run, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t. The gaze she fixed on Hirsch was working it all out.
He held up his palm, not quite a warning, not quite a greeting. ‘Don’t,’ he said mildly.
A faint relaxing. She was about twelve years old, skinny, contained, unblinkingly solemn, with scratched bare legs and arms under shorts and a T-shirt, her dark hair hanging to the shoulders and cropped at her forehead. Scruffy, but someday soon she’d have the looks to light dark places.
Disconcerted, Hirsch eyed the boy. Thin, similarly dressed, he could have been her brother, but his hair was straw-coloured, full of tufts and tangles, and his pale skin was flushed and mottled. Where the girl seemed to be looking for the angles, he was ready to be told what to do. But he was the one holding the rifle, and he was practised at it, keeping the barrel down, the stock in the crook of his arm, the bolt open. Hirsch counted five .22 shell casings glinting dully in the grass.
‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Constable Hirschhausen. I’m stationed at Tiverton.’
The girl remained expressionless but Hirsch sensed hostility, and he scratched around in his head for the best way to go on.
‘How about we start with your names?’
The girl’s voice piped up above the whoosh of the turbines. ‘I’m Katie and he’s Jack.’
Katie Street and Jackson Latimer, and Katie lived with her mother in the smaller, red-roofed house that Hirsch had seen, and Jackson with his parents and older brother in the larger green-roofed house. In fact, Grampa Latimer lived on the property, too, in a house half a kilometre in from the road. ‘You can’t see it from here.’
Even Hirsch had heard of the Latimers. ‘This is your land?’ he asked, indicating the hill they were standing on, the turbine above them, the ragged line of turbines stretching away along the ridge.
Jack shook his head. ‘Mrs Armstrong’s.’
‘Where does she live?’
He pointed to where Bitter Wash Road disappeared around a distant bend.
‘Won’t she be cross if she knows you’re trespassing?’
They were puzzled, as if the concept hadn’t much currency out here. ‘It’s the best spot,’ Katie reasoned.
Right, thought Hirsch. ‘Look, the thing is, one of your shots went wild. It nearly hit me.’
He gestured in the direction of the road. Putting some hardness into it he added, ‘It’s dangerous to shoot a gun so close to a road. You could hurt someone.’
He didn’t say kill someone. He didn’t know if the severity would work. He didn’t know if he should be gentle, stern, pissed off, touchy-feely or full-on tyrant. He took the easy way: ‘Do your parents know you’re up here shooting a gun?’
No response. Hirsch said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll need to talk to—’
The girl cut in. ‘Don’t tell Mr Latimer.’
Hirsch cocked his head.
‘Please,’ she insisted.
‘Why?’
‘My dad will kill me,’ the boy muttered. ‘Anyway he’s not home.’
‘Okay, I’ll speak to your mothers.’
‘They’re out, too.’
‘My mum took Jack’s mum shopping,’ Katie said.
Hirsch glanced at his watch: almost noon. ‘Where?’
‘Redruth,’ she said reluctantly.
Meaning they hadn’t gone down to Adelaide for the day and would probably be home to make lunch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘Are you taking us to jail?’
Hirsch laughed, saw that the girl was serious, and grew serious himself. ‘Nothing like that. I’ll drive you home and we’ll wait until someone comes.’
Keeping it low-key, no sudden movements, he eased the rifle—a Ruger—from jack’s hands. He’d disarmed people before, but not like this. He wondered if police work ever got chancy, out here in the middle of nowhere. He walked the children back over the ridge and down to the HiLux. The girl moved with a quick, nervy energy; the boy trudged, his spine and
He held up his palm, not quite a warning, not quite a greeting. ‘Don’t,’ he said mildly.
A faint relaxing. She was about twelve years old, skinny, contained, unblinkingly solemn, with scratched bare legs and arms under shorts and a T-shirt, her dark hair hanging to the shoulders and cropped at her forehead. Scruffy, but someday soon she’d have the looks to light dark places.
Disconcerted, Hirsch eyed the boy. Thin, similarly dressed, he could have been her brother, but his hair was straw-coloured, full of tufts and tangles, and his pale skin was flushed and mottled. Where the girl seemed to be looking for the angles, he was ready to be told what to do. But he was the one holding the rifle, and he was practised at it, keeping the barrel down, the stock in the crook of his arm, the bolt open. Hirsch counted five .22 shell casings glinting dully in the grass.
‘My name,’ he said, ‘is Constable Hirschhausen. I’m stationed at Tiverton.’
The girl remained expressionless but Hirsch sensed hostility, and he scratched around in his head for the best way to go on.
‘How about we start with your names?’
The girl’s voice piped up above the whoosh of the turbines. ‘I’m Katie and he’s Jack.’
Katie Street and Jackson Latimer, and Katie lived with her mother in the smaller, red-roofed house that Hirsch had seen, and Jackson with his parents and older brother in the larger green-roofed house. In fact, Grampa Latimer lived on the property, too, in a house half a kilometre in from the road. ‘You can’t see it from here.’
Even Hirsch had heard of the Latimers. ‘This is your land?’ he asked, indicating the hill they were standing on, the turbine above them, the ragged line of turbines stretching away along the ridge.
Jack shook his head. ‘Mrs Armstrong’s.’
‘Where does she live?’
He pointed to where Bitter Wash Road disappeared around a distant bend.
‘Won’t she be cross if she knows you’re trespassing?’
They were puzzled, as if the concept hadn’t much currency out here. ‘It’s the best spot,’ Katie reasoned.
Right, thought Hirsch. ‘Look, the thing is, one of your shots went wild. It nearly hit me.’
He gestured in the direction of the road. Putting some hardness into it he added, ‘It’s dangerous to shoot a gun so close to a road. You could hurt someone.’
He didn’t say kill someone. He didn’t know if the severity would work. He didn’t know if he should be gentle, stern, pissed off, touchy-feely or full-on tyrant. He took the easy way: ‘Do your parents know you’re up here shooting a gun?’
No response. Hirsch said, ‘I’m afraid I’ll need to talk to—’
The girl cut in. ‘Don’t tell Mr Latimer.’
Hirsch cocked his head.
‘Please,’ she insisted.
‘Why?’
‘My dad will kill me,’ the boy muttered. ‘Anyway he’s not home.’
‘Okay, I’ll speak to your mothers.’
‘They’re out, too.’
‘My mum took Jack’s mum shopping,’ Katie said.
Hirsch glanced at his watch: almost noon. ‘Where?’
‘Redruth,’ she said reluctantly.
Meaning they hadn’t gone down to Adelaide for the day and would probably be home to make lunch. ‘Okay, let’s go.’
‘Are you taking us to jail?’
Hirsch laughed, saw that the girl was serious, and grew serious himself. ‘Nothing like that. I’ll drive you home and we’ll wait until someone comes.’
Keeping it low-key, no sudden movements, he eased the rifle—a Ruger—from jack’s hands. He’d disarmed people before, but not like this. He wondered if police work ever got chancy, out here in the middle of nowhere. He walked the children back over the ridge and down to the HiLux. The girl moved with a quick, nervy energy; the boy trudged, his spine and
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