THE WINDSCREEN FLASH Hirsch had seen from the road: Flann’s ute. Reminding himself to study a topographical map should the creek ever feature in some future crime, search party or picnic, he watched Flann cast about, alert, as he receded in the direction of Craig Washburn’s camp. Flann was dressed as before, the rifle strapped to one shoulder. His T-shirt was dark with sweat and dotted with flies. Dust on his jeans. Without the rifle, you might overlook him, a bush drongo like any other. To Hirsch he was as sharp and poised as a dart.
Flann disappeared around a bend. He’ll see the police Toyota before long, Hirsch thought, and wonder what it was doing there. Or he’ll spot the dugout entrance on his way back.
Hirsch shuffled back to the others, murmured, ‘Stay here, don’t show yourselves to anyone, don’t make a sound. If anyone other than me calls out your names, ignore them.’
Then he was dropping into the bed of the creek. But the stones were noisy under his boots, so he climbed onto the bank, passing through dead grass that whispered against his trousers. Even so, he was posed against the sky. And there were snakes. Hirsch shuddered. He was trained for street shadowing and surveillance and couldn’t relate any of it to tracking someone in the bush.
He checked his phone: no signal. The terrain grew rougher, more difficult. Where the creek was shallow, Flann’s head and shoulders would appear above the bank and Hirsch would duck. He passed through the stabbing spines of star thistles, over a limestone reef, around a stretch of rabbit burrows and a handful of deeper, more treacherous holes that he guessed were collapsing mine shafts. A snake flicked into movement and reared. Hirsch bolted.
Slid over the bank to the noisy safety of the creek bed. Began to pick his way carefully, keeping off the stones as much as possible, looking for stretches of sand. Two reedy waterholes put him temporarily on the bank again. Looking down, he saw a yabby disappear, disturbing his soulless reflection in the water. His pistol was in his hand, he realised, safety off. He’d trip and shoot himself if he wasn’t careful. He reholstered the gun and carried on.
He couldn’t hear his quarry. He judged that Craig’s caravan was about a hundred metres ahead. He tried to get inside Flann’s skin, his thoughts jumping madly. Wayne was here to mop up. The killings had had nothing to do with Sydney or witness protection. It was a nasty, brainless local crime.
It felt to Hirsch that he was picking his way over booby-trapped eggshells. He reached the final bend. Heard the music of the stones ahead and—too late—found himself only a few metres from Wayne Flann, who was turning towards him.
Startled, Flann shrugged the rifle strap from his shoulder, swung the barrel tip towards Hirsch and stepped back onto a stone that turned under his heel.
His ankle buckled. He grunted, winced with pain, and placed all his weight on the other foot as he tried to work a cartridge into the breech and, in the same movement, nestle the rifle butt into his shoulder. He tipped to one side, his footing unstable as he fired, and the shot went wide.
Hirsch was moving, already on him, deflecting the barrel, powering his shoulder into Flann’s mid-section. They bounced apart again, slipping and slithering and windmilling for balance, almost comic. Toppling slowly onto his back, Hirsch propped himself on his elbows and hooked his right foot behind Flann’s injured ankle. Flann flipped onto his spine, the fall driving the breath from his lungs, and Hirsch was on him again.
Grinding the barrel of his pistol under the man’s jaw, Hirsch said, ‘Wayne Flann, I am arresting you for assaulting a police officer and for the murders of Denise and Nick Rennie.’
A twist of savagery on Flann’s face. Then it cleared, replaced by his usual sleepy-eyed charm. Almost as if he might seduce Hirsch into some harmless shared wickedness. ‘Jeez, Paul, didn’t mean to shoot at you. We’re mates, right? I’m out here looking for those kids. No one’s thought to search this part of the creek. Suddenly I hear someone coming and I think, shit, who’s that, the killer? Bit quick on the draw; sorry buddy.’
Hirsch ignored him. Took the handcuffs from his belt and manacled Flann, right wrist to left ankle.
‘Jesus, how am I supposed to walk?’
‘You’re not. You’re staying put for a few minutes.’
Hirsch patted him down briskly. Found keys, a wallet and an old Samsung phone in the front pockets of his jeans.
Flann smirked. ‘That how you get your kicks?’
Hirsch turned him over; nothing in the tight back pockets. Rolled Flann onto his back again, stepped clear of him and checked the Samsung. It was locked.
He tilted the screen towards Flann. ‘Password?
‘Fuck you.’
‘Something you don’t want me to see?’
‘Fuck you. Get a warrant.’
‘Wayne, I found the girls. You were recognised.’ He wondered, too late, if he should have kept his mouth shut.
As if unable to stop himself, Flann said, ‘The dugout, right? My old man said—’
Then his face shut down. ‘Time for me to go no comment. No comment from here till fucking eternity.’
