He scanned the yard: nothing obvious. But he had time, plenty of it. He stepped out of the Chrysler, wraparound Ray-Bans reflecting the glare of a relentless sun, and made for the house.

He knocked at the door. Nothing. Birds chirping from the thick bush crowding around the house. A blue-tongue lizard stared up at him from a dried-out patch of lawn. Standing at the front door, waiting, there in the shade…Peaceful. Not like last time he was here—bloody SOGs smashing down the door, yelling and shouting, guns drawn.

Squinting through the side window next to the door, he couldn’t see any movement inside. He scanned the yard then reached down, grabbed a rock from the border of an overgrown strip of garden and smashed it through the window. A dozen white cockatoos in a gum tree next to the house took flight, screeching a warning across the bush and into the mountain behind. Noise didn’t matter out here. You could shoot a guy in the kneecaps, as Sinbin was known to do, and nobody would hear the shot—or the scream. Nevertheless, he refused to waste a bullet on Sinbin’s front door.

He went straight to the obvious places and found nothing there. Then he began to slit cushions, rip the backs off paintings, tap the walls and bash holes wherever the sound rang hollow.

The morning ticked on, the heat built and his irritation grew. Bird calls gave way to the hustle and hum of cicadas. He stomped outside, did a full circumnavigation of the house, banging on the walls with frustration. He stopped at the back of the shed near the dunny, under the long shadows cast by a bloodwood tree. Something out of place. There, near his feet, a slight discolouration. Darker than the rest. He almost stepped into it, and caught himself at the last minute. Crouching down, he scraped at it. The dirt was loose, poorly packed. Definitely a hole, recently dug, then filled in and smoothed over.

He looked up and around as if perhaps the hole-digger might still be around. Walked back to the car.