car. On the footpath outside the police station, Roesch stopped suddenly and turned to Hirsch. She placed her palm fleetingly on his chest, and withdrew it almost instantly, with a slightly apologetic grin. ‘How’s your grapevine?’

  For a mad moment, Hirsch thought she meant the one he’d trained over the trellis in his backyard. But she meant contacts and informants. ‘Not bad.’

  ‘Tap into it. Maybe those children were picked up by a local person who hasn’t listened to the news. Or someone’s sheltering them.’

  ‘Or a perv has them,’ suggested Hansen. Cocked his head at Hirsch. ‘You wouldn’t happen to know any pervs?’

  ‘There are various ways it could have gone,’ Roesch said hastily. It looked as if she wanted to get Hansen out of there.

  ‘I’ll see what I can find out,’ Hirsch said. As if it would never have occurred to him to do any actual investigating.

  Late Thursday afternoon now, and Hirsch straightened the Wyeth print, dusted, vacuumed, wondered if he could bother the old woman next door for a bunch of her roses. It was all to tamp down his nerves: he’d been rattled by Hansen, and to a lesser degree, Roesch. Hansen’s stance was simple: everyone’s a suspect. Roesch was warmer and more agreeable—and she’d delivered him a little jolt of attraction that made him feel mildly guilty and noticeably more cheerful. And she didn’t like Hansen: join the club. Her presence lingered in the shabby little room.

  He called Wendy’s mobile. Katie answered: they were in the car, heading back from the river, the twilight tricky, kangaroos on the road. Then Wendy’s voice could be heard in the background; Katie passed it on: ‘Speak later tonight, maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Safe trip,’ Hirsch said.

  Later tonight came and went. At ten o’clock Hirsch dragged on a T-shirt and surf shorts for bed and heard a knock on the street door. Vita Roesch stood there, still vivid in her summer dress but wearing a cotton jacket over it that gave her a stance of authority. Hirsch glanced past her at the hire car blocking his driveway. ‘Senior sergeant.’

  ‘It’s just me,’ she said, anticipating his question. ‘I need a few more minutes of your time.’

  Back to the sitting room, where she took off her jacket and the room brightened. Feeling clumsy, Hirsch said, ‘Where are you staying?’

  ‘Hotel in Redruth—forget the name.’

  Taking charge, she perched on one end of the sofa and indicated the other. ‘Sit, please, Constable Hirschhausen.’

  He sat, and her long legs swivelled towards him. He could read everything or nothing into it, but she was all business as she took out her iPhone, poked and swiped, and proffered it.

  ‘My bona fides. Recognise anyone?’

  A photograph of Roesch with Denise Rennie. An office somewhere, shirt-sleeved men and women at desks in the background. Hirsch said, ‘You worked together? She was in the police?’

  ‘Yes and no. We were colleagues—friends, I’d say. Denise was a civilian—an intelligence analyst. The Covert Support Unit. We worked a big case together.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Roesch considered him for an uncomfortable moment. ‘I’m about to fill you in a little more. Nothing I say can leave this room, understood?’

  There’s something about Hansen, Hirsch thought. He said, ‘Okay,’ wondering how much of the real story he’d get.

  ‘Denise’s actual surname wasn’t Rennie or Redding, it was Reid.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘She was due to give evidence at a series of trials; her life was threatened, and we placed the family in witness protection. The location was compromised, her husband was killed, and she ran—disappeared with the children.’

  ‘Who were they hiding from?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say, Constable Hirschhausen.’

  ‘She came here on her own? You didn’t place her here?’

  ‘No. We didn’t know where Denise had taken the family until now.’

  ‘Someone did. Someone called my sergeant and gave her the address.’

  ‘That,’ Roesch said, ‘is a puzzle.’

  ‘Has her landline history been checked yet?’

  ‘Yes. She only called local numbers. The Redruth clinic, for example.’

  Hirsch brooded. He said, ‘May I ask who you are, exactly? Her original witness protection handler?’