‘Who was in the ute with you the other night? Was it Adam? Is that why he’s disappeared? Couldn’t stomach what you’d done?’
‘No comment.’
‘Wait here.’
‘No fucking comment.’
Hirsch set out to fetch the HiLux. First secure his prisoner, then deal with the Rennie girls.
Five minutes later, parked beside the creek, he shoved Flann up the bank and into the boxy prisoner-transport compartment in the back of the Toyota. Snug, white inside and out, no windows, no sharp surfaces. Stifling just now, but the car aircon was ducted through. Flann would survive.
Before locking him away, Hirsch twisted the cap off a bottle of water and handed it over. ‘It’s not a bribe, it’s not poisoned, no added truth serum.’
Flann showed a flash of bewilderment and curiosity. Then his empty, no-comment face reappeared and he merely stared at Hirsch, received the bottle with an abbreviated nod, and drank deeply—an unguarded action, and when he’d taken it from his lips, face regaining its composure, Hirsch snapped his photograph.
‘You cunt.’
Hirsch smiled, handed him a second bottle. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’
‘I get claustrophobic.’
Hirsch got behind the wheel, aircon on high, and checked the CCTV feed: Flann looked resigned but was muttering fuck and cunt and copper a lot.
‘That’s the spirit,’ Hirsch murmured, and bumped the Toyota across the dirt and grass until he reached the dugout. Leaving the aircon and engine running, handbrake on, he slapped his palm against the box and shouted, ‘Back in a few minutes.’
Flann began to shout, kick the walls. ‘I’m dying in here. I’m claustrophobic, you fucking arsehole.’
The Toyota protested meekly, rocking on its springs. ‘Few minutes,’ Hirsch shouted.
He climbed down to the bed of the creek, stood beneath the dugout and called, ‘It’s Paul, you’re safe now, he’s locked up.’
He scaled the bank. At the dugout entrance he said it again: ‘I arrested him. He can’t get at you. He’s locked away.’
Craig Washburn gave one of his vacant grins, Anna sucked her thumb, eyes wide, and Louise was suspicious. ‘How do we know?’
‘Here.’ Hirsch swiped at his phone, showed her the screen.
She peered briefly and nestled back in against Washburn. ‘Who is he? Police?’
‘He’s called Wayne Flann. He lives near Tiverton. Did you ever have anything to do with him? Was he ever at your house? Did your mum, I don’t know, cut him off in a carpark? Anything like that?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
Then her face creased; grief and bewilderment saturated her voice. ‘Why would he want to kill us?’
Hirsch touched the back of her hand. ‘I honestly don’t know. I think he and possibly his brother liked to go around breaking into houses on quiet back roads and this time it was your bad luck. Maybe this time he was high on drugs, I don’t know. The thing is, there’s no need for you girls to stay here now. Hop in the car, I’ll take you somewhere safe.’
She shook her head wildly. ‘No way.’
‘We won’t go anywhere near any police, okay? We’ll figure out somewhere safe you can go, then I’ll get your statement and we’ll start an investigation.’
She shrieked it. ‘Start an investigation? While people can see us sitting in your car? And you said that man you arrested has a brother? Where is he? Is he coming after us, too? We’re staying here. Craig’ll look after us.’
Hirsch was patient. ‘You’ll be safe travelling with me. There’s plenty of room and—’
Her voice rose an impossible notch. ‘You honestly think we’re riding in the same car as him?’
Anna took her thumb from her mouth, her face wretched, and began to wail. ‘Shhh,’ her sister said. ‘Sorry, bub.’
Hirsch, looking to Washburn for help, saw only a benign, philosophical beam on the old creased face, and a tiny shrug that said: What can you do, eh?
Hirsch sighed. ‘Will you at least let me contact my friend in the police in Adelaide? The one who polices the police. She’s straight, she’s honest, she has no contacts with anyone in New South Wales…’
Louise gave it some reluctant thought, rolling her shoulders. ‘Maybe.’
‘How about this?’ Hirsch said. ‘I take Mr Flann to jail and come straight back and collect you and drive you to Adelaide. I won’t say anything to anybody about finding you. We’ll put you somewhere safe until everyone involved has been arrested.’
Another ‘maybe’ shrug.
‘You can’t stay here, Louise. You just can’t. Another week? Out of the question. Think of Anna. Think of yourself. Food, clean clothes, a proper bathroom, proper bed…’
‘Sounds like a plan to me, girls,’ Washburn said. An arm around each sister, he rocked them gently, looking down at the tops of their heads. ‘What do you think?’
Louise Rennie looked directly at Hirsch as she answered him. ‘I think if Paul comes back, we might be okay. And if he doesn’t it means they’ve got him.’