Hell to Pay by Garry Disher

day before. Were you with her or not?”
    “Might of been. For a while.”
    “You went out Saturday night?”
    Another shrug.
    “You have a car?”
    “Mum’s car.”
    “You took Gemma somewhere?”
    “I’m allowda.”
    “Sure, nothing wrong with that,” Hirsch said, and he waited.
    It came: “We went down to Redruth.”
    “What did you do there?”
    “Stuff.”
    “Pub? Friend’s house? Café?”
    “Didn’t drink and drive if that’s what you’re asking.”
    “Did Melia drink?”
    “Her mum lets her,” Gemma said hotly.
    Hirsch smiled. “It’s all right, I’m not the underage drinking police.” Which was a downright lie. “Which pub?” he asked.
    “The Woolman.”
    “She was with you the whole time?”
    “Friends and that.”
    “There was a group of you?”
    Shrug.
    “You stayed there the whole evening? You, Melia, your friends?”
    Gemma launched into a blow-by-blow. They’d been joined by Nick and Julie but Julie’s ex-boyfriend Brad showed up so Nick told him to get lost and there was a bit of a fight and Lisa, that’s Jeff’s cousin, she calmed them down and Gemma’s boyfriend was like, let’s go to the drive-in. It made no 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.”

    H E RETURNED TO THE Donovan house. Another car was there, a dinged-about Commodore. Melia’s brother, thought Hirsch, or relatives, 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 toaster, so he headed straight for the ready-made 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 lasagna.
    “Gemma okay?”
    “Bit upset.”
    “We all are,” Tennant said, and Hirsch realized he’d sensed it as he’d walked through the store, a community atmosphere of fear and sorrow and whispers. Was the shop a clearing house of local gossip? “Shop’s busy all of a sudden.”
    “It happens,” Tennant said. “Can’t complain.” He looked with miserable triumph at Hirsch. “You’re inviting a speeding ticket or a breathalyzer if you shop in Redruth, so business has picked up for me.”
    What the hell was happening in Redruth? Hirsch gestured with the lasagna. “Dinner.”
    “Your money’s as good as anyone’s.”
    A WHITE POLICE D ISCOVERY was parked foursquare outside the police station. Hirsch didn’t like that one bit. Hated it, in fact. No good would come of it, no sweetness or light. 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