me.’
Hirsch climbed to his feet, feeling the weight. ‘Again, I’m very sorry about what happened to Melia. It’s tragic,’ he added, meaning it.
‘You’ll never catch who did it. How can you? Long gone by now.’
‘We won’t stop trying.’
Leanne Donovan drew sharply on the last centimetre of her cigarette, scathing and focussed. ‘They might not even know they done it. Half asleep in the middle of the night, what was that bump? Must of been a rabbit, no big deal, no need to stop.’
Hirsch knew she had a point. ‘Is Nathan at work?’
‘His boss gave him the week off.’
‘He works at the grain shed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that his car in the yard?’
‘Mine.’
‘How does he get around?’
‘What is this? You think he run her over? Who the fuck do you think you are?’
Fortunately Yvonne Muir came darting in, she might even have been listening, and saved Hirsch from giving further offence.
~ * ~
He said he’d make a pot of tea and hurried into the kitchen, ignored by the women, who were lost in hugs and weeping.
They’re neighbours who habitually come and go through each other’s back doors, he thought, filling the kettle. The window above the sink was laced with cobwebs in one corner, the insect screen clogged with dust, but he could see the back yard easily enough: a tumbledown chook shed, rotary clothesline with two stiff tea towels hanging from a wire, a rusted car body ringed by weeds. A back gate to a laneway, some evidence of regular use in the path tracked through the patchy grass, the scraped dirt at the base, and Hirsch wondered if the girl had liked to slip out the back way at night.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, he peered at the refrigerator door. A dozen cards and photos held by cute magnets. A recent shot of Melia Donovan, looking vaguely scruffy in her school uniform, and a family grouping: Melia, her mother, her brother. The brother had dark hair and skin. Hirsch removed both photographs, placed them face up on the table, and took close-ups with his phone.
He heard a car pull up, doors slam, footsteps, and by the time he’d reached the hallway the boy in the family snapshot stood there, a slender form inside a black T-shirt and baggy jeans midway down his arse. He looked red-eyed and stunned, but the instant he noticed Hirsch’s uniform, the distress faded to wariness, shame and anger.
Fear, too. Hirsch didn’t have time to read it as another kid came in on his heels, a bulky ginger with pimples and weak stubble. He was alarmed to see Hirsch there, and Hirsch was about to say something reassuring when the kid raised a hand and said, ‘Catch ya later, Nate.’
Nathan returned the wave. ‘Later.’
The redhead shuffled away, out to a lowered Commodore that Hirsch recognised from earlier in the week. It complained away from the kerb in a cloud of toxins.
Hirsch turned back to Nathan Donovan, who’d reached the door of the sitting room. He checked that his mother didn’t need him and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
Hirsch shook his head. He didn’t want to distress the kid further, but he did need to speak to him. And Nathan must know he wouldn’t go away, or would soon be back if he did.
He followed the boy, knocked and entered. Nathan was already sprawled messily in the little room, on his back on the bed, arms flung wide, his huge dusty trainers trailing laces across the worn lino floor. This was his cave and he didn’t move when Hirsch took another step into the room, and another.
‘Nathan? My name’s Paul Hirschhausen.’
After a while the boy shrugged and examined the ceiling.
Hirsch regarded him, taking in the fine-boned, olive-skinned lankiness—attractive, but you had to look for it, under the scowls. ‘I know this is a bad time for you but I’m anxious to find the driver who knocked Melia over. Hoping you might be able to
Hirsch climbed to his feet, feeling the weight. ‘Again, I’m very sorry about what happened to Melia. It’s tragic,’ he added, meaning it.
‘You’ll never catch who did it. How can you? Long gone by now.’
‘We won’t stop trying.’
Leanne Donovan drew sharply on the last centimetre of her cigarette, scathing and focussed. ‘They might not even know they done it. Half asleep in the middle of the night, what was that bump? Must of been a rabbit, no big deal, no need to stop.’
Hirsch knew she had a point. ‘Is Nathan at work?’
‘His boss gave him the week off.’
‘He works at the grain shed?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is that his car in the yard?’
‘Mine.’
‘How does he get around?’
‘What is this? You think he run her over? Who the fuck do you think you are?’
Fortunately Yvonne Muir came darting in, she might even have been listening, and saved Hirsch from giving further offence.
~ * ~
He said he’d make a pot of tea and hurried into the kitchen, ignored by the women, who were lost in hugs and weeping.
They’re neighbours who habitually come and go through each other’s back doors, he thought, filling the kettle. The window above the sink was laced with cobwebs in one corner, the insect screen clogged with dust, but he could see the back yard easily enough: a tumbledown chook shed, rotary clothesline with two stiff tea towels hanging from a wire, a rusted car body ringed by weeds. A back gate to a laneway, some evidence of regular use in the path tracked through the patchy grass, the scraped dirt at the base, and Hirsch wondered if the girl had liked to slip out the back way at night.
Waiting for the kettle to boil, he peered at the refrigerator door. A dozen cards and photos held by cute magnets. A recent shot of Melia Donovan, looking vaguely scruffy in her school uniform, and a family grouping: Melia, her mother, her brother. The brother had dark hair and skin. Hirsch removed both photographs, placed them face up on the table, and took close-ups with his phone.
He heard a car pull up, doors slam, footsteps, and by the time he’d reached the hallway the boy in the family snapshot stood there, a slender form inside a black T-shirt and baggy jeans midway down his arse. He looked red-eyed and stunned, but the instant he noticed Hirsch’s uniform, the distress faded to wariness, shame and anger.
Fear, too. Hirsch didn’t have time to read it as another kid came in on his heels, a bulky ginger with pimples and weak stubble. He was alarmed to see Hirsch there, and Hirsch was about to say something reassuring when the kid raised a hand and said, ‘Catch ya later, Nate.’
Nathan returned the wave. ‘Later.’
The redhead shuffled away, out to a lowered Commodore that Hirsch recognised from earlier in the week. It complained away from the kerb in a cloud of toxins.
Hirsch turned back to Nathan Donovan, who’d reached the door of the sitting room. He checked that his mother didn’t need him and disappeared into one of the bedrooms.
Hirsch shook his head. He didn’t want to distress the kid further, but he did need to speak to him. And Nathan must know he wouldn’t go away, or would soon be back if he did.
He followed the boy, knocked and entered. Nathan was already sprawled messily in the little room, on his back on the bed, arms flung wide, his huge dusty trainers trailing laces across the worn lino floor. This was his cave and he didn’t move when Hirsch took another step into the room, and another.
‘Nathan? My name’s Paul Hirschhausen.’
After a while the boy shrugged and examined the ceiling.
Hirsch regarded him, taking in the fine-boned, olive-skinned lankiness—attractive, but you had to look for it, under the scowls. ‘I know this is a bad time for you but I’m anxious to find the driver who knocked Melia over. Hoping you might be able to
Similar Books
