sense and Hirsch lost interest.
‘Drive-in?’ he asked.
‘There’s one in Clare.’
‘Melia didn’t go with you?’
‘I told you that.’
‘So she was still in the pub when you left?’
‘I told you that.’
‘Was her boyfriend there? Ex-boyfriend?’
‘What boyfriend?’
‘Any boyfriend. How about the older guy she’s been seeing?’
Gemma’s gaze was sliding away at every question now, as if to escape her own evasions. ‘Don’t know about no older guy.’
‘The one she was in an accident with,’ Hirsch said, guessing.
‘On the weekend?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘If you think of anything,’ Hirsch said, his voice on the far side of weary defeat, ‘give me a call.’
~ * ~
He returned to the Donovan house. Another car was there, a dinged-about Commodore. Melia’s brother, thought Hirsch. Or relatives or friends, and if Leanne Donovan was still sedated and the house was thick with grieving, there was no point in knocking on the door. He turned around and headed for the shop again, starving, thinking of dinner.
Hirsch’s main kitchen appliance was his microwave, so he headed straight for the frozen meals. Almost closing time and the shop was relatively busy. He counted four women and two men in the aisles. Tennant’s wife was at the cash register, Tennant hovering. He followed Hirsch to the freezer, watched as Hirsch selected a frozen lasagne.
‘Gemma okay?’
‘Bit upset.’
‘We all are,’ Tennant said, and Hirsch realised he’d sensed it as he’d walked through the store, a community atmosphere of fear and sorrow and whispers. By now they’d all know the who, where, what, when and why. ‘Shop’s busy all of a sudden.’
‘It happens,’ Tennant said. ‘Won’t complain.’ He looked with miserable triumph at Hirsch. ‘You’re asking for a speeding ticket or whatever if you shop in Redruth. Business has picked up for me.’
What the hell was happening in Redruth? Hirsch gestured with the lasagne. ‘Dinner.’
Tennant gave Hirsch and his frozen pasta a poor-bastard look. ‘Your money’s as good as anyone’s.’
~ * ~
A white police Discovery was parked foursquare outside the police station. Hirsch didn’t like that one bit. Hated it, in fact. Nothing in any way pleasant would come of it. And so he ignored it, unlocking the front door and shoving through, admitting late afternoon sunlight, which probed briefly, illuminating the wall cabinet, its glass doors finger-smudged with country-town boredoms and disappointments.
Checking automatically for envelopes that might have been slipped under the door, checking the message light on the answering machine, he entered his office, public notices stirring in his slipstream, a rose petal tumbling the length of the vase he’d placed on the counter earlier in the week. Time he picked another bunch. The town was half knitted together with rose canes.
As expected, footsteps came in hard on his heels, a bitten-off voice. ‘Constable.’
Hirsch turned. ‘Sarge.’
Kropp stood on the other side of the counter, a solid fifty-year-old with fierce eyebrows and short grey hair. ‘Did you call Spurling?’
Spurling? Hirsch went blank for a moment. Spurling: right, the area commander. A superintendent based at Port Pirie. ‘Not me, Sarge.’
Kropp grunted. ‘Well he heard about the hit-and-run from somebody.’
‘And?’
‘And he doesn’t want any fuck-ups.’
Hirsch waited, enduring Kropp’s fury or whatever it was. The sergeant’s nose had been broken and badly set sometime in the past; now it seemed to steer him in scoffing and sceptical directions. His mouth was a barely visible slash across the bottom of his face.
Hirsch said, ‘So you headed up here to see if I was fucking up?’
‘Don’t be a cunt, son. Here to see you’re settling
‘Drive-in?’ he asked.
‘There’s one in Clare.’
‘Melia didn’t go with you?’
‘I told you that.’
‘So she was still in the pub when you left?’
‘I told you that.’
‘Was her boyfriend there? Ex-boyfriend?’
‘What boyfriend?’
‘Any boyfriend. How about the older guy she’s been seeing?’
Gemma’s gaze was sliding away at every question now, as if to escape her own evasions. ‘Don’t know about no older guy.’
‘The one she was in an accident with,’ Hirsch said, guessing.
‘On the weekend?’
‘A few weeks ago.’
‘Wouldn’t know.’
‘If you think of anything,’ Hirsch said, his voice on the far side of weary defeat, ‘give me a call.’
~ * ~
He returned to the Donovan house. Another car was there, a dinged-about Commodore. Melia’s brother, thought Hirsch. Or relatives or friends, and if Leanne Donovan was still sedated and the house was thick with grieving, there was no point in knocking on the door. He turned around and headed for the shop again, starving, thinking of dinner.
Hirsch’s main kitchen appliance was his microwave, so he headed straight for the frozen meals. Almost closing time and the shop was relatively busy. He counted four women and two men in the aisles. Tennant’s wife was at the cash register, Tennant hovering. He followed Hirsch to the freezer, watched as Hirsch selected a frozen lasagne.
‘Gemma okay?’
‘Bit upset.’
‘We all are,’ Tennant said, and Hirsch realised he’d sensed it as he’d walked through the store, a community atmosphere of fear and sorrow and whispers. By now they’d all know the who, where, what, when and why. ‘Shop’s busy all of a sudden.’
‘It happens,’ Tennant said. ‘Won’t complain.’ He looked with miserable triumph at Hirsch. ‘You’re asking for a speeding ticket or whatever if you shop in Redruth. Business has picked up for me.’
What the hell was happening in Redruth? Hirsch gestured with the lasagne. ‘Dinner.’
Tennant gave Hirsch and his frozen pasta a poor-bastard look. ‘Your money’s as good as anyone’s.’
~ * ~
A white police Discovery was parked foursquare outside the police station. Hirsch didn’t like that one bit. Hated it, in fact. Nothing in any way pleasant would come of it. And so he ignored it, unlocking the front door and shoving through, admitting late afternoon sunlight, which probed briefly, illuminating the wall cabinet, its glass doors finger-smudged with country-town boredoms and disappointments.
Checking automatically for envelopes that might have been slipped under the door, checking the message light on the answering machine, he entered his office, public notices stirring in his slipstream, a rose petal tumbling the length of the vase he’d placed on the counter earlier in the week. Time he picked another bunch. The town was half knitted together with rose canes.
As expected, footsteps came in hard on his heels, a bitten-off voice. ‘Constable.’
Hirsch turned. ‘Sarge.’
Kropp stood on the other side of the counter, a solid fifty-year-old with fierce eyebrows and short grey hair. ‘Did you call Spurling?’
Spurling? Hirsch went blank for a moment. Spurling: right, the area commander. A superintendent based at Port Pirie. ‘Not me, Sarge.’
Kropp grunted. ‘Well he heard about the hit-and-run from somebody.’
‘And?’
‘And he doesn’t want any fuck-ups.’
Hirsch waited, enduring Kropp’s fury or whatever it was. The sergeant’s nose had been broken and badly set sometime in the past; now it seemed to steer him in scoffing and sceptical directions. His mouth was a barely visible slash across the bottom of his face.
Hirsch said, ‘So you headed up here to see if I was fucking up?’
‘Don’t be a cunt, son. Here to see you’re settling
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