  A hardening of Roesch’s face, her nose and cheekbones suddenly sharper. ‘Do I detect a criticism, constable?’

  Hirsch put up his hands in apology and, just as quickly, Roesch was subtly warm again. ‘Senior Constable Hansen is Homicide—the murder of Denise’s husband remains unsolved. I work major crimes including fraud and organised crime within the State Crime Command. That’s how I got to know Denise. We became very close. This is personal for me.’

  ‘It’s a shame Mrs Rennie—Reid—didn’t contact you again,’ Hirsch said. The regret that creased Roesch’s face making him feel clumsy and ashamed, he added quickly: ‘Did you find out how their first location was leaked?’

  ‘Constable, please. Don’t you think I’d have kept her safe if I could?’

  Careful where you tread in your size tens, Hirsch. ‘Sorry.’ He gnawed on his bottom lip. ‘Would Senior Constable Hansen have known where the family was hiding?’

  She seemed amused. ‘The hackles certainly rose between you two—sorry about that.’ She bent towards him minutely and grinned, a real smile. ‘I barely know Hansen, but for the time being we’re stuck with each other.’

  Hirsch returned the grin, but he sensed she was trying to tell him something other than a version of the Rennie backstory. A warning about Hansen? ‘Thanks for filling me in. I don’t have much clout, but it’s good to know a bit more about what’s going on.’

  ‘Don’t hide your light under a bushel, Paul,’ Roesch said. ‘I know an intuitive copper when I see one.’ She paused. ‘You have told me everything?’

  Hirsch glanced upwards, considered the question, and found an answer. ‘Er, yep.’

  Roesch said, ‘The girls might need protection, wherever they are.’ She touched his arm lightly.

  ‘I don’t know where they are,’ Hirsch said, and wondered why he felt guilty.

  21


  ON FRIDAY MORNING Hirsch prowled the town, reliving the encounter with Vita Roesch as the dawn light dissolved into birdsong. Thinking he’d dodged a bullet. By much? What kind of man was he, anyway? Thank God she hadn’t stayed long. The air was soft and clean around him, but he knew the dust- and heat-saturation would come soon enough. Meanwhile it was almost good to be alive—if you drew on your senses, not your memories.

  It can be the little things that save you. His phone buzzed as he ambled past the grain-handlers on Hallett Street. Wendy: Pancakes 9 am. Hirsch walked home with a bounce, and it didn’t matter that Sergeant Brandl texted him a few minutes later: briefing 11 sharp. Love and work, the twin poles of his existence. He returned to the police station, showered and changed for his pancake breakfast, and headed out of town.

  Half an hour later he was seeing a side of Wendy he hadn’t really encountered before, and finding he rather liked it.

  She was venting about her brother and sister-in-law. ‘Because Rose sees herself as vague and passive, she lets Matt make all the decisions.’

  ‘Self-fulfilling,’ Hirsch said.

  ‘Exactly.’

  They were in deckchairs on her side veranda, a little table between them, cluttered with the dregs of their breakfast. Katie was a few metres away, rocking in her hammock, reading, listening.

  ‘Honestly, the family dynamics in that house,’ Wendy said, looking down, shaking her head. ‘Just as well you didn’t come with us.’ She lifted her head again. ‘And they never eat the food I bring. I don’t know why I bother.’

  Hirsch reached out to lay a calming hand on her clenched fist. She turned to him, frustrated, and her eyes were damp. ‘Sorry.’

  He smiled. It was good just to sit on the veranda with her. And he liked a good rant if it was intelligent and amusing.

  Wendy continued to deliver. ‘Lunch was quite weird. Almost no conversation, they all just sat hunched over their plates, shovelling in the food. Peculiar. They never used to be as bad.’

  ‘They sound like prisoners in a dining hall,’ Hirsch said.

  She gave him an intrigued look. ‘And after lunch they all retired to a different part of the house and played with their fucking devices. Sorry, sweetheart.’