gazed bleakly at Nicholson and Andrewartha. ‘Redruth Automotive. Given that you two simpletons work there in your spare time, I’ll let you take care of that.’
‘Sarge,’ Nicholson said, swapping grins with Andrewartha.
Kropp looked at Dee sourly. ‘You can tag along if and as required.’
‘Yes, Sergeant.’
‘Yes, Sergeant,’ Nicholson said.
‘Cut it out,’ Kropp said.
Hirsch waved his hand lazily. ‘Sarge, what’s the story with the family?’
‘Old story: single mum, two kids, separate fathers. What else is there to say?’
‘Melia was done for shoplifting.’
‘She was. Slap over the wrist.’
‘I’d look at the brother,’ Andrewartha said. ‘Abo prick.’
‘Knock it off,’ Kropp said, weary.
‘Well, he is.’
Hirsch said, ‘Why would that make him run his sister over?’
‘Why would he do anything? That’s the point, there is no why.’
‘Thanks for clearing that up.’
Kropp intervened. ‘She liked to hitchhike,’ he said, looking at Hirsch. ‘Bear that in mind.’
‘Sarge.’
~ * ~
8
EARLY AFTERNOON NOW.
Hirsch shot out of town before anyone could intercept him, heading south. He half-expected Kropp to call him with some tiresome demand but his phone rang only once, a Barrier Highway motorist calling to report a spill of hay bales near Mount Bryan. ‘Try the Redruth police station,’ Hirsch said.
Better still, drag them off the road yourself.
Thirty minutes later he was at Far lee, where he turned south-east into undulating country, giant silent silvery gumtrees watching, until finally he was driving past vines and old winery names. Another thirty minutes and he was on a potholed dirt road leading up to Rosie DeLisle’s tiny hilltop winery. Out of habit, Hirsch checked the cars parked there, slotted into bays marked by old redgum sleepers. A mix of expensive German sedans and four-wheel-drives. He didn’t know Rosie DeLisle’s car.
German refinement and his dirty police HiLux. No disguising that. But Hirsch did a quick number on himself. Tossed his tie, jacket and cap onto the back seat, stowed the gun belt in a briefcase, dragged on a denim jacket.
He found Rosie seated on a wooden bench at a wooden table— more old redgum slabs—under a shadecloth, the fabric whispering and slapping in a stiff breeze from the valley. Severe rows of vines stretched down into the valley and up the other side, but here in the al fresco dining area there were beds of vegetables and herbs, the air scented and bees buzzing and one magpie warbling from a trellis. There’s money here, Hirsch thought—well obviously, given the cellar-door prices he’d noted on his way in.
Rosie stepped away from the table and pecked his cheek. Her movements were careful; her misgivings weren’t about to evaporate any time soon. And she’d already eaten, leaving a fleck of oily lettuce in a salad bowl and a crust of pizza on a chunky white plate.
‘Started without me?’
‘Starving.’
Hirsch grumbled his way onto the bench opposite hers, stowed the briefcase at his feet and studied the menu. Salad, smoked salmon pizza, mineral water.
~ * ~
He ate, they talked.
When it all went bad for Hirsch, he’d been a detective stationed at Paradise Gardens, an outer Adelaide police station. Head of CIB was a senior sergeant named Marcus Quine. After the arrests of Quine and his team, after the raid and the charges and the media frenzy, Rosie DeLisle had been the Internal Investigations officer assigned to question Hirsch. ‘One officer per corrupt detective,’ she’d told him. ‘We all swap notes at the end of the day, to build up our picture of what you shits have been up to.’
‘What about innocent until proven guilty?’
She told him to shut up. It was clear she thought he was scum. And then, days, weeks later, her mood lightened. She