Bitter Wash Road by Garry Disher

Taking in Hirsch’s uniform she said, ‘Yvonne said you’d dropped by.’
     
    As if he’d been an old friend passing. Hirsch removed his cap and said, I’m very sorry, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through, everyone has such kind things to say about Melia, but I wonder if I could have a quick word with you and Nathan?’
     
    He stopped, conscious that he was babbling. The door widened and he was hit by a front of stale warm air from inside the house, faintly laced with dope and beer. ‘Only if it’s convenient. I could come back tomorrow.’
     
    Everything stopped. Leanne Donovan was very still in her doorway, her eyes clear and searching, then her hands moved, squeezing the end of a rope of the thick hair. Fresh out of the shower, her body was scented with shampoo and lotions and, despite himself, Hirsch was aware of her flesh beneath the green sundress.
     
    ‘Nathans not here.’
     
    ‘That’s all right, I’ll catch him another time. Could I come inside, do you think?’
     
    Her voice came raggedly, ‘It’s like a bad dream,’ and her eyes filled.
     
    ‘Yes. I’m very sorry.’
     
    She dropped where she stood and might have slapped onto the cement front step if not for the door frame and Hirsch grabbing her around the waist. ‘Let’s get you inside. Would you like me to fetch Mrs Muir?’
     
    ‘That’s okay.’
     
    Her legs found their strength and Hirsch eased her along a narrow corridor to a worn, dimly lit sitting room. A bulky old TV set dominated one wall, a detergent ad splashing blue and red over the reflective surfaces—the glass cabinet against one wall, the glossy veneer coffee table. A lived-in room, with a couple of empty bottles, an overflowing ashtray, a spill of lifestyle magazines. On one wall there was an image of Christ on the cross, on another Christ gazed soulfully past Hirsch’s shoulder. But no grime or spills, and the only other furniture was a card table in the corner, crammed with a boxy old computer, a cheap inkjet printer beside it. Communal computer? He settled Leanne Donovan onto a floral fabric sofa, but it faced the television set, which continued to paint the room, so he found the remote and switched it off.
     
    ‘Shall I make you a cup of tea?’
     
    Leanne fiddled with a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. ‘I’m okay.’
     
    God, Hirsch was dreading this. ‘Before I start, were you told there’ll be an inquest?’
     
    Leanne nodded. ‘This lady rung me from the coroner’s, she said Dr McAskill’s finished the autopsy and I can have Mel back to bury.’
     
    There was a pause. A word you can’t sweeten, autopsy. Knives, saws, fluids, the peeling back of flesh. Hirsch said, ‘Do you have a day for the funeral?’
     
    ‘Saturday.’
     
    ‘Would you mind if I came?’
     
    ‘I don’t care.’
     
    Another pause, and Leanne said, ‘Dr McAskill said she must of been hitching.’
     
    Hirsch trod carefully. ‘Her injuries and the position she was found in do suggest that.’
     
    Leanne was very still and then she reeled and wailed. Hirsch waited. She swiped a sleeve across her nostrils and gasped, ‘Sorry, I’m okay, it hits me out of nowhere sometimes.’
     
    ‘Of course.’
     
    ‘I don’t understand it. She was alone up there? Someone just left her to hitch home? Was she, you know, drunk?’
     
    ‘She’d had a couple of drinks.’
     
    ‘Where was Gemma? She should of been looking after her.’
     
    ‘They went their separate ways earlier in the evening. Are you sure you don’t want a cup of tea?’
     
    ‘Everyone wants to make me tea. What I want is my daughter back.’
     
    ‘I understand. Perhaps we could start with what Melia had planned for the weekend.’
     
    Hirsch strained to hear the reply. ‘She didn’t come home, the little devil.’
     
    ‘She usually comes home after a night out with Gemma?’
     
    ‘She’s a good girl.’
     
    ‘So you don’t know what she was doing or who she was seeing in