Free Hell to Pay by Garry Disher

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 crashrepairers 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 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 he 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.”

CHAPTER 8
    EARLY AFTERNOON NOW.
    Hirsch shot out of town before the others could interrupt 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 Tarlee, where he turned southeast into undulating country, giant silent silvery gum trees watching, and 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 delineated by old redgum sleepers. A mix of expensive German sedans and 4WDs. He didn’t know Rosie DeLisle’s car.
    German refinement and his dusty, boxy police HiLux. No disguising that, but Hirsch disguised himself, tossing his tie, jacket and cap onto the backseat, stowing the gun belt in a briefcase, dragging on a denim jacket.
    He found Rosie seated on a wooden bench at a woodentable—more old redgum slabs—under a shade cloth, 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 alfresco 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—obviously, given the cellar door prices he’d noted on his way in.
    Rosie rose and stepped away from the table and pecked his cheek. Her movements were careful; her misgivings weren’t about to evaporate anytime 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.
    H E ATE,