shiny forehead. A Broken Hill mine worker? “Heading south for a holiday,” asked Hirsch, “you and the family?”
“Two weeks,” Nancarrow said.
Hirsch strolled around to the front of the Pajero, eyed the bumper, the left and right panels. Dust, smeared insects, but no dents or blood. “You spotted a body?”
Watching him, Nancarrow said, “Down there.”
The bitumen ran high here, raised a couple of meters off the pocked soil, the erosion channels. Grass tussocks and a couple of hangdog mallee trees were nearby, clinging to the rim of a shallow depression, and if you were a male and wanted to piss, that was where you’d do it. Two damp patches side by side in the dirt.
Father and son?
As if in answer, Nancarrow said, “Me and my son went down there for a leak and saw her.”
Hirsch glanced uneasily at the Pajero. Nancarrow noticed and said, “It’s okay, he’s little. I told him the lady had fallen over and the ambulance would come soon and take her to the hospital.”
“Did either of you touch her?”
“Christ no. All I wanted to do was get my kid back to the car before he got too curious.”
“How did you call triple zero? Is there a mobile signal here?”
“Nup. Dead. Zilch. I called from the pub.”
Hirsch nodded and slipped in another question. “Do you know her?”
Nancarrow blinked. “What? Know her? Why would I know her?”
“Perhaps she was traveling with you? Your neighbor, babysitter, niece, a hitchhiker you picked up?”
“I know where you’re coming from, and the answer’s no. I stopped for a quiet leak by the side of the road and saw a woman lying there, end of story.”
Hirsch nodded glumly. Maybe they’d know her over at the pub. “Thanks for reporting it. Thanks for waiting.”
Nancarrow gave him a sad if crooked smile. It said “Sooner you than me, pal,” and “Sorry I wasn’t more help,” and “Thank Christ I can go at last.” And maybe even, “The poor woman, whoever she is.”
H IRSCH NOTED THE MAN’S contact details and, when he was alone, grabbed the Canon stored in his glove box and stepped carefully to the rim of the depression, trying not to disturb the layers of dirt, pebbles and flinty stones. The dead woman lay a short distance in from the edge. He ran his gaze over the surrounding dirt. Last night’s showers had left a speckled crust, meaning prints would show clearly. Hirsch saw no boot or shoe prints, no drag marks, but animals and birds had circled thebody, leaving fine tracings behind them. A fox or a wild dog had gnawed at her forearm, a crow had pecked out the visible left eye. Ants had found her. Flies. Clearly she was dead, but Hirsch was obliged to check.
He took a series of photos first, the scene from all angles, then perspective shots: the body in relation to the road, a nearby culvert, the township on the other side of a stretch of exhausted red soil. Finally he stepped down into the shallow bowl, crouched and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Her clothes were still damp.
He straightened, stepped away from the body.
She was killed elsewhere and tossed down here from the road; she was struck while walking or hitching by the side of the road and fell into the hole; she fell from a moving vehicle; she was tossed from a moving vehicle.
She lay partly facedown, her chest to the ground but her left hip cocked and her legs slightly splayed, bent at the knees, as if she were running. Her right arm was trapped under her right hip, and her right cheek was stretched out in the dirt as if she were looking along her outflung left arm: looking blindly, Hirsch thought, remembering the eye socket. Maybe her other eye was intact, tucked as it was into the dirt. Very little signs of blood.
He took another series of photographs, taking in tight black jeans, a white T-shirt, a tiny fawn cardigan, bare feet in white canvas shoes. The T-shirt had ridden up to reveal a slender spine, a narrow waist, the upper straps of a black G-string. Bruising and
“Two weeks,” Nancarrow said.
Hirsch strolled around to the front of the Pajero, eyed the bumper, the left and right panels. Dust, smeared insects, but no dents or blood. “You spotted a body?”
Watching him, Nancarrow said, “Down there.”
The bitumen ran high here, raised a couple of meters off the pocked soil, the erosion channels. Grass tussocks and a couple of hangdog mallee trees were nearby, clinging to the rim of a shallow depression, and if you were a male and wanted to piss, that was where you’d do it. Two damp patches side by side in the dirt.
Father and son?
As if in answer, Nancarrow said, “Me and my son went down there for a leak and saw her.”
Hirsch glanced uneasily at the Pajero. Nancarrow noticed and said, “It’s okay, he’s little. I told him the lady had fallen over and the ambulance would come soon and take her to the hospital.”
“Did either of you touch her?”
“Christ no. All I wanted to do was get my kid back to the car before he got too curious.”
“How did you call triple zero? Is there a mobile signal here?”
“Nup. Dead. Zilch. I called from the pub.”
Hirsch nodded and slipped in another question. “Do you know her?”
Nancarrow blinked. “What? Know her? Why would I know her?”
“Perhaps she was traveling with you? Your neighbor, babysitter, niece, a hitchhiker you picked up?”
“I know where you’re coming from, and the answer’s no. I stopped for a quiet leak by the side of the road and saw a woman lying there, end of story.”
Hirsch nodded glumly. Maybe they’d know her over at the pub. “Thanks for reporting it. Thanks for waiting.”
Nancarrow gave him a sad if crooked smile. It said “Sooner you than me, pal,” and “Sorry I wasn’t more help,” and “Thank Christ I can go at last.” And maybe even, “The poor woman, whoever she is.”
H IRSCH NOTED THE MAN’S contact details and, when he was alone, grabbed the Canon stored in his glove box and stepped carefully to the rim of the depression, trying not to disturb the layers of dirt, pebbles and flinty stones. The dead woman lay a short distance in from the edge. He ran his gaze over the surrounding dirt. Last night’s showers had left a speckled crust, meaning prints would show clearly. Hirsch saw no boot or shoe prints, no drag marks, but animals and birds had circled thebody, leaving fine tracings behind them. A fox or a wild dog had gnawed at her forearm, a crow had pecked out the visible left eye. Ants had found her. Flies. Clearly she was dead, but Hirsch was obliged to check.
He took a series of photos first, the scene from all angles, then perspective shots: the body in relation to the road, a nearby culvert, the township on the other side of a stretch of exhausted red soil. Finally he stepped down into the shallow bowl, crouched and felt for a pulse. Nothing. Her clothes were still damp.
He straightened, stepped away from the body.
She was killed elsewhere and tossed down here from the road; she was struck while walking or hitching by the side of the road and fell into the hole; she fell from a moving vehicle; she was tossed from a moving vehicle.
She lay partly facedown, her chest to the ground but her left hip cocked and her legs slightly splayed, bent at the knees, as if she were running. Her right arm was trapped under her right hip, and her right cheek was stretched out in the dirt as if she were looking along her outflung left arm: looking blindly, Hirsch thought, remembering the eye socket. Maybe her other eye was intact, tucked as it was into the dirt. Very little signs of blood.
He took another series of photographs, taking in tight black jeans, a white T-shirt, a tiny fawn cardigan, bare feet in white canvas shoes. The T-shirt had ridden up to reveal a slender spine, a narrow waist, the upper straps of a black G-string. Bruising and
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