Free Bitter Wash Road by Garry Disher

to Nicholson. Dee was obliged to sit beside Andrewartha. He scooted his chair away from her.
     
    Kropp stood at the end of the table, slapping a white pointer against his thigh. ‘If you people are quite ready.’
     
    ‘Sarge.’
     
    ‘Let’s get to it.’
     
    The sergeant propped his hands on the back of his chair, full of scowling impatience. ‘I’ve got a guy coming in from the accident squad, but until then here’s what we know: sometime on the weekend a kid from Tiverton was killed by a hit-and-run driver up near Muncowie.’
     
    He straightened, turned to the board and wall map behind him, and touched the tip of his pointer to a photograph clipped from that day’s Advertiser. ‘This is her, Melia Donovan. Some of you know her.’
     
    Nicholson nudged Andrewartha. ‘Some better than others.’
     
    ‘If you idiots could stop fooling around.’
     
    ‘Sorry, Sarge.’
     
    Kropp paged through a mess of paperwork on the table. ‘Got the preliminary autopsy here somewhere.’
     
    That was quick, Hirsch thought. A blowfly droned through the room, smacking the window behind him. He could hear the town out there, voices and car doors slamming and the hiss of airbrakes and a radio tuned to a talkback show in the house next door.
     
    Kropp looked up, frustrated. ‘Mr Hirschhausen.’
     
    ‘Sarge?’
     
    ‘Go to the file room, see if I left an A4 envelope in there. Marked Donovan autopsy .’
     
    ‘Sarge.’
     
    Hirsch saw but couldn’t read the look on Dee’s face. He winked at Andrewartha as he went out.
     
    Went to the wrong door at first, almost opened it before he saw the sign pinned at chin height: You enter here with good looks and the truth. You don’t get to leave with both. Hirsch snorted: interview room. The next door was marked Files. He entered, spotting the envelope immediately, public service non-colour, flap open, angled across the top of a filing cabinet. He spotted the hundred-dollar note on the floor a moment later, when he was halfway across the room.
     
    ‘Seriously?’ he said.
     
    Pocketing the note, he collected the envelope and handed it to Kropp in the briefing room. ‘Here you go, Sarge.’
     
    Seated again, arms folded benignly, he settled back to listen to Kropp.
     
    Then smacked his forehead. ‘Almost forgot. Found this on the floor.’ He contorted in his seat, turning onto his left hip and, sticking his right leg out, gained access to his trouser pocket. He fished out the hundred, waved it, passed it to Nicholson. Everyone watched its progress down the table.
     
    ‘It was on the floor?’
     
    ‘Sure was. Should I take it to the front desk and log it in?’
     
    ‘I’ll deal with it,’ Kropp muttered.
     
    Hirsch beamed in his chair, arms folded again. He bumped shoulders with Nicholson, gave a little nod. ‘Integrity test,’ he whispered.
     
    ‘Get the fuck out of my face.’
     
    ‘Is that what you’re calling it?’
     
    Hirsch was having a high old time.
     
    ~ * ~
     
    The accident investigator was a sergeant named Exley.
     
    ‘If you find us the vehicle,’ he said, ‘we’ll match it to the evidence.’
     
    Hirsch hadn’t seen any evidence. ‘What evidence, Sarge?’
     
    Spoiling Exley’s flow. ‘All in good time. I’ve spoken to the coroner. She intends to visit the scene during the week and on Friday open an inquest. In all likelihood she’ll immediately announce a recess, but it would help if we could report on the victim’s last movements and meanwhile investigate local crash repairers and motorists with a history of driving under the influence.’
     
    Then he was gone.
     
    Kropp was nettled; Hirsch could see it in his jaw, his whitened knuckles on the back of the chair. ‘The powers that be have spoken, so let’s get to it. Constable Hirschhausen, your job is to interview family and friends, see what the poor kid was up to.’
     
    ‘Sarge.’
     
    ‘And have a poke around in Muncowie.’
     
    ‘Sarge.’
     
    Kropp