Hell to Pay Read Free Page B

phone, got out, stretched his bones and gazed at the house. It was less lovely, closer to, careworn, the paintwork faded and peeling, a fringe of salt damp showing on the walls, a fringe of rust along the edges of the corrugated iron roof. Weeds grew in the veranda cracks. He didn’t think it was neglect, exactly. It was as if the inhabitants were distracted, no longer saw the faults, or blinked and muttered, “I must take care of that next week.”
    The children joined him, Jack a little agitated, as though unsure of the proprieties. Hirsch contemplated phoning one or other of the mothers but mobile reception was dicey, the women were returning anyway, and a call from a policeman might panic them. So, how to fill in the time … He didn’t think he should enter the house uninvited and didn’t want to take advantage of Jack by suggesting it. And he didn’t want to wander around the yard and sheds uninvited. Meanwhile, he needed to keep an eye on the kids.
    Taking charge, he stepped onto the veranda and toward a huddle of directors’ chairs. “Let’s wait over here.”
    When they were seated he asked, “Who owns the twenty-two?”
    “My dad,” whispered the boy.
    “What does he use it for?”
    “Rabbits and things.”
    “Does he own any other guns?”
    “Another twenty-two, a three-oh-three and a twelve-gauge.”
    “Where are they kept?”
    “In his study.”
    Hirsch was asking the questions as if they were unimportant, keeping his voice low and pleasant, but he was scanning the dusty yard, taking note of the sheds, a scatter of fuel drums, anunoccupied kennel, stockyards, a field bin in a side paddock. A ute and a truck, but no car. A plow and harrows tangled in grass next to a tractor shed. A working farm but no one working it today, or not around the house.
    “So anyone could take the guns out and shoot them?”
    “He locks them in a cupboard.”
    Hirsch threw Jack a complicit wink. “And I bet you know where the key is, right?”
    Jack shook his head violently. “No, honest.”
    “He’s not lying,” Katie said. “We used the gun that’s kept in the ute. It’s just a little gun, for shooting rabbits.”
    Little and overlooked and forgotten
, thought Hirsch. Not even a proper gun, in the eyes of some people.
    He was guessing the kids had done it a few times now, waited until the adults were out before grabbing the Ruger and heading down the creek for some target practice. Bullets? No problem. Small, overlooked and forgotten, they’d be found rolling loose in a glove box or a coat pocket or a cupboard drawer.
    To ease the atmosphere, Hirsch said, “So, school holidays for the next two weeks.”
    “Yes.”
    A silence threatened. Hirsch said, “May I see the gun case?”
    Jack took him indoors to a study furnished with a heavy wooden desk and chair, an armchair draped with a pair of overalls, a filing cabinet, computer and printer, bookshelves. It smelt of furniture polish and gun oil. The gun cabinet was glass-faced, bolted to the wall, locked. A gleaming Brno .22, a .303 fitted with a sight, a shotgun, a couple of cartridge packets, and an envelope marked “licenses.”
    Hirsch thanked the boy and they returned to the veranda in time to hear a crunch of gravel. A boxy white Volvo came creeping up to the house. It hesitated to see a strange vehicle, POLICE scrolled across the door and hood. Katie’s mother at the wheel, reasoned Hirsch, and Jack’s mother in the passenger seat, andhe didn’t know what the hell he should tell them. He removed the Motorola from his pocket. The shutter sound already muted, he was ready to photograph them—habit, after everything that had happened to him.

CHAPTER 2
    VIEWED LATER, THE PHOTOGRAPHS captured on Hirsch’s phone revealed women of his age, mid-thirties, and as unlike each other as their children. Katie’s mother came into view first, slamming the driver’s door and advancing on the house. She wore jeans, a T-shirt, scuffed trainers and plenty of